Hilarious

It was that thumping, that horrid pulsing that woke him up every night. Normally, it was a steady, dull throb, filling his muscles with aching energy and trembling need to explode. Normally, he pushed himself up, getting a drink of water or washing his face - sometimes he would even go for a walk, or a run, feeling all of that energy draining out through his soles as he returned, panting and very much alive. It was all of that energy that he was unaccustomed to.
He hadn't told anyone that his vial was full of water, yet. Perhaps two months ago he had filled it with water, adding a touch of salt to mimic the look of his chemical, the drug that normally kept him sane. God, but he hated it, how it controlled him. It shortened his sentences and lengthened his attention span, two very bad things, and he hated how people regarded him. "Darryl, are you alright? Maybe you should take your vial."
Well, fuck them. He didn't need his vial. Unfortunately, that knowledge was held between him and God, but it was unimportant now. All he had now were the side effects of his natural disorder.
There were few. Mostly he wanted to step on bugs or rip paper, nothing too bad. He was used to the urges, anyway, and staved them off with ease, without changing expression. He had not felt life like recently, and he wasn't about to revert back to his vial to get away from the need to break lightbulbs.
The only other side effect was this, this hungry, pounding heaviness. Darryl pushed himself up laboriously, his head falling back, and sat there for a while before leaning forward to rub his face and then grip his hair tightly in his fists. The burn was pleasant.
Energy rushed through his veins and he groaned a little at the sheer force of it, almost like ecstasy, making his fingertips tingle and thirst for contact. Heat radiated off of him to the point of near-steam. His eyes glowed their volatile green.
It took all of his caution not to launch himself from the bed, but it was normal. He didn't want to wake Samantha up. Today, he tugged his shirt over his head, his black hair fluffy and unruly.
Darryl's lean body wandered into the bathroom, shutting the door and then clicking the light on to eye himself in the mirror. He didn't look much like a raving monster, trapped in lunacy. Besides, a monster didn't care about anybody, and he certainly cared about Samantha. If he didn't look, act, or feel like a monster, he simply wasn't a monster.
He washed his hands, and then his face, and then his arms, the water unusually vivid against his heated skin. God, it felt so good. Still, his blood throbbed rhythmically through him, rushing and flowing all throughout his body, but the water felt so cool it almost sent him into sleep. His cheeks were flushed. He leaned down and gulped the water like a dying man, greedy, until it filled his nose and he coughed a bit at his carelessness.
Shifting his weight a few times, Darryl decided that this night was one he would have to go on a walk, even though he certainly did not feel like walking. Begrudgingly he clicked the light off, entering the room, pulling on his shirt and jacket and shoes. His mind mumbled things in a mantra, over and over again, as though afraid if he stopped thinking of them he would forget them. Don't wake up Samantha. Tie your shoes. Watch out for that shirt on the floor. Kiss her forehead.
He did. She was cool to touch and he almost fell into her for it, but opted instead to let her sleep, licking his hot lips and straightening to step out. Lord, but she felt amazing.
The front door clicked shut behind him and suddenly he felt crushing relief, exhaling loudly as he stepped away from his home, his air a hot puff in the autumn atmosphere. The outside world was so chilling and feral and perfect that he almost forgot about civilization, a wide grin meeting his lips, his insides bristling into instinct. He had an urge, a familiar urge, to run, and he fulfilled it, taking off across the pavement. Tonight was faster than normal nights and Darryl sprinted along the empty sidewalks, atop park benches and around street corners. The urban forest was sleeping, mostly.
When Darryl could no longer breathe, he stopped, hands on his knees, hunched over on the sidewalk. Laughter bubbled up inside of his throat and spilled over into foamy, impish giggling, and he collapsed to the ground on his hands and knees, laughing until he was weak and still laughing after that. His hands clenched so that his fingernails dug into the pavement painfully. Tension raced through his body, his brain reeling, begging him to stop laughing, to go back to bed. He was so tired, but it was just so hilarious.
When his amusement slowed enough for him to breathe, Darryl found himself standing, still chuckling from time to time and then picking up a sizeable chunk of sidewalk as he turned, slipping into an alleyway, stalking through the darkness. Although it was difficult, he silenced his boyish snickers, keeping a grin on his face as he prowled. Desperately his brain shoved at his body, trying to extinguish the thoughts. No. No. Don't. But it was too funny. His eyes widened as he caught the sound of shuffling, of a stray dog, and instantly it piqued his interest, sliding through the murkiness of the black and hiding behind a building to stare at it hungrily.
Malnourished and homeless, the mongrel tore at an old McDonald's bag, pawing at it. It did not have time to lift its head before Darryl was upon it with his rock, laughing hysterically, bloodying his shirt and his hands and his face and around his mouth, thirsty for the blood. His thoughts shrank away, but God, it was so funny.