Title: No Title

(Once upon a time, there was a fairytale….)

What’s the point to everything?

This is what repeats and repeats, swirls around and around and around again over and over in a never-ending spiral of self-hatred and self-pity in the deep pits of his mind at three in the morning.

His face is blank, like all of his notebooks, canvases, documents, and ideas lately. Posts of people’s anger, hatred, sadness, disappointment, joy, and most recent emotional turmoil flashes as he scrolls down the screen in boredom.

Does he even matter?

This is what plagues him.

In this day and age, a time full of historical triumphs, revolutionary ways towards new cultural standards, rising conflicts on acceptance and equality and freedom, does he really matter?

He looks at all the important people who are finding themselves, and he thinks of how little he knows about himself. He thinks of all the lies and all the excuses he has spouted, and all for what? Why should it matter what he is like to all the people who aren’t there for him?

There, on the screen, he scrolls past yet another widely-liked post about that transgender guy who finally had a breakthrough with his parents. Then another who’s dyed their hair again.

There’s that girl who’s angry once more, and has passionately spread it to the public. There is the trending post of support towards the raped celebrity. There are six more posts about feminism. There are three more about the political elections. (….They all had roles except for the fool….)

All these people who know their opinions, know who they are, who they  want to be, what they feel, and how they want to speak, and he’s here, apathetically scraping by day by day. Does he matter anymore?

(Did he ever matter?)

He doesn’t like to be called lazy, but calling himself depressed is so strange that he can’t bring himself to use it. He doesn’t know whether calling himself messed up, sick, or struggling is an excuse for his uselessness, or if it is a legitimate reason, and he’s just stopping himself from actually getting “cured”.

He also doesn’t like how he is supposed to be fixed if he is. He’s not broken, he’s just not seemingly normal either. (Is what, thought? Does he even know for sure? What is he?)

He doesn’t know if he’s really asexual, or if he’s just finding terms to label himself with so he can be more unique. He doesn’t know if it’s normal for him to want to be more feminine some days, more masculine the next, yet never fully want to actually be the opposite gender. He doesn’t know if he really can’t sleep, or if he’s just constantly forcing himself to stay awake without knowing. He doesn’t know who he is, what he is, or why he is like this or that, nor does he know who or what he wants to be.

There are a million questions constantly plaguing him every night and every morning.

Is he actually the loud, outgoing person people complain he is, or is he really the antisocial recluse he likes to call himself? Is he really straight? Is he really not straight? Is he narcissistic like those people say he is, or is he the self-depreciating guy the other people say he is?

Then there are the questions and the pressure from those others.

Should he try to be quieter? Should he try to be less morbid? Is he bothering that sort-of friend with his messages? Should he apologize for being upset at that friend weeks ago? They haven’t messaged him in a month. Are they no longer friends?

He no longer has an identity to clutch.

The low battery symbol flashes in the bottom right corner of his screen, right next to the clock, which reads four in the morning.

He sighs, and shifts a bit in his seat, before considering going out of his room to take a shower. He probably won’t get up until hours later, but the consideration is worth a thought or two.

He sighs, and trudges on through his murky thoughts as the world keeps evolving around him. He supposes that at least his inconsistency is a constant. (And so the nameless fool carries on without a title to his pointless circling story….)

Does he even matter, whoever he is now?

Somewhere Somehow

“Brad Ataman died peacefully at age eighty-seven after an unfortunate accident.”

“…sickening.”

“Coralline Whitman died peacefully at age twenty-two after an unfortunate accident.”

“…sickening.”

“Levi Sestinas died peacefully at age twelve after an unfortunate accident.”

“…sickening.”

The damp newspaper fell onto the ashy coffee table with an echoing smack as the girl, no, woman, no, lady, heaved a heavy breath and tipped backwards to rest her head against the back of the couch.

Outside the sky was a dull blank color, and the few humans visible from the fourth story balcony were hustling around clutching their expensive leather trench-coats to chest, running indoors to where there was heat, warmth, and shelter from the biting wind. There was no heat in this apartment complex.

The lady stretched lethargically and raised an icy hand to her forehead in an effort to massage the throbbing headache away. The creaky, lagging laptop, covered in peeling logos, sat blinking dutifully behind her on the kitchen table, long since drained of battery. Yet another frosty breeze swept through the empty apartment, taking with it any remaining bits of air freshener, the smell of tasteless dollar store tea, or the last drips of steam in the only bathroom from any quick morning showers. Her fingers were frozen beyond the point of agile maneuverability, but the lady didn’t bother, never bothered, closing the windows, no matter how cold. It was just how things were.

Somewhere, a child screamed in fright. Elsewhere, a slap echoed. She didn’t care about the correlation.

The clock in the lobby struck three, and the lady gave a low growl, clambering up unsteadily and shuffling out of the apartment. She grabbed a ratty old pair of fingerless gloves she had long forgotten the color of on the way out, as well as a stack of once-warm-from-the-printer papers. (Somehow, her mind still whispered to her, “The dead. The dead,” but she ignored it.)

Somewhere, a paint-chipped door slammed shut. Elsewhere, old wood groaned at the empty pressure it withheld everyday of its lonely, tiresome, cold existence. She didn’t care about the causation.

The elevator was late as usual, with no music on the ride up to the sixth floor. She shifted from foot to foot as she messed with the heavy pile of papers and mentally prepared herself for the daily jobs.

First would be Miss Aidafield in complex 603. She was an old woman with wispy strands of grey hair, rickety knees, and an immense love for collecting junk. She never answered the door, just crooned out “The door’s open, Evelyn dear!” and continued watching her TV while petting one of her cats in the middle of her room full of collected junk. She would never go inside though. She just left the paper right inside the doorway.

Next door would be Katy, the college student who never slept when the sun wasn’t out. She never opened the door either, so she just left the papers outside. The smell of black coffee, cheap pizza, and staleness from a lack of flowing air would always hang in a heavy cloud around this complex.

Then would be the home of the two boys, Rick and Allen, whose complex always had the sound of violent video games leaking out from behind the door. In 606 was Mr. Steins the uptight engineer, 607 was the snobby Lady Whitman, and 608 was a loud family of four who were constantly angry at each other.

The elevator dinged happily at its own arrival, and she stepped forward as the creaky doors squeaked open like mice being stepped on.

“Get out of my way!”

A sweaty man barreled towards her, face red and blazing. She vaguely stared as crazed eyes pierced her in a frenzy of fear, self-preservation, and rabid craziness. A bag of trashy riches vaguely resembling the collections of Miss Aidafield spilling from a ratty pillow case turned bag is clutched by white knuckles, trembling the way a cornered animal shakes at a predator.

The knuckles are almost as pale as the ones clutching the dull gun. 

 The fingers shake violently, and the nerve wrecked male points, shouting incoherently.

She steps out of the elevator, face blank, and the hand clutches the gun even tighter than before.

Somewhere, there is a scream of horror, but it isn’t from her, for she never had any regrets left to tie her down. It is a scream of the murder of perceived humanity, and it is a scream of losing man.

“Evelyn Walker dies peacefully at age 20 after an unfortunate accident.”

And as the panting man waits for that creaky elevator to finally open the doors to his escape, a voice inside him howls, “how sickening.”

Bitter Sugar Fights

“Hey, are you my new roommate?”

“Yeah, let’s have a good year!”

 _____

It had been a very, very, very long day.

Being the unlucky guy that he is, he somehow got a schedule mix up and ended up with several morning classes on Mondays, forcing him to get up before the sun just to drag his butt down to a very uncomfortable plastic chair to listen to several boring monotonous lectures on something that he wasn’t even studying about in the future. You would think that the universe had already been mean enough to him by making him the shortest male in his high school graduation class (Only five feet exactly; seriously, he had girls who were using him as arm rests), very clumsy, and absolutely atrociously socially awkward. Wait, actually he wasn’t just socially awkward. He was awkward in every sense. Seriously.

Sighing as he struggled with the stupid half-broken lock to his dorm room that just so happened to only turn broken when he was the one who was trying to open it, he felt a wave of exhaustion as he finally got to trudge inside to flop down onto his bed, tossing his bag of heavy expensive books to somewhere nearby. The books landed with a thud, and he rolled over to bury his face into a fluffy pillow, groaning incoherently. From across the room, there was a low chuckle. 

With a muffled shout, he said, “Shut up.” 

“Make me,” was the teasing reply. 

Sitting up with only a slight, really slight, rush of dizziness from a sudden lack of blood to his head, which totally did not make him sway side to side for a minute or two really, he shot a half-hearted glare at his lounging roommate who was currently basking in the glory of not having morning classes and getting to stay in his worn out pajamas and messy bed-head.

“Seriously, shut up. You don’t know the pain of morning classes to hermit,” he whined as the other boy dared to laugh again towards his laptop screen.

He sat cross-legged on his bed in wait of a reply, but all he got was the sound of scrolling, clicking, and typing as his roommate’s glasses flashed in random, faintly tainted colors from his computer screen.

Pouting, he shuffled off the bed and crawled onto the other twin-sized mattress to look at what was so interesting.

“Really? Tumblr again?!” he exclaimed in exasperation at the sight his brown eyes now took in.

From the corner of his left eye, he swore he saw a baby pink flush spread across his roommate’s cheeks and neck.

His blushing roommate brought up a hand to harshly shove his red-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose, muttering, “It’s entertaining. And you don’t get to judge, Kay, you browse YouTube just as much.”

Kay fell over laughing, kicking his feet up in the air childishly.

The other student flushed red and grabbed a pillow to smack Kay repeatedly.

“Okay okay! I give! I give!” Kay giggled, “I surrender, Liet!”

Huffing, Liet turned back to his laptop, only to fall to the side as Kay tackled his friend over. Both landed with a whump in the tall pile of blankets Liet had on his bed, laughing as they playfully wrestled each other.

Eventually, Kay got Liet pinned down with his arms pressed to his back, and both boys snickered as they got off the unmade bed, hair messy, breaths uneven, and faces stained a healthy red.

Kay sashayed towards their small refrigerator to take out a pretty slice of strawberry shortcake while Liet kicked back on their cheap green sofa. Whistling, Kay sat down next to Liet, already enjoying his sweet slice of dessert with a self-satisfying little smile. Liet watched with half-lidded eyes in amusement at his childish roommate for a while, before getting up to return with a cup of iced black coffee.

Kay cracked an eye open at the shift in the cushions, and the sight of the bitter coffee broke him from his happy little sugar-induced fantasy. Taking his fork out of his mouth, he grimaced and bit out, “Black coffee again? That’s gross, Liet.” 

Liet was unfazed, and merely took a deliberately slow sip, hiding his smirk behind the rim of his cup as Kay cringed.

“Ewww, you’re not human, I swear.”

Liet removed the glass from his mouth and tilted his head slightly, replying in an air of false innocence, “At least I’m not trying to make up for my bitterness with an excess amount of sugar.”

Kay’s entire form froze as his mouth went slack, bite of cake he was just about to put into his mouth forgotten in mid-air. 

“What….did you just say you little brat!!!” 

In a flash, both had set their respective foods on the carpet and Kay lunged at a smug Liet.

“I am not bitter! If anything, you’re the bitter one you social recluse! You don’t even go to class! You only show up for the tests!”

“And I still get higher scores than you don’t I?”

 

“You do not!!! We don’t take the same classes jerk!”

“See, there you go again with the mean words. How am I the bitter one if you’re always moping around about your unluckiness?”

“Well I must really have terrible luck if I got stuck with you as a roommate for three years!”

“You asked me to be your roommate after the first year genius!!!”

Liet now had Kay in a headlock as Kay kept trying to kick the other with his immobilized legs to no avail. Liet was cackling in glee and Kay stopped struggling to whine and pout about his uncomfortable positioning. 

Releasing his victim, Liet clambered off the sofa to pick up the cake and the coffee and set them on the tiny black bedside table they shared. 

Kay got up as well, and followed Liet’s lead to fall backwards onto his own bed. Silence took over the room.

Then, out of the blue, Liet murmured, “I guess we’re both kind of bitter though. Just in some different ways.”

Kay closed his eyes, pondering quietly to himself. 

Liet was right, of course. They were both closer to the cynical side in personality. However, while Liet took all his hurt and locked it away into the depths of his mind, locking himself in their dorm most days too, Kay went through each day riding on the highs of pretending to be happy. Kay got his happiness from the small smiles and the “thank-you’s” he received from strangers. Liet got his happiness from reblogs and likes on his posts on the internet. Kay liked looking at cute, lively things while Liet enjoyed angst filled works of fiction.

“Hey Liet?”

“Yeah?”

“What does it take to be happy?”

Liet did not answer once more, so Kay droned on.

“I like to think that I feel happiness when I hang-out with you. Or when I  hear a catchy new song. Is that real happiness though?”

There was still no answer.

“Will the hurt always stay with us?”

Liet jerked upwards on his bed, and Kay propped himself up on his elbows to look at his partner opening and closing his mouth without a sound escaping. 

“I-,” he finally sounded, “I suppose anything you say is happiness can be happiness. So, don’t….don’t get too caught up over it okay?” 

Liet fiddled with his glasses again, and Kay smiled gently, cheerfully chirping, “Yes Liet! Will do!”

Liet scowled in response, but it morphed into a hidden, begrudging smile after Kay dropped back down to rest on his bed. 

 _____

“Hey Liet.”

“What is it now?”

“You still need to get a life though.”

“And you need a girlfriend.”

“Hey! Be quiet you antisocial hermit crab!”

“You started the conversation though.”

“Why did I get stuck with you of all people?”

“Because you asked me to.”

Goodbye Flight

Goodbye.

He still remembered watching her pastel purple windbreaker weave through the crowd, into the security check and further and further away until she he could no longer spot a hint of lavender from behind the cloth line separating him from the airport departure. He hadn’t felt much remorse then, surprisingly, especially considering all the times he had begun weeping childishly at others’ departures at this same spot. But no, he hadn’t felt much sadness or tears then, so he had turned away and walked off to drive home, humming a soft lullaby under his breath.

It wasn’t until three hours later, in the strangely loud silence during the switching of CD tracks on the stereo that he had been hit with the first wave. But he still hadn’t cried, no. It was more like a revelation that now he was alone in this apartment. And the loneliness was a bit frightening. But he still didn’t cry.

Another hour passed, and he was sitting in front of the television, watching some inane comedy show that wasn’t really funny at all, when he felt like turning around to comment on the show, only to remember with a shocking amount of soberness that there he couldn’t because there was no one there. His chest had clenched and suddenly he felt like someone had forcibly shoved a bunch of cheap tissues into the space between his rib cage and his organs. It scared him and he found himself clutching his body with both hands in a crossed sort of motion, breathing heavily. 

It hurt and the hurt scared him. 

But still, he didn’t cry.

The next wave was in the eerie and heavenly and also desperately melancholic and paranoid moments between the first breaks of dawn and the last moments of midnight, at that hazy time that isn’t really night but isn’t fully morning yet either. He was lying in bed like an insomniac, when finally, finally, his brain woke up and he was hit with all the usual self-hatred, self-pity, uselessness, pathetic, why why why why why? And that was when the sadness hit.

It was like a flying semi-truck. It was like the meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs. It was a booming sensation of the realization at last that he was now alone and alone he would be because she wasn’t coming back. All the words unsaid and all the happiness missed that wouldn’t be back and it hurt, it hurt so, so much.

And as the aching, clenching, tearing, burning, searing, throbbing pain hit, he finally began to cry.

Yellow

When Alex stepped into the apartment, suitcase forcibly bumped over the strip of metal at the front door, he immediately noticed three things. 

The first was that even though it was rapidly growing dark outside, there still weren’t any visible lights peeking out from any corners of the complex.

The second was that the living room, kitchen, and hallway looked suspiciously like how it was a month and half before, when he was leaving for his trip. 

The third was that a certain messy, bleached bed-head with sloppy, loose, crinkled clothing and crimson, thick rimmed glasses was nowhere to be heard, much less seen. 

Raising an eyebrow curiously, he shut the door, slid his shoes off, and began to stride towards the furthest bedroom in the back, leaving his suitcase unattended by entrance. He approached a plain dark blue wooden door, and slowly opened it, creaking noises filling the silence.

It was all dark, excluding the soft blue, green, and yellow, flashing glows that came from the laptop sitting on the carpet in front of a messy body. He could feel his annoyance rapidly rising at this sight.

With a twitch of his eye, Alex mercilessly flicked on all the lights to bathe the room in a sharp golden brightness, earning a quiet hiss from the unmoving pile on the floor. The aforementioned lump turned out to be a lanky person with fluffy pale yellow hair that stuck up at random angles, a plain highlighter-yellow shirt wrinkled and riding up to show an extremely pale stomach matching the pale arms and the pale legs that showed from under the baggy basketball shorts. The person was twisted into a strange position that looked quite uncomfortable; something similar to an ungodly cross between a curled up snake and the arched curve a stretching cat has. The images continued flashing on the computer screen as the apparently alive person blearily blinked up at Alex behind red framed lenses. 

Alex just stood at the door, arms crossed, exuding an air of irritation as olive eyes stared, slowly flashing from confusion to recognition.

The pile spoke, exclaiming, “Oh! You’re back!”

Alex’s eye twitched again, grinding out, “Yes I’m back, Dennis. Mind explaining?”

The boy, Dennis, clambered into a sort-of-sitting position with stiff muscles, before looking up at Alex with a wonder filled tilt of his head, asking, “Explain what?”

Fists clenched, and something seemed to crack into two as the cloud of smothered anger around Alex finally broke. 

He stomped up to loom over Dennis, jabbing a finger into the blonde’s forehead, shouting, “The apartment looks like it’s been uninhabited this entire time! Did you even leave your room the seven weeks I was gone?!” 

Cringing a bit, Dennis muttered back hesitantly, “….Not….really?”

This fueled the other brunette’s rage even more as he began ranting.

“You have got to be kidding me!!! Do you really have no survival skills at all? I can’t believe it! You’re like a kid. Do I really have to take care of you for the rest of your life? I feel sorry for whoever marries you! You’re lucky you get paid for sitting around all the time! Did you even eat?! Why do I always have to be the one to clean the apartment?!?! I can’t believe it why are you such a stupid idiot you idiot!!!!”

He had begun throwing his arms around to exaggerate his points while pacing in agitation as Dennis sat cowering next to his laptop. 

Pausing to catch his breath, Alex swung around to glare at Dennis with flashing brown eyes. Said victim winced.

“I’m sorry Alex….I just didn’t see a point….”

“What do you mean there’s no point?!?!?! Do you not know humans need to eat and exercise and sleep to survive?!?!?!! Idiot!!!”

Dennis curled up into a ball, hiding his face in his knees before murmuring, “I did eat what you left in the fridge before you left….”

Huffing loudly, Alex put his hands on his hips, retorting, “That was only two week’s worth of food stupid. Why didn’t you order take out?”

There was an awkward silence as Alex calmed down and Dennis buried his face even further into his knees, the back of his neck slowly turning red, the heat spreading to his ears.

Calmer now, Alex kneeled down to sit cross-legged in front of Dennis, waiting for an answer.

Eventually, Dennis managed to meekly shove out, “I ended up getting to embarrassed so I would hang up.”

Now it was Alex’s turn to stare at the blushing male in bewilderment. The clock on the left wall ticked on, before the weary traveler began to chuckle. Dennis peeked up to look at his now guffawing flat-mate, and weakly glared, flustered. 

“Stop! It’s not that funny! Socializing is hard!!!”

“Ahhhah!!! That-hah- that wasn’t even socializing!!! That was just- ahhahah!!-talking over a phone to order food!!!”

By now Dennis was red like a fresh, ripe strawberry, and Alex was gasping for air as he rolled around on the carpet in laughter.

“Ahhhhh, my stomach hurts hahhah!”

Clearing his throat in false seriousness, Alex went back to his previous position, wiping a few tears of amusement away. Dennis was still pouting. The laptop’s screen had turned dark.

“Really, you idiot, you can’t even order takeout? You’d die without me around, wouldn’t you?” Alex said in feigned frustration. The fond smile on his face betrayed his emotions, however.

 

Dennis stopped pouting as he sat up straighter and chirped back, “But you are around, and that’s the point!”

Alex sighed and shook his head in exasperation, but he couldn’t help the wide grin that mirrored Dennis’s that stretched across his face. 

Grunting, Alex stood up, and walked out of the bedroom talking over his shoulder, “Come on, you must hungry, huh, you fool?”

Dennis’s face lit up in excitement and he quickly shut his laptop before running down the hallway cheering, “Yay!  Alex, you rock!” 

Smug cackling echoed through the apartment as warm yellow lights began to turn on one by one, and the home filled with life.