Nightmare

The lights from her electronic clock are blinking up at her while she blinks back at them. Her head is spinning and throbbing and aching from having been forcefully dragged out of sleep like that, but she still shakes it anyways, and slowly slides out of bed.

She stumbles a bit, but she’s come to expect that, so she defeats gravity and paralyzed legs, and gently treads to the bathroom.

She takes another long hot shower, ignoring the way her skin is turning red from the heat and how much her water bill is sure to go up again from yet another one of these nightly escapades, but she doesn’t care because all she wants to do is wash it all off, the blood and grit and screams and crushed bones and!

She bends over, gasping for air.

It’s time to stop with the shower now.

She walks back down the dark, silent hallway, too lonely to be walked through alone, and slides back into her room, soundlessly closing the door behind her. The faint light coming from the lamp is her comfort, because the darkness closes in on her and envelopes her body to the point she can’t move or speak or breath.

She sits in front of her open, blaring laptop, bathed in the digitally blue light, and starts to remember, remember again the crushed bones and the way he screamed and screamed and howled in pain and she doesn’t even know who this person is and!

She picks up her phone using only her index finger and her thumb, and slowly speed dials one.

There’s a sudden harsh ringing from the inside of the phone, and it rings once, twice, about five, six or seven times before she loses track and the ringing is coldly cut off and an even colder, groggy voice replaces it.

Again?

She does nothing but sit there. The lights are starting to hurt her eyes and her eyelids are drooping from the heaviness but she just can’t sleep or she’ll start to think and see and smell and hear the screams, oh the screams, and the sounds of the!

She can’t breathe again.

You know I can’t do this every night. I need to sleep.

She dry swallows a large pill of guilt.

Either go to a therapist or something, or figure it out yourself. I’m tired.

Now she’s swallowing an overdose, but she knows even that won’t help her forget, and in fact she thinks it’s worse now, and she needs to stop, just stop and, and!

Go to sleep. Night.

The phone gets cut off by a new type of blaring as she meekly mumbles a “Sorry” that's muted and never makes it into the world of the loud.

The clock keeps blinking up at her.

Her body is already asleep now, but her mind isn’t, because her mind never shuts up, and she just wants to go to sleep without having that stupid nightmare and remembering an incident that doesn’t even affect her since it’s not real, it’s not real in her life or anytime soon or whatever and why can’t she forget that scene!

She chuckles to herself in her mind, because she always knew she was spoiled and selfish. She just got the most vivid scene she could ever write into a story handed to her on a silver platter, and she’s trying to kick it off of her instead of taking it like it should be.

She yawns, and asks the world to please just give her a break tonight.

She wakes up again two hours later, and everything’s repeating itself, and she supposes that in itself is a real live nightmare of its own too.

Sometimes

          

         Have you ever craved social interaction to the point you feel hollow without it?

Have you ever gotten to the point in life where the only time you can truly live freely is when you’re off the high of laughing at jokes that you don’t even find funny and feeling emotions so strong and real, yet all the same emotions that aren't even yours?

It also becomes sad moments when you're the last person online, and suddenly you feel so, so, so alone, simply and utterly alone, that there’s no other word to describe just how lonely it feels. When you see your lone green dot next to your own name and you know, you think, “I’m the last one awake. I’m the last one up wasting my life away with nothing worthwhile.”

Yes, it is quite a lonesome feeling to feel.

Sometimes, you lie awake at ungodly hours contemplating theories about reality and the universe and humanity as you know it. Theories that are pure blasphemy and random words that spew from the depths of your useless brain, theories that you know aren't technically scientific enough, yet make so much sense that they make no sense at all.

Sometimes, you ponder about other people, and how much you matter to them. Whether or not their lives would be significantly changed if you were to just vanish someday. Or what if you simply weren't born at all? How would they live then? Would those who say they need you in their life be any different had your existence never been anything that existed at all? Would they feel an unreasonable emptiness at sporadic times or would you find that the universe could, had, and did replace you as an entity, and they became better off without your being existing as a whole?

 Sometimes, do you glance at the clock, read the ticking numbers, and think to yourself how much of an utter fool you are to still be up, awake, and spouting nonsense to people you can’t see, people who don’t even exist, and yet all the same imaginary creatures who you need in order to stay relatively sane enough to survive here. It raises the questions like, why do you still do this to yourself, to your body, when you know you’re sick and tired and craving rest, and why do you skip meals and eat trash. It raises the thought of do you really have the right to hate your body, to hate your stupidity, to hate your mistakes and regrets and all those times you acted unwisely, when it’s truly all your own fault and you have nothing and no one to blame but yourself. For in order to cultivate self-hate, one must continue doing the things you hate about yourself, despise about yourself.

Sometimes, you wonder about how your life might be different if this had happened instead of that, or whether or not you’re doing the right thing. Is it better to get hurt later and enjoy now, or stay a little hurt now and never get hurt in the future? Is it possible to truly be happy while you lie awake scared about tomorrow and the future every night? What is happiness anyways, besides a simple word? Are you truly capable of achieving so called happiness, you, a selfish, stupid, ugly, (no stop please), foolish, childish, immature, procrastinating disgusting vile creature who calls themselves human? Is it possible? Is all the “love” the other people give you really for you, or have they been blinded temporarily by some mistake in fate, blinded from your true lack of worth, and someday they’ll wake up to find they never “loved” you in the first place, not the true you? Is it worth it? Any of it at all?

Sometimes, you feel guilty. Guilty that you take but don’t give half as much. Guilty that you couldn't do more. Guilty that you chose not to do more. Guilty, guilty, so, so guilty over the littlest of things. Things that those you feel guilty for and to have already waved off as petty things, things that shouldn't even be bothered with, but nonetheless things that weigh your mind and soul every single day. It is a funny thing how much you feel forever indebted to some people. It is that guilt that eats you alive.

Sometimes, you get caught up in the never ending cycle of dislike for humanity, dislike for society, dislike for other people, dislike for rules, dislike for work, and, most of all, dislike for yourself. It’s easy to get re-dragged into that washing machine that pours out bubbles of disgraceful disgust and fountains of bitterness a thousand times more bitterly than the blackest coffee in the world. To hate things and to hate you becomes almost a way of mind and living, to the point it’s almost not a choice. For it can be so, so difficult and tiring to always look for the brighter side, and to stay calm and relaxed and not worry over pointless things, and to simply be optimistic.

Sometimes, sometimes, you just need to take a breather. Sometimes you just need to take a step backwards rather than forward, and to look at the whole picture rather than what little bits of darkness you see through your daily tunnel vision. Sometimes, spitting out that awkward truth of “I’m not okay”, or “I’m lying, please don’t leave me” becomes more worth the effort in the long run rather than sticking with the usual nonchalant shrug and pride in one’s ability to survive alone. But surviving and truly actually living are really two quite different things on the spectrum.

Sometimes, it’s just time to live.

And the Clock Keeps Spinning

DianezeGoddess: Soooooo, what’s up?

Me: I was just wondering about time. Wouldn't it be great if we could, oh I dunno, control and bend time to our will? Then maybe our lives wouldn't be so depressing and short.

                                                                                                Seen 1:33 AM

Me: I know you’re still online. And that you saw what I wrote.

                                                                                                Seen 1:36 AM

Me: It’s okay, I was just kidding. Lol. :D

                                                                                                Seen 1:37 AM

DianezeGoddess: Oh, hah hah! Lol you almost got me there for a second! Nice one!!!

The day is much too short in my opinion. Maybe that is what makes life so precious. It’s because everything has a limit. The day ends, the sun sets, your coupon expires, the food spoils, the rain ends, the night turns to sunny daylight, and of course, you die and your entire life ends.

I often wonder if one could control time. After all, isn't it merely a thing of human creation? We certainly can’t actually explain what time is. In fact, everything plainly laid before us could be a lie and we are lies and we don’t even exist, so in that case, why should anything matter.

Another four minutes has passed, and time is rushing me. Sometimes I really don’t like time.

It’s such an amusing concept though. Time, that is. Children watch the clock tick by second by second wishing time would hurry up so they could get out of class, while people like me wish time would slow down so I could have more time to just sit back and enjoy things instead of always stressing about what’s next to do and how long I have to complete it. (I’m terrible at scheduling anyways; I always delay everything, even when sometimes the delays aren't under my control.)

On the other hand, time seems to fly by with a loud whoosh when you are trying to do something you enjoy, such as spending time on a delicate craft project, or simply relaxing with someone you care about. In that case, is time controllable after all? If I think of it hard enough, would I be able to stop time?

Oh, wouldn't that be wonderful.

But, for now, time is out of my control. Pity, but nonetheless true.

For now.

(I just wasted another 6 minutes of my 1440 minute day. Oh well, I'll be wasting a lot more later on anyways.)

Update

Hello! So I have just added a new page that's on poetry, and you should be able to see the tab right up above, so please feel free to check that out! So far it will mostly be old poems I dug up from past notebooks from when I was a kid. It's a bit different from the usual short stories I write. Thanks for reading!

-Gemini Note

Writer's Conundrum

There never was anything to win in the first place.

It was an ungodly hour to be awake at, much less staring at a bright screen in a pitch black room. The time was somewhere in the muddled hours between morning and night, the objects in the room basked in a soft, yet harsh glare of pale blue, grey and ghostly to glance at. The cursor kept blinking, blinking, blinking.

Her head hurt.

The pattern repeated itself once more. Type, type, type a few words. Words dry like the desert, stale like old musty bread long forgotten in the back of the refrigerator. Emotionless, feeling less, and utterly revolting to read. Delete. Delete. Delete. No, this would do nothing for her.

Each thought and word was like a feather on a songbird's wing. You could see, and you could reach for it, but the moment you almost touch it, it takes flight, leaving you with nothing but empty air and a chilling breeze.

Outside, a nightingale croaked.

She looked up from the millions of pixels that made up her blank page, a glance that only took her a split second, but a second too much, for she lost her train of thought once more in the land of pounding heads and dry eyes.

She switched screens to her social media site. No living soul was online. But of course, who was she fooling, as if anyone would be online at this time in the day. Or was it the night? Was time even relevant to one who lived in a fictional world full of fictional lies to blind oneself to the cruel, bitter, biting cold of reality? Why did she still feel that pang, that tiny hit of a rusted bell echo in her chest, radiating loneliness throughout her body?

She turned back to her writing piece and gave a soft sigh. Months had already passed and still no progress on her project. Nothing had come out but disgusting pieces that were filled of false plastic emotions and a sticky layer of cliché plot-lines. And to think that this was the life she had chosen. Oh well, it’s not like happiness was achievable anyways.

The word want, in the phrase “I want happiness”, implies that one would never be satisfied with what you have, thus one would never achieve happiness.

A sudden growl of self-hatred tore up her heart, gripped her by the shoulders and ripped at her hair. 

Anger seared her from the inside out, but it wasn't frustration at her lack of process, no. Rather, it was anger over the fact that she knew she would never be the heroes in her stories, or the saved in the finales, nor would she be the loved one, or the successful one, or rich one, or the happy one, anyone in any of these millions upon millions of alternate universes and different realities that she ever made up since childhood because those weren't this reality, or this time, or this life, and everything, everything was fictional and impossible to achieve in the end. It was sad. Oh, it was very, very sad.

Sad is such a vague word. Sad. But what does one really mean when they use the word sad? Was it depressing or were you merely sympathetic? Were you struck by the cold metal bat that is the truth, or were you simply just, lightly tapped? Such a vague word indeed.

She shakily took in a breath (when did she stop?) and rubbed her must-be-red eyes. She had spent too long dawdling and pondering over useless philosophies again. It was time to get back to work. The pattern continued on, long past when the sun woke up to grace the world of its beauty, and long before the moon could say hello again.

Time is irrelevant to any situation where you do not need a number to measure how you feel. Thus, time is irrelevant to one’s life.

Beating the World

It's still a few days too early for New Years, but I got this idea really randomly, and I just couldn't let it fly away, so, early Happy New Years!

_______________________________________________________________


It was New Year's Eve, the snow delicately twirling around in the navy skies, saying hello to the gleaming stars and the laughing moon, before landing safely on the blanketed roof-top of a house. The house was giving off a soft, warm, faded yellow glow, and if one stayed quiet, you could hear raucous laughter and loud cheers from a party echoing inside the house.

It was this party that 23 year old Mark was at, skirting around the huge salad of drunk, sober, nearly drunk, and barely sober guests, beer freshly taking from the ice box in hand. He, of course, was completely sober, considering he had only had one beer so far, and had a high alcohol tolerance level, and it was precisely this sober-ness that prompted him to maneuver through the massive throng of crazy, frolicking, hyper college students, college graduates, and just over all excited people, all to reach a familiar, extremely familiar, aloof face on the other side of the sea of jumping people. Somewhere behind him, a high pitched shriek sounded along with angry yelling as a girl beat her boyfriend in some sort of Wii game. 

Wincing as a clearly drunk classmate shouted something in his face and gave him a sloppy, badly aimed one arm hug, he dodged the few final people to reach his destination.

Raising an eyebrow along with the hand holding his beer in a queer greeting, he yelled over the blaring music (Did they really just change the song from his favorite to something by-who was it, ah right-Carly something, Jedi? He didn't care. He didn't like it) at the glaring girl, "Hey loner, long time no see!"

An annoyed frown flashed across the dark haired (Actually, not just dark haired, dark everything, from clothes to shoes) girl before she settled for sneering out, "For good reason too, loser."

Strangely enough, Mark just chuckled before leaning against the wall next to her and staring out at the crowd. (The number of sober people was significantly less than before he crossed the room. Had it really taken that long? Or were they just really good at getting drunk fast? Why did he even know half of these people...)

Taking a chug of his beer, he offhandedly commented, "God, , I missed your terrible sense of humor."

"And, god, Mark, I always hated you as a person over all," she slyly teased back, hiding a nostalgic, minuscule, just barely there smile behind her slender glass of red wine.

Barking out a short laugh after a roll of his eyes, he asked, "So how's Simone been?"

"Still an aggravating idiot," she muttered, blushing as she took yet another sip of her wine.

"Oh please, after what, 8 years, and you still put up that act? You're a hoot, Avery."

Avery began to blush more fiercely as she stammered out indignantly, "It's not an act! And no one says 'hoot' anymore! A-anyways, how's Nickie been? I haven't talked to her in months."

He laughed out, longer, and more heartily this time (Oh how this reminded him of the old days), before saying, "Flitting about,  worried, of course. Although, all her new dress orders really should be a good thing."

"She always was strange," she snorted.

"Oh? And what about you? What sort of high class wine is that, you snob?" he snickered, taking another gulp of cold beer.

Frowning, she twirled the wine around in the glass a bit before answering, "Merlot. I don't particularly like it, but," sighing, she continued, "I guess it's better than that beer. Makes people act like cavemen."

"Hey! Beer does not make people act like cavemen!" he shouted indignantly. Unfortunately, his point was pathetically cut off as, near the middle of the room, another familiar, too familiar, face leapt, no, grand jeté'd, into the air, shouting some drunken slur, and broke out into a terrible, ear shattering rendition of some ungodly song (no one could tell, to be honest, it was that off-tune).

"Whoohoo...! I-I can f-fly you guys! Look at me soar! I believe I can flyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!! La-la-ahhh-hahah! Butterflies!"

Mark's hand flew to his forehead without further instructions from his paralyzed in horror brain.  Avery began laughing, even crying tears, leaning against the wall with her arms, as she shouted out in glee, "No, not cavemen. Like Brad!"

"Brad always was a stupid idiot," he groaned, face lightly pink from his humiliating old friend.

By now, Avery had stopped choking on her laughter, and had instead settled for another sip of her wine and a triumphant smirk.

The clock clicked as another minute passed. It was only a few minutes from the next year.

Glancing at the clock, Avery sobered instantly, retaining her cold expression. Following her gaze, Mark sighed in melancholy. 

"So, yet another year flew by, hm. I wonder where our lives went," he hummed sadly, taking a small, tasteless drink of his no longer cold beer.

She gazed into her wine intensely, as though the swirling, sloshing color would tell her all the forgotten jokes, hazy summer days, and joyful laughter that made your stomach hurt.

She sighed as well, and whispered, "Don't we all want to know. Some days I look into the mirror and wonder if I'm doing the right things in this world."

Suddenly, as though her words had hit a trigger in him, Mark pushed off from the wall and swung around to face her, the condensation from his beer glass flying away into the crowd. 

"Don't say that! It's the New Years! It's time to look forward to a new page! You're doing the best you can, we all are. And we can be tomorrow's heroes, I'm sure!" he exclaimed, arms flailing in exaggeration.

Avery frowned. 

"You're drunk, Mark."

"No I'm not, and you and I both know that. It's true! We, we can be like the Avengers, or, or the Teen Titans! We can save the planet together, save the people! We can make a difference, Avery, as much as you don't want to believe it. You just need some confidence."

The crowd had all settled down behind them, and began to count down, staring fixedly at the small television screen.

10

"Mark, you're crazy. What can we do? The world's too big for just us to change it. We're not living in a fairy tale, idiot. This is reality. Grow up already," she snapped heatedly. Her glare had no power though. Instead, it was tired, so so tired of the world, already defeated by too many, too too many fights.

He smiled softly at her, "Maybe that's the problem, Avery. We all grew up too fast. We've all stopped believing. But, Avery, maybe we really can, and we've just given up too early."

9

8

7

She stopped glaring at him, and looked out at the jumble of limbs crouching around the couch in the living room in contemplation.

"I guess. Who knows."

"No one. That's what makes it an adventure."

She smiled and wondered under her breath, "An adventure? Like...like when we were kids?"

"Like we're kids again, except this time, it won't have to end once the sun sets past the purple hills," he murmured, grinning down at her."

6

5

4

3

"Come on," he said, tilting her remaining beer towards her. Seeing her blank stared at the green glass bottle, he laughed and said, "A toast silly."

She grinned, (for real this time, so happily, so joyfully, like she had when they stilled swung from the metal bars of the playground across the street), and laughed out, "A toast!"

2

"To us! And to changing the world!" he cheered happily over the noise of the rest of the party.

She grinned to the point her face could stretch no more, and exclaimed, "No, not to changing the world! This, this is a toast to beating it!"

He blinked, confused, before slowly grinning along with her, and shouted, "To us, and to beating the world!"

"Cheers!"

1

"Happy New Years!"

And was it a happy night indeed.

Somewhere, Nowhere, Everywhere, Anywhere

     They were two of a kind. She, she was a caged animal, frozen in the same glass box for all her life, wishing, wanting, clawing for a way out, pulling at her hair in frustration at  the repetitiveness of everything, at the cruelness of life for making her suffer through the same things over and over again, at her lack of ability, of freedom, to find who she was, and not who others wanted her to be. He was a lost soul, fluttering from city to town to village to countryside, then to yet another city. He was so so lonely, always the outsider, who didn't know the jokes, who didn't know the rules, the manners, the ways of living. He was always shrouded in a mist of not knowing, of clueless-ness, and of the utter desperation of not belonging. 

     They met on a subway to nowhere. She had been sitting in the very last seat in the furthest corner of the train, staring out into the grey skies and dead grass. He had just gotten on, and had flipped his hood up, slouching to avoid attention. The train had jerked, and both had been startled into looking up, and that was when their eyes met.

     Now, looking back, they could both laugh at how cliche it sounded, that they met with just a snap of the fingers, too coincidental to have been by chance, but all the same too well planned to have been on purpose. Of course, they had broken the supposed what seemed romantic cliche, considering they were now more like siblings, but nonetheless, it was laughable.

     After that jerk, that clicking moment where their gazes met, he had awkwardly shuffled to sit next to her. They said nothing, just stared out opposite windows together, his gaze on the grey skies, hers on the dead grass. 

     They stayed there until the subway had gotten to the very last stop, a small town in the middle of nowhere, and had to get off before they were kicked off. 

     Once off, they parted ways, only to meet again in a small cafe in the town in the middle of nowhere, and once more, they stared out the window together.

     No words were needed for them to keep meeting in that small cafe in the town in the middle of nowhere, and eventually become friends. 

_____

     They always had the strangest conversations. The kind with long periods of silence that to any stranger would seem awkward, but to them was perfect. She would daydream about the wonders of the outside world, and he would tell her of the glowing cities he felt so lonely in. He would sigh about not fitting in, and she would laugh and tell him of why he should hate fitting in, and how it felt to be trapped. 

     Once, it had just finished raining that morning, in that town, in the middle of nowhere, when she had opened her mouth after swallowing a gulp of dull tasting hot chocolate, and said, "Let's go exploring."

He continued sipping his coffee, before answering, "Where."

"Nowhere. Anywhere. Somewhere. Just somewhere where we can pretend to be anywhere but here, and nowhere else."

He drained the rest of his drink, and pushed his chair back.

"Then come on. Let's go explore nowhere."

____

     They ran down stone cobbled streets that had soft green grass peeking from between loosen stones, and between wooden houses painted cheerful colors, sad colors, and old, faded colors. They slid between alleys that were still shimmering from that morning's shower, and found shaky wooden doors that led to long forgotten rooms. 

Together, she found a way out in the form of secret passageways and lost memories, and he found a way to belong, by the hand on his arm, dragging him to everywhere. 

Together, they found the nowhere where they belonged.

Because here, nowhere was everywhere, anywhere was somewhere, and they could forget about all the pain and the suffering and the sad, sad, sadness, and the melancholy that chained their lives.

To them, nowhere, was home.

Red Words, White Wall

     It started when he stumbled into the newly opened bar on a late Friday night. One of his colleagues at the firm he worked at had gotten engaged, and to celebrate, he was dragged into this cacophony of shaking glasses, toxic drinks, seizure inducing neon lights, and intoxicated people who could dance about as well as his fifth grade math teacher could draw (the man was terrible). He had given a slur of pathetic excuses, but in the end, he still found himself faced with more people that should have fit inside this small building.

     He had only lasted a total of five minutes, and one sip of a drink that look like the potions a witch in a cartoon would make (it tasted like poison too), before he had a pounding headache and had to slip outside. Gulping in the city air that, for once, didn't smell polluted to him, he rubbed his eyes and glanced around. The street was empty, with the nearby streetlight flickering eerily, as though it were from a horror movie. The only bodies around were either passed out from the drinks ( he shudders at the thought of the unsightly liquids) or murmuring to a pole while tripping in circles. Looking away from the embarrassingly drunk people, he saw a little bookstore just a few shops down the road. It was practically hidden from view, snugly squeezed between two huge glass jewelry stores that had more ads pasted on their windows than the number of people in the subways in New York. A faint yellow light came from it's plain windows, and inside, he could just barely make out some tall shelves. Deciding that it was better than going back inside the bar, he headed towards the store.

     Moments later, he found himself in a completely different world. The smell of musky books overwhelmed him as a friendly old woman greeted him from behind the counter. It looked family run, with mismatched pillows and blankets piled up in the corners, and stacks of books strewn about. He slowly browsed the towering wooden shelves, eyes not looking for anything in particular. He was simply looking for the sake of having something to do. He had reached the back of the small shop when he tripped over a pair of dark blue, denim clad legs. Startled, he blinked at the legs moved, and a pair of ripped burgundy sneakers, laces frayed and dangling, filled his vision instead.

"Oh god! I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" a voice laced with worry asked.

He slowly nodded, confused and he was gently helped up and placed back down onto something soft. It was a mountain of pillows.

The pale face of a boy, just barely reaching adolescence, tilted ever so slightly to the right, was staring at him. He blinked again, and before he could process anything, his own voice filled the air with a loud question of, "Why is your hair grey?"

_____

     And that was the start of a strange friendship, or companionship, as he preferred. The young boy, it turned out, was actually not so young. In fact, the silver haired man was only one year younger than him, at the tender age of 22, and well versed in the ways of society.

     His name was Gavin, and he was an artist, who really, wasn't so much an actual artist rather than a lover of creating beauty. He was currently studying at the University just a few blocks down from that bar that started everything, and was playing around with, or, as the student preferred, "experimenting with" several forms of art, from painting to graphic designing. The number of whimsical ideas that the man could spout greatly contrasted the seriousness, strictness, and conventional-ism of himself. In only the first few weeks of their new friendship, he had heard that messy head of bleached hair tell him "Alex, dream more!" at least a thousand times.

Yes, that guy was an enigma, but, he mused, their contrasting personalities was probably what made them such close friends.

     Gavin, he found, was painfully shy, at first. The night of their first introduction, Alex had done all the talking, and it wasn't until their fourth meeting that Gavin loosened up enough to start talking nonsense. He had bleached his hair at the age of fifteen, as a rebellion against his strict step-father, and he had kept the look. His hated tying his shoes because it meant he would have to bend down and stop walking (he was a very impatient person). His clothes consisted of skinny jeans, paint stained graphic tees, and faded cotton button ups.

He liked sweet drinks, and hated artichokes with a burning passion. He liked it when Alex wore casual clothes instead of his pristine suits and classy dress shirts and pants. He didn't like Alex's colleagues (he called them idiots, not to their faces of course). He liked kittens, but not puppies. He liked the color dark red.

Alex prided himself in how well he knew Gavin.

But one fact that he knew all too well bothered him.

In all five years he had known the man, Gavin had never let him anywhere close to his apartment, despite the number of times Gavin himself had slept over at Alex's own flat. And, the man never would, it seemed.

But that fact was bound to change eventually, he decided, and it did.

__

     They had been out celebrating Alex's birthday, and, much to Alex's chagrin, Gavin insisted on buying him red wine (he hated alcohol, it made people do stupid things). The energetic young man had claimed he liked the color of the drink, and continued to force him to drink it. After an hour and thirty-two point four minutes (he counted how long it took him to cave in to Gavin's demands each time; this was a new record), he agreed to the wine, and to the picnic in the nearby park.

Unfortunately, Gavin was, apparently, a very light drinker, and after four glasses, Alex found himself dragging the guy down the street.

Fortunately, with the drunkenness came the loosened mouth, and opportunity to see the mysterious man's apartment finally arrived.

He found them both staggering down the old street, past the dreadful bar, and the old bookstore where they had met so long ago, into an elevator of a quint little complex full of friendly, inviting neighbors, and into Gavin's abode. He ceremoniously dumped the passed out man onto a dark red couch (the guy was heavy), and began exploring the unknown territory.

It seemed normal at first. Messy (as expected), but clean enough to sustain life (by Gavin's standards). Paint stained the tables and chairs in the kitchen, and pens and erasers and crumpled up sheets of paper were thrown about the living room. It wasn't until he reached the bedroom that he began to notice something strange.

There weren't any mirrors.

Frowning, he made his way into the bathroom, and found the entire mirror duct tapes over messily. A sharpie was left lying next to the sink, and it was a bright red color. Words of the same color was scratched all over the white walls. Words that scared him.

Ugly, stupid, idiot, useless. I hate you. You should hate me. I hate myself.

He traced each word with a trembling hand.

Was this the reason why he had been forbidden to step a foot into his home?

How long had this been going on? How long had his friend, his closest, dear friend, been suffering like this?

And why?

His throat began to clog up, and he promptly marched out of the bathroom and snapped the lights off.

__

The next morning, he interrogated his friend.

He may have had to tie Gavin to a chair to get the words out, but he was desperate.

He refused to let this go on.

I hate mirrors, because I hate having to look at myself. 

The next day, they went to buy a gallon of dark red paint, and together, they covered the malicious words on the walls, stroke by stroke.

Those were things people have said to me. I've told them to myself too.

Alex now visited Gavin every night, as soon as he was out of work. The man had refused to go to therapy, saying he was fine, nothing was wrong.

He hadn't liked it, but he didn't want to force his friend into sitting in a cold metal chair for an hour each week either, so they found themselves sharing bowls of chocolate ice cream over old cartoons and Disney movies every Friday night, until Gavin had loosened up enough to talk to Alex.

Sometimes, they would fall asleep on the couch from staying up all night talking, confessing, and listening, and understanding. Other times, the night would end with Alex comforting his friend, as Gavin cried over decades worth of pain and self-loathing.

No one wants to be my friend. I don't want to make friends. I don't even know why you stay with me.

The next morning, they would do random things, enjoying the relaxation they both needed, one from his own biting, snarling, vicious thoughts, the other from the pure stress of work and supporting another person's mind.

I don't like the way I live, but I don't want to change either. I'm too, too...something.

That Christmas, the first thing Alex went to do was buy a large mirror for Gavin's bathroom, and the silver haired man watched, tears welled up in his eyes, as he sharpied a border, three inches thick, around the glass, made purely of words he could think of to describe, no, compliment, his friend.

Funny, creative, energetic, free.

Two days later, he found himself back in the old bookstore where they had first met, and found his friend had written down everything Alex had done for him, and the old woman from the store, along with Alex's colleagues (who were no longer idiots, apparently, and rather, "cool people who think you're a hero"), had helped Gavin contact several publishers.

The book was dedicated to him.

He might have face-planted onto the floor again, but this time from shock of seeing his name on the very first page of the book.

But it was fine, because he was happy, and Gavin was happy, and everything had worked out in the end.

(Until he was pulled into the crazy bar again to "celebrate".)