Enigma.
001
The feeling was almost unbearable... the feelings of apathy towards others, the feelings of feigned interest he could feel from the people around him. He was able to sense (somehow from the depths of his own twisted and self criticizing mind) that no one truly cared about how he was doing.
Despite the times that his old friends would ask if he was alright or if they could do anything to help him, he knew that if he said anything other than “Yeah, I’m fine,” they wouldn’t know what to do. So it wasn’t like he wasn’t aware that they were just making small talk to make themselves feel like better people.
Frank could always imagine them thinking as if he could peel back the skin of their skulls and read their thoughts. If I can fake like I care about this headcase, maybe this will help me in the karmic sense. He knew. Because he wasn’t an idiot. In fact, Frank so fucking brilliant that he decided to shut everyone out in order to keep himself sane from their useless banter.
Idiots, he thought. Every single damn one of them.
He tuned out their insincere voices and made it clear that he had no time for the plasticity of the people that surrounded him. They were fake, and it sickened him each time he heard the same rehearsed plea for an answer as to why he was the way he was.
Because he knew that no one would understand. No one could comprehend what he had been put through, mentally or physically. He remembers when his mind was vibrant and full of life, but the beautiful colors that shone through each and every one of his words soon faded to a dull gray. There was no feeling now, because he felt as if feeling anything would show weakness. And he could no longer afford to be weak.
The stranger in his bed, the intruder to his abode, had kind eyes. He was smiling with them, yet there was concern that twitched his lips into a grimace. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as Frank shivered on the floor. The man was afraid to console him, the shivering young boy on the floor, with the five o’clock shadow and the most beautiful eyes. Frank decided to be as rude as possible.
“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in my bed?" he finally spat. He was shaking and convulsing like a maniac. The bed seemed so high up from the floor, despite the many times he had landed down there. It always seemed so much more high up than it actually was.
“...How do you not remember me?” The strange man spoke softly with a hurt tone. It was clear that he was just attempting not to startle the young man more than he obviously already had.
“I’ve never met you. I don’t remember ever exchanging formalities with you, yet there you are, shirtless, in my fuckin’ bed,” Frank snarled, teeth bared with his words flowing out of his mouth like a wordsmith had crafted them. “Get the fuck out.”
The stranger was now at a loss for words. He was beginning to wonder if maybe he should grab his shirt and run for the hills, because the sudden change of mood from the night prior scared him. He thought that he made a mistake, coming to this man’s house and spending a night with him, only to find himself unwanted in the morning. He didn’t like feeling this way and he didn’t know why the man that had seduced him with his charms turned out to be a monster in disguise.
Fuckin’ mental case, the stranger thought. This was a bad idea.
Frank saw the fear and confusion in the man’s eyes and Frank knew what he must’ve been thinking... but he was wrong. The stranger was wrong. Frank wasn’t fucked in the head, he wasn’t mentally ill, he wasn’t anything. He was just good at blocking out what he didn't want to remember.
“Leave,” Frank spat, and the nameless man did just that. He grabbed his shirt and slowly crept out the door sideways, all while eyeing Frank the entire way out. Frank stared the man down like a cat, ready to pounce on its next victim until he had exited his dirty white floor.
He sat there shaking... convulsing... feeling sick to his stomach, trying to block out any details of what had occurred last night. Images of sweat, amber coloured liquid, teeth, legs, little tablets of chalk, skin and moans filled his head and he flinched, putting a hand to his forehead and massaging his temples with his fingers.
“No no no no no no no no,” he whispered quietly while clutching his head. “Go away... go away!”
And for once, they did. And he felt somewhat at ease knowing he had successfully done so.
Then Frank vomited on the floor, which was his body’s way of cleansing him after every single one of these encounters. He was as pale as a ghost, sitting in the foetal position while smelling like last night’s liquor and whatever little food he had consumed. His shaking had died down to a slow rocking back and forth on the hardwood floor, until he was completely still. The room had stopped spinning and he could now think again. Not so much about the night before, but about how he was going to pretend to survive another day. It came to a conclusion.
And he sighed.
Despite the times that his old friends would ask if he was alright or if they could do anything to help him, he knew that if he said anything other than “Yeah, I’m fine,” they wouldn’t know what to do. So it wasn’t like he wasn’t aware that they were just making small talk to make themselves feel like better people.
Frank could always imagine them thinking as if he could peel back the skin of their skulls and read their thoughts. If I can fake like I care about this headcase, maybe this will help me in the karmic sense. He knew. Because he wasn’t an idiot. In fact, Frank so fucking brilliant that he decided to shut everyone out in order to keep himself sane from their useless banter.
Idiots, he thought. Every single damn one of them.
He tuned out their insincere voices and made it clear that he had no time for the plasticity of the people that surrounded him. They were fake, and it sickened him each time he heard the same rehearsed plea for an answer as to why he was the way he was.
Because he knew that no one would understand. No one could comprehend what he had been put through, mentally or physically. He remembers when his mind was vibrant and full of life, but the beautiful colors that shone through each and every one of his words soon faded to a dull gray. There was no feeling now, because he felt as if feeling anything would show weakness. And he could no longer afford to be weak.
The stranger in his bed, the intruder to his abode, had kind eyes. He was smiling with them, yet there was concern that twitched his lips into a grimace. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as Frank shivered on the floor. The man was afraid to console him, the shivering young boy on the floor, with the five o’clock shadow and the most beautiful eyes. Frank decided to be as rude as possible.
“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in my bed?" he finally spat. He was shaking and convulsing like a maniac. The bed seemed so high up from the floor, despite the many times he had landed down there. It always seemed so much more high up than it actually was.
“...How do you not remember me?” The strange man spoke softly with a hurt tone. It was clear that he was just attempting not to startle the young man more than he obviously already had.
“I’ve never met you. I don’t remember ever exchanging formalities with you, yet there you are, shirtless, in my fuckin’ bed,” Frank snarled, teeth bared with his words flowing out of his mouth like a wordsmith had crafted them. “Get the fuck out.”
The stranger was now at a loss for words. He was beginning to wonder if maybe he should grab his shirt and run for the hills, because the sudden change of mood from the night prior scared him. He thought that he made a mistake, coming to this man’s house and spending a night with him, only to find himself unwanted in the morning. He didn’t like feeling this way and he didn’t know why the man that had seduced him with his charms turned out to be a monster in disguise.
Fuckin’ mental case, the stranger thought. This was a bad idea.
Frank saw the fear and confusion in the man’s eyes and Frank knew what he must’ve been thinking... but he was wrong. The stranger was wrong. Frank wasn’t fucked in the head, he wasn’t mentally ill, he wasn’t anything. He was just good at blocking out what he didn't want to remember.
“Leave,” Frank spat, and the nameless man did just that. He grabbed his shirt and slowly crept out the door sideways, all while eyeing Frank the entire way out. Frank stared the man down like a cat, ready to pounce on its next victim until he had exited his dirty white floor.
He sat there shaking... convulsing... feeling sick to his stomach, trying to block out any details of what had occurred last night. Images of sweat, amber coloured liquid, teeth, legs, little tablets of chalk, skin and moans filled his head and he flinched, putting a hand to his forehead and massaging his temples with his fingers.
“No no no no no no no no,” he whispered quietly while clutching his head. “Go away... go away!”
And for once, they did. And he felt somewhat at ease knowing he had successfully done so.
Then Frank vomited on the floor, which was his body’s way of cleansing him after every single one of these encounters. He was as pale as a ghost, sitting in the foetal position while smelling like last night’s liquor and whatever little food he had consumed. His shaking had died down to a slow rocking back and forth on the hardwood floor, until he was completely still. The room had stopped spinning and he could now think again. Not so much about the night before, but about how he was going to pretend to survive another day. It came to a conclusion.
And he sighed.