Give Up

Oliver taps his pencil against his sketchbook, staring out aimlessly across the park. It's late. Very late. Back home, he could tell the time because of the stars above, twinkling bright and numerous above him. Here, he knows because the sound of traffic has quieted down a bit, but not really by much. Oliver guesses it's about four AM. Maybe five. Although it could be three. Three at the earliest. Now that he's alone, really alone, he's having a hard time getting used to it.

It's not quiet at his apartment, no, it never is. The city is loud, and it demands to be heard. Oliver's hometown was small, quiet, and content with flying below the radar. Maybe that's why Oliver doesn't like how... aggressive the city is. It's overwhelming. The sheer amount of people, along with the amount of smog, buildings and man-made parks...

Oliver isn't sure he'll get used to it. Probably not. But Oliver came here to escape his hometown. Of course, maybe there wasn't anything wrong with his hometown and he just wanted to get away from his past. That could be it.

He shuts his eyes and lets out a small sigh. He wonders if a new city would help. Or a new place altogether. He doesn't want to feel like he's... lost forever.

Because Oliver doesn't feel lost. Not really mentally and definitely not physically. Oliver knows who he is; he's proud of that. He can say with certainty that he is Oliver Scott Sykes, and he can pick out a word or two to describe himself. If someone asked about his hobbies, he could list them. What he likes to do, and what he likes. Oliver can totally do all that.

That's just not the issue.

Some days, Oliver would wake up and feel like shit. He'd wake up, and he'd feel like there was a blanket around him. An invisible blanket, it's fibers woven from sadness and broken chemical reactions. And he couldn't take it off, even if he tried. When it wanted to stay, it stayed. And he was left to deal with the lack of motivation, the pressure behind his eyes that made him feel like he wanted to cry. He never did. He never could.

Worst of all, on those days, he felt numb. He felt aggressive, as aggressive as the city was. He was just left to wallow in his misery in bed, with an overwhelming feeling of 'I hate myself.'

Maybe that wasn't the worst of it. On those days back home, he'd have to suck it up. He'd have to get up and go through the motions and try his hardest not to let anyone see, anyone know. Oliver Scott Sykes tried his very hardest to make people believe on his worst days, he felt better than ever.

“Oliver, it sounds like you have Dysthymia.”

Dysthymic.

That's what his psychiatrist told him. That was once he got to the states. His parents refused to believe him. They just figured he had off days, like most people. Most people have off days.

Well. Oliver had off days for no reason. No, there was a reason. Broken chemical reactions in his head.

Sure, he was taking medication now. He'd gotten it all taken care of. Sort of.

The medication just gives him a perpetual feeling of 'alright.'

You could probably kill a man in front of Oliver, and he'd just say 'Well, okay.'

'Alright.'

It's a different numb from the dysthymic numb. This one isn't cloaked in sadness. This one is blank.

Blank.

Oliver does feel better, though. But it's just not... it's not what he was hoping for. He didn't want to feel numb. Some days, he wanted to cry. He wanted to cry so badly, but he couldn't. Not on the medication, and not when he hit a rough patch with his dysthymia.

Oliver's at a loss.

When Oliver opens his eyes again, nothing's changed. The sky is still black, and the traffic hasn't really changed much from what he can hear.

He's not surprised.

Oliver looks back down at his sketchbook, the blank page staring back at him. Shutting his eyes again, he tries to imagine something. Anything.

Blank.

He's not frustrated though. Irritated? Maybe a little bit. He starts tapping his pencil absentmindedly, his mind combing over what he has to do tomorrow.

Nothing. Tomorrow's free. Oliver thinks that maybe he'll start searching for apartments in other cities. Maybe it's just this one.

Although, Oliver knows what it is. It dawns on him then, and he doesn't so much as flinch. Oliver's just never had a home. A place where he felt totally at ease, a place he loves wholeheartedly. A place he never wants to leave.

No place has ever given him that feeling. Not even his hometown.

Oliver looks down at the blank sheet, and starts doodling. Just to distract himself from that thought. He thinks a new city, a new place would be good for him.

“Hey.”

Oliver looks up from his sketchbook, surprised to see a man standing in front of him. He's about Oliver's height, with bright blue eyes and light brown hair that stuck up every which way.

“You homeless, or something?” The man says, and Oliver's surprised by the man's accent. It sounds similar to his, but maybe it's not as thick. Oliver can't find any malice or contempt in his voice, but he doesn't sound curious.

Oliver would call it dull.

“No,” Oliver says, “I'm just looking for inspiration, is all.”

The man raises an eyebrow.

“It's late, though. Don't you think you should be getting home? This isn't really the safest place to be, y'know.”

Oliver sighs and shrugs. He debates telling this man the revelation he had about homes not five minutes ago.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Do you need someone to walk you home?” The man asks, and now Oliver can hear some concern in his voice. He probably thinks Oliver is delusional. Anyone out this late and isn't intoxicated or stoned is probably crazy.

Maybe this guy is crazy. Why else would he be out this late, too?

Oliver shrugs it off. He stands up and tucks his sketchbook underneath his arm. He notices the man looks tired. Oliver wonders if he looks similar.

“I'll be alright. Thanks, mate.”

Oliver turns and walks away, not bothering to look back. It's a big city, an aggressive city. He'll probably never see that man again.