Head in the Clouds WIP

Anon sits up in bed. Is he going to feel like shit today? He glances at the picture he keeps next to his bed, framing a memory of him and his dear friend building a castle in the sand. They looked to be about eight years old. The hollow in his heart devours this memory just like it's devoured all the others: as ravenously as a puncture in a space shuttle steals its oxygen. Yeah, today was going to be one of those days. He struggles out of the bed and surveys his room. He notes that he's kept it in impeccable condition, which grants him a dull sense of satisfaction. See, he can still take care of himself; no one ought to worry about him any longer.

He's getting sick of people who trying to convince him otherwise. So what if he was just now recovering? He's no cripple: he can walk, he can bend over, he can lift boxes and open jars. All he has to do is replace his bandages once a day and check in with his doctor and his shrink every week.

As he walks over to his bathroom, he glimpses another photo framed on the wall. This one frames a memory of him and his best friend building a snowman. They were both ten years old when the picture was taken. This reminiscence also went into the chasm. As he stood in the shower, he did not mind the scalding water flowing down his chest. It was fitting--he could not fill that hole in his chest with nostalgia, so why not burn it instead? Though he doesn't do it for too long: it's bad for his health to torture himself like this, and he wants the doctors to stay out of his business.

Out of the shower and into the kitchen. Some cooked chicken, plain rice, and vegetables. By now, he's mastered this meal. While he eats, he remembers that this plate is chipped from that time his friend tried to make a cake, all by herself. The end product did not come close to resembling a cake, but at least she tried to do something for his twelfth birthday. His heart hurts, now. He welcomes the sensation of smoldering embers within him.

Today he's off of work--this day's a doctor day. While he walks out of his apartment, he spots a framed memory sitting on a shelf. He's standing with his friend at some middle school dance. They're holding hands, and both of them are flushed with embarrassment. She had turned fourteen a few days before that dance. Anon thinks that he would really appreciate a hug right now.

--

First, he gets examined physically. The physician guy says something about the recovery going well. That's all Anon really cares about when it comes to his body. Next, the psychiatrist. Anon spends a while reminiscing. That seems to appease the shrink for today. It's time to get out of here. Now that he's got a whole day free, what does Anon do? Does he grab some lunch? Does he hang out with a friend? Does he check out the new museum exhibit, or possibly go to the park? He heads home.

Sitting at home in the dark reminds Anon of most of his high school years. They tasted like chemicals, smelled like decay, and looked like a sad, broken man wishing he could be anyone else. He takes out a little notebook and a little pen and writes a little poem. It's short and it's simple, but that doesn't stop him. He closes the notebook and opens up his official journal, this one required by the psychiatrist. He writes today's entry and makes sure it sounds like he's doing better and has hope for the future. If he didn't, there would be trouble in his future.

Eventually the clock marches on to dinnertime. Anon mechanically chews up and swallows the bland meat. He's got to keep himself healthy so the doctors don't stick their fingers into his life. Afterwards, he opens that little notebook full of poems and rereads the first few entries again and again. It contains his times at the literature club, times of smiling, laughing friends. They were all eighteen then. Anon is almost nineteen now, with not a friend to his name. He wouldn't have it any other way. With that thought, he gets into bed.

--

The lost memories crash onto Anon like a toppling bookshelf, staining his pillow with regretful rain. He will never again see her smile or touch her face. He will never again hear her beautiful voice or hold her body close to him. They will never make any more memories together, because he killed Sayori. He, who loved her. He, who protected her. He, who knew what was best for her. Why should he get to live while she died? He can feel that hole in his chest burning, he's probably torn the bandages. Anon curses his luck. The next time he gets the chance to shoot himself, he'll put the gun to his head instead. The reassuring thought drifts away as his mind sinks into the depths.

--

"Anon?"
"..."
"Anon, open the door. I know you're in there!"
"..."
"..."
"What do you want Natsuki?"
"I just want to talk to you. Please, just let me in."
"...fine."
"Anon, this has been hard on all of us, but especially you. She was your friend for almost your entire life, so we can understand that you're devastated. But Anon, we haven't heard from you in a week! We were getting worried that... that... well, you know. And it looks like we were right to be worried: you're not even taking care of yourself! I mean, look at all these clothes and dishes you've thrown around, and the smell is an abomination! We care about you, Anon, and we understand how you feel, and-"
"No. You don't."
"Don't what?"
"There's no way you can know how I feel. If you did, you wouldn't be here right now."
"Shut up, Anon. You're not the only one who hurts. I lie awake at night, wondering what could have been and should have been, beating myself up for stupid mistakes and missed opportunities. But the point is, there's nothing we can do about it. It's best to just accept that-"
"There's no accepting the fact that I killed her!"
"Anon, it wasn't your fault-"
"You don't understand, not at all! You don't understand what it's like to have half your soul ripped away in an instant as the other half sinks into hell! You don't know how it feels to murder the only person who's ever mattered to you! You've never had your love's blood staining your hands!"
"Stop it! Stop saying these things! I'm only here to help you, you know!"
"...get the fuck out of my house, Natsuki. Don't ever come back."

--

Anon's mind surfaces from the waves of the subconscious. He looks down at the bloodied bandages on his chest. He looks at the picture framed next to his bed. Yes, it was going to be one of those days.

To be continued.