Pho; gradual sinkingMature


He had done very few things in recent days.  Very few.  Most of his days were spent sitting against the wall separating his bedroom from his twin's, sulking and brooding over the distance between them.  A separation so much harder to penetrate than walls.  A wide rift he couldn't figure out how to cross.

He didn't go to school, he didn't leave his room for much more than the ocassional trip to the bathroom.  Food was left outside of his room for him a few times a day, he wasn't sure by whom but he guessed his mother.  He recognized the hands-off nurturing she'd used in his childhood when he would sink into one of his foul moods.

Even if she didn't fully, she understood some part of him.  Small, though it was.

More than ever, he scribbled away in his journal.  Constantly he wrote his thoughts, wild and savage sometimes; slow and tedious, others.  He soon filled the notebook to the point of absurdity - it weighed a full four pounds; pages fell out, and the binding was coming apart.

Still, he scribbled.

He had spoken only once to anyone since the awkward, tormenting dinner seven days prior.  Once, to ask his mother to purchase him a new notebook - of exactly the same make and brand as the one he already had - and nothing else.

Black and blue ink covered the side of his right hand and traveled up his wrist, to about mid-way up his forearm.

A knock sounded on the door and he leapt from his spot against the wall.  His heart hammered in his chest, every incorrigible cell in his body desperately hoping it would be her on the other end.

When he realized he hadn't thought her name in days he wondered just how awful things really were.  Was he even aware of the emensity of the horrors around him?  Did he even know the depth of his own misery?  He felt twisted up, knotted, and sore, and stretched too far.

Whomever it was knocked again.  He was suddenly struck still, terrified of the disappointment he would feel when he opened the door and realized it wasn't her.  It wouldn't be, there wasn't any chance - and he had to understand that.  

Shadows of legs moved on the other side of the door.  Then, a soft thunking noise.

Then the steps of someone walking down the hallway.

He felt like a cautious, frightened animal as he opened his door only wide enough to see the notebook.  One hand reached out to snatch it up before he slammed the door shut again and returned to his spot against the wall.

Inside of his head, he was frantic.  His brain moved with stunning speed as he retraced every step he had ever made in his life.  Every thought, every moment.  All he could see was her.  He felt a sharp pain in his chest and winced.  It felt as if he were missing half of his ribcage.  His entire world had come crumbling down, and he needed to acknowledge it.

He needed to face the destruction.

A distinct, mocking voice said: Look what you've done, but when he looked around the room, no one was there.

Music was turned on beyond the wall, and he rested his head against the wallpaper to listen.  He didn't recognize the band, and the stabbing pain hit his chest again.  He used to know everything about her.


He had it right there with him, he thought, squeezing the too-full journal in his left hand and the new one in his right.  He knew all of it.

Who was she now?

He let out a ragged sigh, the monstrous weight of his agony causing his lungs to shudder.  He stared at the new notebook, pages untouched, for a long time.

He could start fresh, he thought.  He could re-discover her, memorize every little detail.  New and old, alike.  Things could be like they were.  It would just take time.

Time, and careful, careful planning.

But he had a new notebook now, and beyond the wall behind him was a whole new Ania just waiting to fill up the pages. 

The End

263 comments about this story Feed