Saturday
evening
It
was Saturday evening. He stared outside, in the deep black of the
night. He could neither see the creepy blue light of the moon, nor
the light of the stars in the evening sky. He only saw the shadow of
some dark storm clouds, which swirled around over the city houses,
dropping their tears on the already wet street, crying for no obvious
reason. That's what clouds do; they cry. They spill their lives by
showing their pain to the world and finally they die, vanish. And no
one would even care, because there would always be new clouds to take
its place. People never really seemed to think about clouds. Even
though, they looked so much like them. They live in pain, die and are
forgotten, just like the clouds. And just like clouds there are
always new people to replace them. Then what makes us care about
people and not about clouds? Why are people so much more important
than clouds? Is it, because we have feelings? How do we even know if
clouds don't? Shouldn't we make a decision to care, or not to
care at all? We only do half. That isn't fair, is it? And as the
clouds cried and died and new ones replaced them, the wind awoke. It
blew its cold breath through the dark streets and forced the rain to
hit his window. As if they begged him for help. As if they wanted him
to open the window and let them in, so that they too could enjoy the
warmth of a house. They just didn't know that it wasn't always
warm in human houses, that rooms could be cold and filled with
everlasting anger and fear. He wanted to let them in, the tears
of the clouds, but he couldn't. He couldn't open the window. It
had been locked. He sighed and turned around, looking away from
the chilly wet street outside. He could no longer see the world's
pain. Not because he felt sorry, not really. No, because they
reminded him of his own pain, his own barrier. He felt sorry for
himself. Instead of looking outside he looked inside, at his
room. It was just as empty and absent as he was. Every single thing
had been cleaned up and polished. The walls, the floor and the
ceiling were all colourless and sad. There was barely any furniture,
just a simple bed, a wardrobe and a wooden chair. All in all, it
looked as if no one had ever been there. Yet he was there. He didn't
want to be there, but that didn't really seem to matter. He
sighed again and sat down in the wooden chair, standing near the
window. He waited. He waited, but for what? He waited for... for a
voice, a voice in his head that would tell him that this wasn't his
fault. He waited for the thought that would convince him that he had
done everything within his powers to prevent any of this. There was
no voice and there was no thought. Slowly, as if it physically
hurt him, he closed his eyes, to lock out the neat room around him
and he finally enjoyed a short moment of silence and relaxation in
his mind. Yet that didn't last for long, because soon the inside of
his skull was filled with screams, vague images and flashes of
memories he didn't want to remember. He pushed his hands against
his temples to stop the chaos and to supplant his thoughts. It was in
vain. The thoughts didn't leave; they only got worse, louder and
more frightening than they had been. He wanted to stand up, kick
something, yell, but he couldn't. It would make no sense, no
difference. Eventually, no longer able to control himself, he
stood up and started to walk around. He couldn't give in to the
urge to obey his thoughts. He had to ignore it, just as always
did. He had to shut up, be silent, and not say anything. You could
never say something, never. If you did you'd be punished or you'd
punish yourself, because it was always stupid, whatever you said.
Someone banged on the door, didn't just knock, no one ever
knocked, they always banged. Well, you couldn't seriously expect
much from people like that. He froze in the middle of a step, turned
his head towards the door and stared without saying anything at the
locked wooden door. He heard the person on the other side searching
for his keys and finally, when he found them, put them in the lock
and turned them around. The handle slowly moved down, and a guy, not
much older than himself, stepped into the room. He was wearing jeans
and a simple white T-shirt. His dark hair threw shadows over his pale
face, only lit by the dim lamp hanging from the middle of the
ceiling. He looked at the guy's face and saw faked pity in his
eyes, tamed anger in his face and some well-thought-out, hypnotising
words on his lips. Without saying a thing the guy walked
further into his room. Quickly he stepped backwards, not out of fear,
but out of disgust. The guy saw this and looked straight into his
eyes. Look away, he told himself, for god's sake look at your
feet, you moron! He thought he saw a smile appearing on the guy's
face when he lowered his head, a foolish smile. "It's okay,"
hissed the guy. "Just stay calm, Thomas. You don't need to worry.
I just want to talk to you." He forced himself to look at the
guy, then he too, smiled. " I don't worry, Gar. Especially not
about you. I can no longer worry, because I know; I'm going insane.
That's what you want, right? You and those others. You want me to
go insane, you want me to scream and cry and you're right, I'm
going to. Does that make you happy? Are you happy to hear that you
sneaky plan finally succeeded?" Gar watched him, worried.
"Thomas please, you can't do this, can you?" "What is it
that I can't do, Gar?" he asked, smiling madly. "What is it?"
he yelled. Startled he examined his friend from head to toe.
"Thomas, what's wrong with you?" But Thomas didn't answer,
he just stared at his shaking and sweating hands, those hands who'd
done things, who'd done this to him. "Please, Tom, sit down,"
Gar begged him, "this is for your own good, really." Still
laughing he shook his head. "No Gar, I can't. I can't sit down.
I can't let you do this. Nothing can hurt me anymore. You don't
know how that feels. You don't know anything. You act like you
understand, but you don't, just believe me. I hate you. I hate
myself. It's my fault, it has always been-" "It's not your
fault!" he cried out shocked. He could never have known that his
friend was feeling this way. He knew that Tom had some mental
troubles, which wasn't very strange. He had been through so much,
they had been through so much, together. And now, everything seemed
to be... gone, Tom seemed to be gone. He'd lost his friend, after
all the other things he had lost. They were supposed to recover, both
of them. He knew he had to do something, before it would be too late,
but he didn't know what. He had his own barriers. "Gar,"
whispered Tom, "Gar, it is my fault. I've done this, I swear I
have and I... I kind of liked it. Do you now understand how I feel?
Do you now know what poison flows through my veins? I'm going
crazy, insane and I can't stop it, but I no longer want to . I want
die, Gar. I have to die..." Gar froze. It was, in fact, worse
than he had imagined. "Don't do this," he begged, weakly. "Tom,
don't do this." Tom shook his head, which caused his long
stringy hair to hit his face. He looked the way he was, troubled. He
laughed and cried at the same time. Something inside of Gar tried to
convince him his friend wasn't really gone, that he hadn't really
meant what he'd said. Somewhere inside of Thomas there had to be
something that didn't want to die, something that wanted to stay
here, with him, to recover. "Will you let me do this, Gar?"
Thomas asked. "Gar, you have to let me do this. Don't stop me,
because I'll take you with me." Then he pulled a shiny knife,
that had been tucked in his belt, unnoticed. It was just a kitchen
knife, but if it was good enough to cut meat, it would also be good
enough to open a vein. With trembling hand he brought the weapon
toward his neck. He was sweating and still laughing madly. "I'll
see you on the other side, Gar." "No!" yelled Gar and
without further thinking he threw himself upon his friend. He pushed
his head against the grey carpet and seized his wrist. Thomas looked
at him, angrily. He struggled and kicked, he yelled and he swore, but
Gar didn't let go. The rage on Tom's face slowly changed into
sadness and soon tears ran down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Gar,"
he said in between his tears. "I'm so sorry, really." "It's
alright Tom, but please let go off the knife."
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