Chapter Text
The bottle of cheap liquor was lukewarm, sticking to Till’s palm as he slumped against his bedframe.
One chug. Then two. Four, was it? He lost count, falling prey to his now drunken state.
The room seemed to spin in torturous, nauseating circles. But for the first time all day, Till wasn't feeling pain anymore.
The air in the room seemed to get lighter. Everything felt lighter now, even the knot in his stomach relieving itself.
And then he saw her.
Till felt his breath hitch and a sob catch the back of his throat as his mom's hands reached out towards him.
She looked just like the boy remembered and sketched her in the stiff pages of his notebook.
“Mom?” He finally whispered, his voice cracking like glass.
She smiled. Just like she used to every time she saw Till. He leaned forward, reaching out desperately to come in contact with his mother.
For one heartbeat… Till wasn’t a disappointment, nor just a passerby just like he was to his dad. He was a son.
He didn't want this moment to ever end. He didn't feel unsafe in here.
“Mom.. Please.. don't go.. don't leave me here again…” Till’s breath caught.
“I'm not going anywhere…” His mother seemed to say.
“GOAL!” - His father,passionate (and high), shouted across the whole apartment,snapping Till back to reality.
And when he looked up again, the face of who he thought was his mothers, was now a twisted image–just like the ones you see in nightmares, and she was gone just like that.
His fathers voice had not only shattered the silence he thought was unnecessary, it had also shattered Till's world. Too good to be true.
With tears still running down his eyes, Till flinched so hard his head slammed the bedframe with a sickening thud.
His vision swam–this time not only from the alcohol, but from his stomach doing a violent backflip as the panic hit his system.
Till scrambled to his feet, his legs feeble, and rushed to the bathroom. He knew what was coming for him, despite being drunk. Every step felt like he was hitting deep water. The acidic reflux hit him just as he opened the door.
He made it to the bathroom just in time. The soles of his feet hit the cold tiles which reeked of bleach.
And then it hit him.
He gripped the porcelain rim roughly, turning his knuckles ghostly white as the heaving wave of food which was previously located in his body betrayed him–rushing out of his system out of hysteria.
His eyes watered as he vigorously puked whatever remained in his stomach with the last bit of vitality he had left. Even a while after he calmed down, he stayed with his forehead pressed against the chilly closed toilet seat. He still shivered against the contact, his anemia making the task of generating heat impossible during his aftershock.
He carefully stood up–and with legs and body still wobbling from his fragile and vulnerable state, he flushed the handle delicately.
Consequently, he dragged himself over to the sink and splashed his face with water.
Looking up, he hated what he saw in the mirror. His ribs were poking out of his skin–almost looking like a valley of mountains cheek by jowl. With bloodshot eyes and a mouth that tasted bitter and metallic, poor Till looked like a pale wreck–so pale, he almost seemed like a vampire!
Feeling emptier than before, he laid his head on his desk and let the tears do their work.
Eventually, he fell asleep.
***
The first sun of October shined its rays through the curtains, beating down the terrain of Till's room.
The ambience looked cozy, promising warmth which it did not deliver – at least, not to the grey haired boy. Hunched over his desk made of cheap wood full of splinters, was just him and his art project due in a week.
The alarm clock on the wooden surface suddenly rang, shaking both the table and Till, sleep deprived, awake.
At first, he didn't dare to move. His jagged shoulder blades still ached in pain from his posture. The boy’s eyes were now fixed on the reflection in the mirror, inspecting the stains of charcoal on his skin. Stains so black, that they matched both his smudged eyeliner from 2 days ago, and his eyebags.
He squinted at the intrusive contact of the aggressive, golden stripes of the sun with his irises. Deciding to sit up was an instant regret, as his joints and spine popped with a brittle sound and a slight ache left behind. A horrible posture of course, entailed an even more horrible mode of day.
Till looked at his fragile state of physique in the mirror with a bitter expression left to be unnamed. A lump formed in his throat, although he was too tired to form any miserable thoughts yet.
It was still too early to go to school (as if he even wanted to go), so he slid his journal out of his bag and slipped a pencil, the cap of which was chewed, in his pale fingers. It read:
“October 21st, 2026
Dear Diary,
The air and out here already feels like needles pinching my nose and the light is scorching my eyes already.
However, I'm not going to protest as if it isnt my fault for literally not seeing the sun with my eyes for 3 days straight, but yet today it still somehow found a way to make fun of me.
Mondays, am I right?”
With an unwritten deadline, he scrawled his thoughts for the following minutes until the sun had completely woken up. He then stood up once again, now completely ignoring the reflection of his slim figure and headed to the shower.
For Till, nothing made him feel more free than music. Even if he were to be locked up, he'd always find his way back with it. Confinement was simply a state of mind for him.
Now undressed, he hopped into the shower, limbs already giving in to the heavy rhythm of one of his favourite rock songs now playing on the old speakers of his phone.
His fingers moved along to the switch of guitar chords in the song, perfectly memorised by the boy. And when his hands were occupied with the job of shampooing his hair, the rest of his body took over, even his mouth syncing with the lyrics– sometimes even singing along, however his voice was lower than a murmur. He didn't want anyone to hear. He wasn't ready to have a conversation about his passion for singing and songwriting. Not yet.
Till then stepped out of the shower, and rushed to get ready for yet another day at school.
He roamed for a pick of clothes for a few minutes, although he went with the usual combination : A long sleeved loose shirt with a band shirt on top of it, a pair of ripped baggy jeans and his fingerless gloves.
Passing by the inevitably tall mirror once more while putting on his last layer of cloth, Till could've sworn the shirt that hung loosely like a rag on his bust was a tighter fit just a while ago. Not letting his thoughts get the better of him now, he headed straight to the door being careful not to wake up his father. He jammed with the keys in his hand to unlock the door.
Till was clad with the following items: some baggy jeans, they were redolent of liquor; a self-customized shirt imprinted with a deathly skull along with the name one of his favorite bands–layered on top of a longsleeve; a pair of fingerless gloves, and finally, a black zip up hoodie to hide his febrile semblance. Surely he couldn’t forget his most pragmatic accessory, his earphones, which were unfortunately damaged on the left ear.
***
Till had his wired earphones on, listening to music lost in its embrace. He had nothing to worry about other than what was waiting for him at school–getting picked on.
Not that he had ever done anything, but of course, the perfect prey for highschool jocks is one like Till. – Eyeliner on his waterline , black clothing, band tees, and skinny: It's a bullies dream to encounter that, and Till their hapless prey.
The bus braked around the corner of the school and Till stepped out, exhaling through his nose.
Walking to school unbothered, the boy felt a pat on his left shoulder which sent him a shiver down his spine, probably expecting to get punched in the next 3 seconds–
“Morning!” - A familiar blonde haired boy exclaimed with a slight curve to his lips, which was almost creepy at the early hour. His fair hair refracted upon Till, almost as if possessing an aureate tint of dye. His features were, surprisingly, commensurate to this property, with an effeminate vanity and welcoming body language accompanying such– a walking flourish.
Luka. – Perfect attendance student, Computer Science major ‐ and Till's childhood bestfriend. Albeit having very different interests and personalities, the two had clicked instantly together. Till could trust him with his life. And Luka would probably kill for him, despite looking like pure innocence, and a guardian angel sent from heaven. They were, and so they believed too, inseparable
“Mornin’ ” - Till replied, although there wasn't much energy in his tone.
“You look like you got hit by a train. And then spent the whole night at the hospital awake.” - then added Luka, with a concerned expression on his face.
“No, I don-”
“You kinda do though, Till” - Interrupted Mizi, already giggling, who was then accompanied by Luka joining in the laughing.
A pinkish apparition joined in with the dialogue. It was Mizi
“Good to see you too, Miz.” - the greyhead deadpanned.
Mizi was also Till's best friend. They acknowledged each other not long after they figured out their shared interests, despite Mizi being incredibly popular. Her ‘weirdness’ is still deep-rooted and shown only to those she trusts with her life. Alas, wouldn’t you agree with her choice?
Mizi is one of those perfect people who looked like they had their life figured out. Till always has thought of her in that way, and at one point admired her so much it went beyond platonic – more like a crush, but then he knocked it off when he got to know her better, since she also has a girlfriend, Sua.
But unlike his relationship with Mizi and Luka, his situation with Sua is complicated, at least that's how he sees it. They don't really talk, and he thinks the way Sua looks at people unless it's Mizi is frightening.
“But on a serious note, have you slept lately? Like, at all? You can talk to us Till, you know? We're your best friends after all!” - Mizi added, serious all of a sudden.
“It's nothing. I've just been a bit overworked on my art project. I'm really cautious about what grades I get, on art and music atleast.” Heavy drinking with hallucinations as a side dish were definitely not his art project, and he was most definitely overworked by it (could a depressed teenager really ever live without it, and moreover, are they justified to consume it in considerable quantities?).
Although that wasn't the real reason, he just brushed it off. He didn't want to make his friends worry about him. He didn't want them to know what horrors go on with him at his dad's house and how he gets tormented. Not yet.
Soon though, once the tide settles in, if it even decides to.
“Just don't go too hard on yourself man, ‘kay?” said Luka, not pushing any further.
Luka knew Till's limits and he could read right through him–he was lying. But, he knew that when Till was ready, perhaps he'd be able to talk about the real reason. Only time could prove it.
Luka is a mirror, just like the tall, slender mirror Till’s appearance appears through without his consent.
Till nodded in silence and moved on slowly, walking past them –just enough so their voices, engaging in a conversation, couldn't be made out anymore.
***
To one who had spent countless hours without sleep, instead switching between puking and drinking,this environment was less of a school and more of a prison.
The fluorescent lights flickered and hummed at frequencies too high to be put into words.
The air smelled like a suffocating mix of floor wax and perfumes way too sweet to be considered a pleasant smell for the boy's nostrils–which tightened immediately at the contact.
The sound of slamming lockers felt like gunshots, and the squeaking sound everyone's shoes made felt like screeching against a blackboard with nails to Till's eardrums.
The walk to the art wing felt like being challenged to an endless maze.Left behind,but not forgotten, were Mizi's and Luka's comment on his appearance was still ringing in his ears.
They weren't wrong though, they were most probably more than right.
At last,as he turned the corner toward the art wing, the crowd thinned out. This was the only part of the school that didn't feel like a predatory hunting ground. Even behind the chaos and fights behind this wing's doors could be considered as artistic to Till, unlike the one outside it. After all, he was in the wing of art/music/drama departments right now–also considered as “weird kid stuff” by jocks.
As he entered the music studio, releasing his tight grip from the strap of his guitar's gig bag was a relief. Although the guitar wasn't the best quality, it was still arguably heavy–heavy enough for Till's nails to dig crescents in his sweaty palms, resisting the urge to release.
Not even 2 steps in the room, as he turned and crouched to unzip the bag, his profound peace was disturbed by a distinctly familiar voice. Feminine, yet…stoic?
“You're late. Again.”- the girl said, her serious voice shattering the silence.
He should've known: it was Sua, Mizi's girlfriend. Never had the greatest relationship with her, or even had one – Sua was just there to make his life more miserable by not even trying to insult him; just being herself was enough to twitch a nerve in Till's system.
He sighed. “Yes, Sua. I'm late. No shit, Sherlock!” Till retorted, almost stumbling on an amp's cables.
Sua snorted casually and looked away. She murmured something inaudible to Till while settling back to her keyboard.
***
Pressing its keys ever so lightly, the keyboard hummed from the contact with her slim fingers.
She glared at Till as her thoughts twisted into him;
“Sometimes I wonder what even goes on inside your brain, Till.
I don't want to judge a book by its cover, but I cannot fathom how Mizi and HIM, out of all her friends, are so close.
What does Mizi see in you? Always coming here like a bum. You should really be more like Mizi, considering you're good friends with her.
What's your deal, Till? However,you're indeed very interesting, I must accept that… Mizi must've definitely seen something in you except for your mutual interests, right? Guitar player, artist, what else could you be, for her to like you that much-
Snap!
One of the strings of Till's guitar had got dismembered from its body, which made Sua snap out of her thoughts, just like the string. The shuddering sound made her come back to reality.
“Well, fuck…” Till muttered.
“Hah, that's what you get for coming late. Karma is real.” ‐ Sua replied to his silent curse.
Till's eyes remained on his guitar, completely ignoring Sua’s bitter comment. But instead of leaving to restring his guitar, he just stood there, trying to retie his high E string to the tuning peg–as if it didn't just break in half.
Sua stared in disbelief and sighed, pinching her nose.
“What a dumbass. He’s using more brain cells than he ever uses, and he still finds a way to be an idiot somehow.”- she caught herself thinking.
“Stop wasting your last braincells’ fuel on impossible stuff, it's pissing me off at this point. Go get that thing restringed, Till. Please. For the good of our sanities.”- Sua deadpanned–she didn't need to pay attention to Till anymore to know he was still trying, so she spoke while being occupied ; reading her piano sheet.
“I'll do whatever I wanna do, got it?”- Till replied almost instantly. Those words slipped out like a script. Or more like a reflex.
Although he said that, he actually stood up, trashing the broken steel string before walking out.
“Hm, so you did listen after all. Trying too hard to make a scene for nothing.”- Sua said to herself, raising one eyebrow only once the greyhead had walked out.
***
Till walked. He didn't know where he was going. His zip-up hoodie covered almost his whole face.
He was still waiting for his guitar to get restringed, and the job wouldn't be done in another 20 minutes, so he slumped near a wooden bench outside of the campus, still not far from the art wing.
Finally, he had caught a break. However, the chatter continued. It was break time, afterall.
The bricks that formed walls behind him were rough–also covered in incomplete graffiti drafts and charcoal sketches; messy, just like a visual representation of Till's head.
He eventually drifted into a state of half-slumber. His earphones were still playing–and his ears still rang.
He was so focused on the tremor he didn't hear the footsteps nor see someone approaching him.
Till jumped to the tap on his shoulder. He looked up, his heart hammering against his ribcage like a trapped bird in fright.
No one other than Sua was standing there.
She looked just like she did a few minutes ago—perfectly composed, her dark hair falling in a sharp, precise line, her eyes cold enough to freeze the air between them.
She just had a terrifyingly accurate way of seeing exactly what Till was trying to hide.
She set a green bottle and a small crinkly sleeve of saltines on the bench. She didn't even ask if he wanted them.
“I'm not sick. Do you think this is funny?” Till tried to lie and get a way out of whatever situation he had just gotten in.
“You're a bad liar.” Sua replied.
Till hated how perceptive she was. Despite her talking, Till just stared at her.
“Mizi told me. – she finally said. – She says you're ‘overworked’ or something. I think you’re drowning in depression. Same thing.”
Till looked away, staring at the ginger ale bottle. The green, translucent, cheap plastic bottle caught the rays of the sun.
"Why do you care? Don't you like, hate me or whatever?."
"I like Mizi," Sua said simply. "And Mizi likes you. Best friends, right? Therefore, I have a vested interest in you not collapsing in the middle of the hallway, which would lead to causing her a panic attack.”
She turned and walked away before Till could even process what she said or reply.
The boy kept his eyes on the goods as if they had hypnotised him. He took the ginger ale in his grasp, and his skin crawled from the temperature. The contact was shocking to his palm. He hadn't realised his entire arm had been covered with goosebumps.
Before his hand could fall asleep and give up on him, he took a sip.
For the first time in a while, an eruption didn't fight back. Instead, it had surprisingly… settled?
He could finally breathe.
***
The cafeteria sounded like a live riot even before entering it. The grease and scent of reused oil could be sensed from outside, too.
It smelled like pizza and desperation.
Till didn't dare take a step further. The mere sight of cafeteria food and people eating was enough to make him nauseous. He wanted to cherish this moment of peace, where for once, his intestines weren't playing jump rope thanks to the ginger ale provided by his not-so-friendly classmate.The rattling of the trays and forks still echoed through his ears, but instead of giving in, the boy just turned and walked away.
His found sanctuary was the emergency stairwell. Although it reeked of damp stone and saw dust, it was an upgrade to what he was met with previously.
He dropped on his knees and sat down.
The music in his earphones was the only thing keeping the world at bay, and resonating with the hollow space in his ribs.
The metal door behind him, which he had used a few minutes ago to get in, swung open with a squeak. Footsteps echoed. The boy didn't have energy to look back–and he didn't care for who it was, because it was either a teacher or a janitor.
But it was neither.
The sound of sneakers on the marble steps quickened and got closer.
“I calculated three possible locations. This was the one I guessed had the highest possibility. I'm pretty smart, don't ya think?”
Till didn't have to look back to know. That voice–clinical, precise, and annoyingly calm, could only belong to one person–Luka.
“Aren't you, like, shivering in here? Isn't it like 18 degrees? Come on, get up. I bet the floor feels like the north pole, Till.” He patted the greyhead on the back.
“It's fine, really. Don't worry.” Till rasped.
“I'll admit you do look a little better than this morning though. But your skin is still 2 shades lighter than it was last Friday. Have you eaten?” Luka reached into his bag, rambling about something.
“I ain't hungry.” Till mumbled, inaudible.
Luka pulled out a protein bar and a bottle of vitamin water. He didn't offer them, nor ask if he wanted them. He just set them next to Till.
“Eat. At least half of it. Please?”
He reached out and grabbed the protein bar, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. He took a small, resentful bite. It didn't even taste like food to him, just like chalk.
“Satisfied yet?” Till muttered through the mouthful of protein.
“It's an effort.” He ruffled Till's hair. “Do you have any classes after?
“Not that I know of,” Till answered, wiping his mouth “just philosophy. The teacher is absent though.”
“Do you wanna go to the record store then? I heard they restocked recently.”
Till lit up for the first time at the mention of the record store.
“Yeah. Mhm. Okay. Now?” He almost choked, spitting his words out rushingly. He certainly didn't wanna miss this opportunity, since Luka isn't often free after school.
“Yeah. Now sounds great.” Luka chuckled.
He hadn't seen Till this enthusiastic for something in a while. It made him happier seeing him like this.
The crowd of students which had clogged the campus, thinned out as they walked. In a blink, they had arrived at the store Till treasured the most.
Everything made of wood was worn out, scratched and almost showing signs of decay. The place accommodated the boys with a sense of moisture and intimacy. They were met with a safe haven–especially Till, who considered places like these close to homelike.
Till scoured through the vinyl and cassette bins labeled as “5$ AND BELOW” with a yellow sticky note plastered on the box. Luka also helped him find things to his preference.
Out of curiosity, Till dared shifting to land an eye to the original, unused vinyls and cds. His sight caught to a vinyl that surprisingly stood out to him.
“Reject All American by Bikini Kill” the corner of the thin cardboard sleeve read. One of his favourite bands, and also most influential towards him.
He held it in his hands, admiring it and reading the tracks, one by one.
"Find anything that doesn't scream 'existential crisis'?"
Till flinched. He turned to find Luka standing behind him. Luka wasn't looking at the records; he was looking at Till.
"I'm just looking,– Till rasped, shoving the record back carelessly. –I can't afford them anyway. Dad didn't give me my allowance this week.”
Luka's eyes now moved and scanned the background instead–and there it was. He grabbed the record Till was looking at earlier and handed it to him again.
“Consider this a late birthday gift. Come on.” Luka gestured with his head, since his hands were busy holding cassettes Till had picked up.
“Luka, you don't have to-”
“I know I don't. Yet I’m still doing it–so hurry up before my arms fall asleep and I drop these down. I've been holding onto them for a while.”
As Luka headed toward the counter to pay, Till stayed in the aisle for a moment longer. The store was quiet, the only sounds being the low hum of a jazz track playing over the speakers and the sound of coins rattling in wallets.
The boys later stepped out of the store chattering, now with a new tote bag full of items slung on Till's shoulder.
They walked until they approached the neighbourhood familiar to both of them.
“I'll walk you to the gate, come on.” Luka said flatly, but firmly.
“I'm not a kid, Luka-” Till deadpanned.
“You look like you're about to faint. Statistically speaking, the risks are high, therefore I'm not risking it. Keep on moving.”
Once they had arrived, Till looked up at the third floor of the flat.
“Thanks again. I'll pay you back, okay?” Till broke the silence first.
“No need to.” Luka smiled. “See you at school tomorrow, alright?”
“Yeah. See ya.” Till said, stepping over the oven gate.
Till wasn't ready to face his father again once he would make it home. But for now, he had a saving from it–music. And he realized that maybe, just maybe, he could make it until tomorrow without getting tormented by his father.