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Arthur woke up on the blue carpet of his room. He stretched his muscles while slowly blinking as he sensed the first rays of sunshine. Arthur stumbled towards the bathroom, careful of not waking up his parents. He studied the figure before him: his messy hair seemed to have been combed differently, and when he grasped it with a hand, Arthur became aware it had been gelled. He was also wearing a black shirt with an abstract picture, along with tight jeans which Arthur couldn’t fathom if they had been strapped before.
When he stepped into his bedroom again, Arthur noticed his phone on the floor. He grabbed it, unlocked the screen and stared at the images. There was Gilbert Beilschmidt dying his hair at a pool house while smoke covered most of the scenery. The next photo featured Ivan Braginsky, the captain of the football team, flexing his muscles as he seemed to be drinking vodka. On the next picture, Arthur could see himself, smoking a fag while putting an arm over Francis Bonnefoy, as they laughed at something like their lives depended on it.
More pictures stood in his gallery as messages drowned his phone. Braginsky was inviting him to a party next Thursday, Antonio Carriedo had tagged him on a picture of the party, and Michelle, a girl on his French class, was offering to give him tutoring if he’d ever need one.
Arthur gasped, and bit his lip in incredulity. This was his life, wasn’t it? He looked at Antonio’s picture and saw himself with a sly smirk looking at the camera. Arthur noticed he hadn’t seen himself look so bloody handsome in his whole life.
But soon the revitalizing sensation was over, and Arthur felt a sharp twitch of pain in his chest as he noticed his nose was bleeding. He quickly grabbed tissues, and when he looked at himself in the mirror again Arthur realised just how tired he looked, and how the bags under his eyes had finally turned purple after all.
Arthur walked to his desk while breathing heavily: his breath was contracting, and his handwriting was surely messier than usual, but nevertheless, he took his notebook and started the letter.
This needs to end soon.
Arthur waited, perhaps seconds, maybe a couple of minutes, until he felt his pen being grabbed and he started writing again.
I don’t understand you. The night was top.
Arthur snorted at the slang, although his pumping heart told him the situation overall wasn’t funny. Arthur attempted to continue with his point and started to write something.
My ribcage is hurting. My head is numb too, and I’m exhausted. I don’t think I can do it anymore.
A pause. He began writing again.
Do you know Kiku was there too?
He was trying to change the topic, Arthur was sure of it, but Arthur was a simple man, and so he couldn’t help to fall into the game.
What did you do to him?
I told him how we felt. I said he was gorgeous, and we made out.
Arthur bit his lip. For some reason, it didn’t feel right, and his body started to become heavy.
Did you get him drunk?
No. Look at the last pictures on the phone.
Arthur had a bad feeling in his gut, but he obeyed nonetheless. Arthur hoped those pictures would make him feel better, comfort him even, and stop the sentiment that was creeping under his skin, but he was wrong.
Arthur grabbed his pen again, but he was stronger.
Come on, Art. You didn’t even see the pictures.
I saw exactly what I needed. What the hell is wrong with you? He wasn’t even conscious!
Did you see the marks all over his body? That was you, Art. That is us.
Arthur wanted to gag. He wanted to scream and cry but he couldn’t, and it made him feel worse.
You’re not me. I would never have done that to him. I’m tired of you. Leave me alone!
Oh my god. Can’t you see it, Arthur? I made you better. Now you are interesting, you are attractive and everyone loves you. Wasn’t that what you wanted?
Stop it.
Wasn’t that how you wanted to be, Arthur? You’re on the football team, you have the entire school licking your boots and you want to stop?
I don’t like this,
Sure you don’t. Let me remind you how miserable you were with your life before, am I right? With your sweater vests and your theatre crap, do you honestly don’t recall how pathetic you were, Arthur? You’d cry every night about your bad friends, your stressing grades, and your loneliness. You were obsessed with how you were a boring person, and you were certain Kiku Honda wouldn’t even look at you with Ivan Braginsky nearby.
Alfred, you’re hurting me.
Do you remember what happened next, Arthur? I cured you. I took control, and I made you have the life you wanted. That was our agreement, wasn’t it? Do you know what would’ve happened if I hadn’t taken over, Arthur? You would’ve killed yourself. Oh yes. You would’ve done it because you’re such a coward and pathetic you can’t even decide what’s best for your own good. That is what you are. A stupid, ungrateful faggot that doesn’t understand—
Alfred didn’t finish as Arthur tossed the notebook away. Arthur was breathing heavily and he barely registered his phone buzzing again. Arthur didn’t care.
“I want my freedom,” he groaned as he was pulled against the wall. Arthur groaned as his arms laid over his head, and he slowly felt words of ink forming on his forearm.
What is freedom, when you can be happy? He pulled Arthur onto his bed, and Arthur felt his shirt rip. Arthur noticed then a tattoo on his ribcage, as well as a few purple hickeys. The words wrote themselves on his stomach.
Why happiness, when you can be normal?
Arthur noticed the room was spinning and his nose started to bleed again. Arthur got off the bed and became paralyzed as the blood stained the carpet, and new letters started to form.
Why normalcy, when you are my host?
Arthur felt himself drifting apart, slowly losing consciousness as he closed his eyes. Before he dozed off he heard his own voice, with the lowest tone it had ever been.
“Why be alive, when you can live a paradise?”