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“The world would be better off without you.”
“You can't hurt anyone if you're dead.”
“Nobody will love someone as selfish as you are.”
Standing atop his apartment building sat Scaramouche. It was a Saturday night, and the city was buzzing below him. He had come up here to people-watch, and that's exactly what he did. He first followed a lively group of four teenagers giggling as they hurried back to their car. Then he saw a pair chatting idly on a bench having what seemed to be a leisurely date. Then he spotted a middle-aged man walking with a small, elderly man clinging onto the other's arm for support. The old man was very animated, Scaramouche assumed he was recounting a story.
“Sweet” he thought as a smile ghosted his lips.
“You could have had that.”
“You could have been somebody.”
Scaramouche pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his worn hoodie and sandwiched one between his lips. Sheltering his lighter with a cupped hand, he lit it and took a drag. The burning sensation in his lungs helped to distract from how heavy his heart felt. Gravity was a real bitch sometimes.
“You're running from your problems again.”
“Are you even trying to get better?”
Scaramouche pressed his palms into the sockets of his eyes; a sorry attempt at pushing his thoughts back into the depths of his mind. It was like this a lot recently. He'd been going to therapy, as advised by his roommate and family. It forced him into talking about how his thoughts spiral like this. How vicious they become. How they rise and bubble like toxic waste, threatening to choke him out. She told him that to regulate his mind he needed to first regulate his body. He told her that was a load of bullshit, but at this point he'd try anything. He was instructed to change his temperature, get exercise, pace his breathing, and focus on tensing and untensing his muscles. That was partly why he had come up here tonight; the cold. It wasn't really helping though. The breeze was nice and he was definitely cold now, but it didn't exactly take his mind off of things.
“Therapy didn't work before, what makes you think it will work this time?”
“You can't be helped, you're a lost cause.”
Scaramouche laughed a little; a dry and breathless laugh. To think he was still capable of hope was a bittersweet thought. Just twenty-three years ago he was a bright, optimistic child. The world was wide and he was full of wonder. Or rather, however much wonder a three year old boy is capable of conceptualizing. It was funny how quickly life can chip away at a person.
He thought back to his time in the foster care system. After his mother gave up on him he felt scared. Lonely and scared. His first foster family, the Kaedeharas, were nice though. They had a son, Niwa, who was a little bit older than Scaramouche. He and Niwa got along like the sun and moon. He would often follow Niwa around the house and watch starry-eyed as he performed mundane tasks, then practice them once he was alone. Niwa was so bright, and Scaramouche wanted nothing more than to be exactly like him. Until he killed himself, that is. That broke the Kaedeharas. Their grief was strong and they couldn't financially support the family anymore; Scaramouche was taken back into the foster care system. He was still young at the time and didn't understand what had happened. He thought that his brother simply left him alongside his whole family. That kind of betrayal hurt.
“They never loved you.”
“You're disposable.”
That was about the time Scaramouche started struggling. The countless interviews and rejections from possible parents got under his skin. He felt like an object. He felt uncared for. He started to hate the orphanage and all of its staff. He started to hate his mom for not wanting him. He started to hate the Kaedeharas for leaving him so easily. He was a troubled child, and he wasn't afraid to show it, be it through snarky comments or violence. It's something Scaramouche isn't proud of. He was lucky to have been adopted when he was. He would have surely ended up in juvenile detention had he not.
At 14 Ajax’s family took him in. Ajax was an over energetic ginger boy with more freckles than cells in his brain. His family was large and welcoming. They sent Scaramouche to the same school Ajax was attending where he was introduced to Rosalyne, a gorgeous girl with long, platinum blonde hair and the attitude of a sour patch kid. The three of them were mischievous to say the least. Scaramouche loved them to death.
“You keep dragging them down.”
“They'd be better off if they didn't have to worry about your feelings.”
Depression hit him hard and fast during school. His junior year he was falling behind and pressure was building from his teachers and family. Everyone expected him to have plans after school. They wanted him to know who he'd be as an adult when he'd only just started being a kid. When paired with balancing his social life and academics, Scaramouche couldn't handle it. One bad grade turned into two which turned into five. He felt like a failure. To have been given this wonderful home, wonderful friends, and a wonderful school should have made things better. Maybe he should have tried harder. Then again he was only a kid. Instead Scaramouche resorted to anything that would make him feel the slightest bit normal. He started smoking with his friends behind the school. It took the edge off of the pressure, but that only helped so much. Then he took up drinking, but his parents quickly caught on, leading to some stern scolding, and the guilt he felt for that was unbearable. So instead he took to punishing himself. It helped for the most part; the stinging pain pulled him out of his head. The blood he drew felt like an accomplishment of sorts. It seemed to balance out; like he was getting what he deserved.
“God, you're pathetic.”
It was dangerous though, Scaramouche learned that the hard way. He got carried away after a particularly bad day and ended up passing out on the floor of his bedroom. He doesn't remember that night all too well, nor would he like to, but he does remember the look on Ajax's face whilst frantically shaking him awake, screaming for their parents. He remembers waking up in the hospital and seeing Ajax sitting in a chair next to his bed, their hands intertwined. Ajax had never looked as exhausted as he had then. God, Scaramouche felt so guilty for it. Never in his life did he want to hurt Ajax, especially not with something as gruesome as that.
“They give you so much, why do you keep letting them down?”
Fuck. It was getting harder to breathe now. Scaramouche layed down on the cold concrete and tried to focus on his senses. He saw the stars, wispy clouds, the waxing sliver of a moon, three small birds, and the blurry tip of his nose. He felt the soft breeze against his cheek, the headache throbbing behind his eyes, the little grooves in the concrete roof, and his bangs brushing against his forehead. He heard cars navigating the busy roads below, a police siren in the far distance, and his heavy heartbeat in his ears. He smelled the cold city air and the vague scent of body odor he got when he didn't shower in a few days. Finally, he tasted the residual taste of the cigarette he had earlier. When Scaramouche finished grounding himself and took another breath, he felt a little less like death, but still like shit.
“It doesn't get better.”
“Why do you even try anymore?”
The door to the rooftop clicked open and he heard footsteps approaching. He sat up slowly and turned back to see a familiar freckled face. Ajax said nothing as he plopped himself down directly next to Scaramouche and laid back. Ajax gave him a look as if to urge him to lay back down, so he did.
“That's why.”
They laid there together for a good long while before Ajax said anything.
“You didn't answer the phone, your roommate said you'd be here” Ajax spoke up, keeping his voice quiet as if breaking the silence was a punishable crime.
“Sorry, I left it in the apartment” Scaramouche responded just as quietly. He then turned his head to the side to be met with a look of pure concern. It radiated off Ajax in waves; strong enough for Scaramouche to feel awkward and resort to counting his freckles for the millionth time. Eventually he sighed and started again. “I'm just struggling a bit, what's new?” He shrugged.
“You can talk to me y’know?” Ajax kept looking at him, which was intimidating to say the least. So Scaramouche looked back to the stars and counted those instead.
“I know.”
“Then why don't you?” Ajax's response elicited a long pensive pause from Scaramouche.
“I don't have the words for it. It's just a feeling” Scaramouche shook his head slightly in defeat.
“Then describe the feeling. Let me feel it with you. Even just for tonight?” The way Ajax said it sounded almost like a plea. Scaramouche considered it for a long while then looked back at Ajax. This time he looked closer. He looked at the wrinkles from his furrowed brows, at his down-turned lips, and at his eyes which were still patiently yet intently looking at Scaramouche. Yes, Ajax was still concerned, but as he looked deeper he found care as well. In that moment, Scaramouche decided that maybe he was going to be okay.