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Marvin sits alone in his apartment, the dim light of the evening filtering in through the half-drawn blinds, shadows painting lines across the walls like prison bars. He drums his fingers against the table, feeling the gnawing pull of restlessness that never seems to leave him. The space around him feels too quiet, too still. The absence of Trina’s voice, of Jason’s laughter—or even their arguments—echoes louder than silence. He tries to swallow it down, but it sticks in his throat, a painful reminder of what he destroyed in his grasp for control.
He likes to tell himself he was doing the right thing. That his love for Whizzer was pure and honest, more real than anything else in his life. But sometimes he wonders if even that was a lie he told himself to soothe the hollow ache in his chest. Marvin craves love, craves to be adored, and yet he can feel his own hands clenching, suffocating anyone who gets too close. It's like he’s built to destroy the things he loves most, like there’s a darkness inside him that doesn't know how to cherish—only how to consume, to demand more, and more, until there’s nothing left.
His head drops into his hands, fingers pressing against his temples as if he can squeeze out the guilt and regret that haunt him. He’s been told by therapists—more than one—that he has traits of something called "Cluster B." Narcissistic tendencies, borderline fits of rage, the desperation for validation that makes him someone even he can’t recognize. The words are clinical, cold, a neat diagnosis for the chaos that runs in his veins. It makes him feel like a monster sometimes, like he doesn’t deserve the love he longs for so deeply.
But Marvin is also scared—scared of being alone, scared of the person he is when there’s no one around to fill the empty spaces. He’s terrified that deep down, he’s unlovable, broken beyond repair, doomed to cycle through self-destruction until he’s left with nothing but the fragments of a life he once tried to build. It’s why he lashes out, why he demands so much—he needs to know people love him enough to stay, even when he’s at his worst.
And yet, the truth—the one he doesn't let himself acknowledge—is that he drove them all away. He knows it when he catches himself standing in Jason’s empty room, the bed made up, the toys abandoned. He knows it when he remembers Trina’s tear-streaked face, the resignation in her eyes. They loved him once, but love alone wasn’t enough to make up for everything else. His need to be right, to be in control, to have it all—it shattered the people he cared about.
He wonders if Whizzer sees it, the way Marvin’s desperation poisons everything he touches. Maybe that's why Whizzer left him, too—because even the strongest love couldn’t survive Marvin's suffocating need. He’s always needed too much, asked for too much, given too little in return.
Marvin’s eyes sting, and he clenches his jaw, refusing to let the tears fall. He hates feeling this way—weak, vulnerable, empty. He wants to be strong, wants to be someone Jason can look up to, someone Whizzer can love without hesitation. But more than that, Marvin just wants to stop hurting. He’s tired of the anger that festers inside him, tired of the guilt that eats away at his insides. He’s tired of being Marvin—complicated, flawed, too much and never enough all at once.
The memories claw at him, each one vivid, as if it had happened just moments ago. He remembers the last argument with Trina, her face twisted in frustration, the way her voice broke as she finally screamed, "You can't have everything, Marvin!" He remembers the way her eyes were glassy with tears, her shoulders slumping as if she had finally accepted defeat. He wanted to hold her, to tell her that he could be better, that he could change. But he didn't know how. Instead, he had stood there, paralyzed by his own pride, watching as she walked out the door, the finality of it echoing like a gunshot in his ears.
With Whizzer, it had been different—more painful, more raw. Whizzer had seen through all the masks Marvin wore. He had understood the man underneath, with all his flaws and broken pieces. Whizzer's love had been fierce and passionate, and Marvin had clung to it like a lifeline. He wanted so desperately to be everything Whizzer needed, but every time he tried, he ended up demanding too much, pushing too far. He needed reassurance, constant validation, and Whizzer—strong and loving as he was—couldn’t keep giving pieces of himself to Marvin without losing who he was.
Marvin remembers the day Whizzer left. They had been fighting—again—about nothing and everything all at once. Marvin’s voice had risen, accusations spilling out before he could stop them. Whizzer had just stood there, silent, his face a mask of weariness. And then, with a quiet calm that terrified Marvin more than any shouting ever could, Whizzer had said, "I can’t do this anymore, Marvin. I love you, but I can’t keep losing myself to save you."
The door had closed softly behind him, and Marvin had been left in the quiet of their apartment, the weight of his own words crashing down on him. He had wanted to run after Whizzer, to beg him to stay, to promise that he would change. But deep down, he knew it was a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. And so, he had stayed where he was, rooted in place by his own fear and pride, listening as Whizzer’s footsteps faded down the hallway.
The loneliness that followed was suffocating. Marvin filled the days with work, with distractions, with anything that could dull the ache of missing Whizzer. He tried to convince himself that he was better off alone, that he didn’t need anyone. But at night, when the silence settled in, he could feel the emptiness gnawing at him, a constant reminder of everything he had lost.
He thinks of Jason often, more often than he allows himself to admit. His son, his beautiful boy, who had looked at him with eyes full of hope and trust. Marvin had wanted to be a good father, had wanted to give Jason the stability and love that he deserved. But in his quest to have everything—to have Trina, to have Whizzer, to have the perfect life—he had lost sight of what really mattered. He remembers Jason’s confusion, the way he had looked between his parents, trying to understand why everything was falling apart. Marvin had tried to shield him from the worst of it, but he knew, even then, that Jason had seen more than any child should.
The guilt is a constant companion, an ache that never quite goes away. Marvin wonders if Jason hates him, if he blames him for everything that went wrong. He wonders if Trina tells Jason that his father tried, that he loved him, even if he didn’t always show it in the right ways. He wants to believe that Jason will understand one day, that he’ll see that Marvin was just a man—flawed, broken, trying to do his best even when his best wasn’t enough.
The nights are the hardest. When the world outside quiets down, and there’s nothing to distract him from the thoughts that swirl in his mind. He lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling, replaying every mistake, every harsh word, every moment he wishes he could take back. He thinks about the life he wanted—the life he tried to build—and how it all slipped through his fingers. He wonders if he’s doomed to always be this way, to always want too much, to always push away the people who matter most.
Sometimes, Marvin dreams of Whizzer. In his dreams, they’re happy. They’re sitting in the park, Whizzer’s head resting on his shoulder, Jason playing nearby. There’s laughter, warmth, a sense of peace that Marvin has never quite been able to grasp in real life. He wakes up from those dreams with tears in his eyes, the longing so deep it feels like it might tear him apart. He wishes he could go back, could find a way to hold onto that happiness, to be the man Whizzer believed he could be.
He knows he needs help. He’s known it for a long time. The therapists’ words echo in his mind, the diagnoses, the suggestions, the attempts to get him to see the patterns of his own behavior. But change is hard, and Marvin is scared—scared of who he’ll be without the anger, without the need for control. He’s spent so long defining himself by his flaws that he doesn’t know who he is without them. The idea of letting go, of being vulnerable, of opening himself up to the possibility of pain—it terrifies him.
But maybe, just maybe, he’s more terrified of staying the same. Of losing Jason completely, of never finding his way back to Whizzer, of living the rest of his life in this empty apartment, surrounded by the ghosts of the people he drove away. He wants to believe that it’s not too late, that he can still change, that he can still be the father Jason deserves, the partner Whizzer once loved.
Marvin takes a deep breath, his fingers stilling on the table. The weight on his chest is still there, but there’s something else too—a spark, a tiny flicker of hope. Maybe he can’t fix everything. Maybe he’ll always carry the scars of his past, the mistakes he made. But maybe, he can find a way to move forward, to be better, to not be Marvin.
He stands, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushes it back. He stays there looking for something to hold his neck. A rope. For the first time, Marvin feels like he's making progress, maybe with a shovel but repairing the people he's broken nonetheless.