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Everything is made out of metal again and it’s not real. And I like you still.
It was almost the same as that one night, everything bright and spinning around like a kaleidoscope. Not completely the same, however, because Simon wasn’t there and his phone number was made out of metal. And it was cold.
The plastic grass of the football field is wet from the dew and Wille’s clothes are soaked with sweat. Autumn nights in Sweden are no joke, even more so for a person whose heart is not racing and whose mind is not spinning.
Running fingers through the fake pebbles can be nice, if you close your eyes tightly enough. It was almost like Simon’s hair, almost real.
The idea of walking back to the dorms seemed impossible, he couldn’t even stand up, let alone walk, his head filled with fog, eyes watering and body ticking.
If you lie down on a football field at night like this for long enough you stop feeling real, you’re made out of metal. Wilhelm was wondering if the past couple of weeks were also a hallucination or if it was just the Adderall.
What if Simon was not real? He seemed too good to be true yet too agonising to be a fever dream.
He was staring around abruptly, not being quite able to grasp any defined images. Maybe it’s nice to not be real, you can do whatever you want. Like spend a night laying in a football field and not feel the pain neither of the frostbite, nor of your own aching heart.
A shriek of bicycle tires. Wilhelm shudders and sits up, reddened eyes wide open, staring across the field. There’s nothing to be seen, nothing to look for with such sick eagerness. No matter how much he tries, he cannot hear anything but the white noise in his heavy head. So he collapses back, his head hitting the ground and eyes shut, praying to not see this field’s past. His past. And it was cold.
***
Wille didn’t really remember how it all started, he was having trouble remembering things recently. Just the second he saw Simon in school after the break he knew he had to do something to not, ironically, break. It was not that hard, they did leave some pills at “the Palace” and with Alexander being suspended all guys agreed to lie low and keep away from the club room for a while. With everything that’s happening it wasn’t likely that they would notice one pack disappear, even two, even all of them. Even better, no evidence to hide.
He had to limit himself to one or two pills during weekdays but on the weekend he could go wild. Go wild, right, watch the ceiling spiral or flounce around in search of sleep at random football fields, waking up with black cold blisters. Alone.
Wilhelm flung the curtains closed. He had nothing to hide this time, he was hiding himself from the rising sun, the rays of which were cutting mercilessly into his eyes. It felt like your eyes being carved out, which actually would be nice if he thought about it. He wouldn’t have to see himself in the mirror then. The deeply sunken dark circles under his empty eyes, his exhausted face and chapped lips. Pale skin tightly hugging the bones, almost like Simon used to hug him. Was that reflection even real?
Every day was the same. Although Wilhelm wasn’t sure how many days have passed, he lost the count, he had trouble with counting things recently. Troubles with counting the pills, counting how many times he ate and how many classes he missed. Always the same: lucky if able to get out of his room by the first lesson, second lesson, “may i go to the bathroom?”, throw up, another one, more pills, crawl back to the dorm, throw up, “may i go… shit i’m not in class anymore” and repeat.
“Hey, Wille, is everything okay? You seem to avoid everyone and you don’t look well…” Felice finally managed to catch him between classes, grabbing him by the elbow, bones piercing her palm like needles.
“My brother died, if you forgot. And when was the last time you saw me and Simon talk? Maybe use your brain for once and think about when you should fuck off,” Wilhelm snapped before she could finish speaking, flinching from his own loud voice before turning around and walking away as fast as possible.
Nights were the hardest. Cold on the outside but drenched in sweat. Seems as quiet as a graveyard but all the dead souls are howling in your head. You don’t want to speak to anybody but the walls talk.
The yellow ball bounced off the wall, then off the floor, back into his hands again. If only everything bounced back that easily. If only Wilhelm got over this as easily as Simon did. Off the wall, off the floor, back into his hands again.
What seemed to him like profound thoughts was actually the same mental turmoil spun over and over again. Off the wall, off the floor, back into his hands again.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” the door swung open, a tall slim figure standing in the doorway, the bossy voice and an irritated look giving Vincent off immediately, “banging on the walls at 3 fucking AM? Are you serious? This is not your castle, other people-“
And then he shuts up. Vincent, shuts up.
Wilhelm turns his head slowly, his heart pounding in his ears. The reddish eyes and abruptly moving chest, everything in him screamed explosion, burst. One more word and Vincent’s arched nose would be snapped in half.
It was almost instinctive, his face going from frustrated to confused and scared. Vincent didn’t utter a single word, he just stepped back and shut the door.
It was silent again, not for long. The walls interrupted the imaginary peace Wilhelm built around himself out of all the empty pill boxes.
• Pain and Self-Preservation : The primary mental barrier to hitting oneself hard enough to cause a bruise is the body's natural pain response and self-preservation instinct. Our brains are wired to avoid actions that cause pain or injury, so it typically takes a strong conscious effort to overcome this instinct.
• Inhibition : Most people have a psychological inhibition against inflicting pain on themselves. This is a natural deterrent that prevents most people from hitting themselves hard enough to cause significant harm.
“It cannot be that hard, can it? Much better to do it this way than to actually punch someone in the face,” Wille chuckled, his fists tight ready.
First time you do it, your arm flinches back just before it hits the wall. You might even touch it a bit but the response from your body will be the same: “What the hell are you doing?” That’s when you get annoyed and even eager to prove it that you can, even start imagining faces and hitting harder and harder every time. Paint the white plastering with red streaks, like sweet sauce on ice cream cones.
And then came a weird snap, sharp pain and suddenly he started hearing silence, kicked out of his fever fantasy. Wilhelm slid down to the floor, staring at what he had done, knuckles decorated with bright red rubies. He didn’t know how long he had been staring until one of them started to swell and turn purple, matching his eye bags.
He couldn’t move, not because of the injury but because of the terror and disgust he felt towards whatever he was becoming. Towards whatever the Crown Prince was becoming.
“Erik would’ve never done anything like that,” he whispered under his breath, wincing in pain as he tried to move his hand, “No, he surely would come up with something, he would be just fine, he always was.”
But sometimes just fine is too hard. A single tear running down his cheek.
Wille had a hard time remembering things recently but there were two things he would always remember. The two most important people in his life, both of whom he lost, both times it being his fault. Were both of them never coming back?
Or just one?
And the visions and hallucinations cried with him, going blurry, the brain fog hugging him tightly, pressing on the temples. The howls ringing in his ears: amphetamine symphony.
He drifted away into some sick half-hallucination half-sleep, still chased by the howls and the images of people whom he loved, and who once loved him. Since it started, nothing seemed to be able to pull him out of this nightmare. The small white beads having a hold of him that no one could break. Not the school, not his duty, not even his best friend.
“Wille!”
One word and he wakes up.
It was already bright outside, right before the classes start. Or maybe they already did. Wille didn’t care for obvious reasons, Simon didn’t care because of Wille.
Simon ran into the room, slamming the door, throwing himself onto his knees next to the body sprawled on the floor.
“Oh no, no, no,” he keeps repeating, grabbing onto his face in panic, “fuck, what have i done. Wille please wake up, please, I’m so sorry.”
Wilhelm opens his eyes, it’s weird because he doesn’t look like he has slept at all. For days.
This time the hallucination seems even more real, it’s weird because he hadn’t upped the dose yet. Wille reaches his hand towards Simon, trying to wave the vision away, make it disappear, his knuckle already hurt enough, he doesn’t need any more pain.
But instead his fingers bump into something warm and soft. It feels nice since he’s ice cold, he likes this hallucination.
“Oh my god, how much have you been taking? I am an idiot, I haven’t noticed, I’m sorry. Talk to me, please,” Simon whispers as tears start rolling down his cheeks.
As the drops hit his fingers, Wille suddenly snaps into reality and sits up. He stares at Simon like a deer in headlights.
“You’re real?” he asks, Simon opens his mouth in shock when realising that this is a genuine question.
“What was going through your head when you were taking all that!?” his sorrow suddenly turning into anger, anger that was deep inside targeted at himself, for not knowing, for not being there, “You, out of all people, turning to drugs!?”
Wille’s mind clears up but this is not what he imagined his day to start with. If someone came in and told him this was a vision, he’d happily believe that.
“You don’t get what it feels like! You can’t judge me!” his voice wasn’t filled with rage, just bitterness and despair, his soul yearning to be saved.
“Oh trust me i goddamn do, I’ve lost people too,” Simon snaps, suddenly quiet, desperately biting into his lower lip to not cry even harder.
“Losing someone to an addiction and someone dying is not the same thing,” utters Wille.
“You make me feel like it is,” Simon whispers as he stares down at the floor, his hands lying helplessly on his lap, curly hair hiding away the new stream of tears.
Wilhelm has never been dipped into ice cold water but he would imagine that’s what it feels like. A quiet “Oh” left his mouth as he leans forward, wrapping his arms around Simon, lightly at first, as if scared to break this moment. He buries his face into Simon’s shoulder, suddenly realising that he is crying. Something he wanted to do for so long but just couldn’t for some reason.
His chest feels lighter when Simme receives his hug and squeezes him tightly. They collapse on the floor just holding each other, no words needed. They only needed each other. Simon raises his eyes to look at Wilhelm and wipe his wet cheek.
“You look terrible,” he tries to chuckle but his face looks deeply concerned and worried.
“I know. I will fix it. For you, for us,” Wille smiles for the first time in weeks. The smile is weak and trembling but it’s genuine. And it’s real. And Simon is real. And the kiss he places on his forehead is also real.
Maybe their future is real too?