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Mango was lost, and he was trapped, and he didn’t really know how to get out. He didn’t know if he cared, either; waking was as bad as dreaming and sleep might be death and he didn’t care anymore.
He knew Purple cared. He would watch them through half-lidded eyes, buzzing around him anxiously; offering tea and companionship and asking him a thousand questions he didn’t want to answer. Mostly they would ask if they were okay, did he need anything, did he mind if they sat beside him, and he wanted to say no, not at all, but he didn’t care enough to speak.
He knew it was selfish of him to ignore Purple, and he could see them drifting away, wondering whether another choice might have brought them somewhere else, somewhere better – he wanted Purple to be happy, in some little lucid corner of his mind, but most of him wanted them to stay. They were a tether for him, in a way. There would be no way to tell dreams apart from real life if Purple left.
So he sat on the couch and left his shitshow of a life as it was and dully hoped nothing would change. He was aware it was a foolish thing to do – stupid, even. But he had to cling to that, his rope, a lifeline. Purple would bring him another cup of tea, and he would still sit there – maybe he’d drink it, or maybe it would get cold and they would lose hope and take the tea away again – but he would still be there. Some kind of distraction.
Distraction. Vengeance had been a distraction, a focus for all this fog, a blade he could wield. He could use that rage, that grief, back then. Now? Now he was left with a shattered life and a mind full of fog and the untouched bedroom of a child whose laugh he’d never hear again. He knew Purple had been wanting to dust off that room but he wouldn’t let them.
No. He could keep it like this. It didn’t have to change.
…Right?
He didn’t remember when it happened, but one morning Purple stopped… trying. At first this didn’t bother Mango – he might not have noticed, actually. But he started to notice that they were around less often, that the tea stopped coming, that when he did see them, there was a spring in their step he hadn’t ever noticed before.
He supposed he should be happy for them, and he really did try, but when he noticed the green knitted bracelet Purple had started wearing, all he could muster was resentment. Still. He tried to tell himself to be glad, even though he knew it wouldn’t work.
They came back, guilt-faced, eager to help him, providing new pillows and a fresh cup of tea, not that he drank it. They bustled about for a little while, a few days, but he could tell they were eager to leave again.
It became some kind of cycle – they would drift off, come back shamefaced, leave again… two moons, he thought, two moons each in a different orbit, that’s what they were. Each spinning, always moving, but both trapped in orbit around a dark fog-wreathed star.
He wondered if they could escape, both of them. If only one of them could get out, he hoped it would be Purple. They deserved it, certainly more than him. He’d been broken beyond repair, he knew that, even if he managed to free himself from this fog, these shackles. Purple wasn’t. They had a life still, they had people to be with and things to see.
He knew he had nothing left, and he found he didn’t really care anymore.
Mango was dreaming again. Maybe he was awake; he couldn’t have said for sure. It was all a blur anyway. He wondered where he was, feeling his limbs light with years long gone, and he hoped it wasn’t that dream again.
It would be. He already knew that, and he knew that he would try to change it, just like he always did, and that he would fail, just like he always did.
But he still tried, and he still raged and fought and screamed, and he woke himself up screaming like he always did, screaming with the red lights flashing behind his eyes and his throat hoarse and his face a mask of tears. He dragged himself to his feet, feeling his back pop as he stretched. He paused, then; Purple had opened the living room window and light was streaming onto the floor. It had been night-dark in the room for what felt like centuries.
He wanted to go out there, desperation clawing at him like a rabid animal, locked up too long. He needed to. He reached out, fingers splayed…
He knew already he’d fail. Again. Slowly, quietly, he sank back down, his head coming to rest between his knees. The dream never faded, but he never stopped hoping it might. He knew it was foolish. Stupid of him to hope. He sank back into the fog and closed his eyes.