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I hate when I can’t hold back the loneliness.
Elliot sat in the corner of his apartment, sobbing. His shoulders were curled in, almost to the point of pain. Face covered in salty tears, vision blurry—nothing besides him and his pain existed in this moment. This loneliness was a wound on his soul, forever aching. Bandage usually covering it, but a bandage can only last so long until it becomes drenched, unable to hold back the bleeding anymore. He needed a fucking tourniquet.
The world was far blurrier than usual—he realized. Everything had lost the sharpness of their edge, creating a sense of artificiality. His eyes looked toward the floor, unable to bare seeing the pure fakeness, the unfamiliarity of his apartment. His throat was sore, his chest twinged with pain every second. An unconscious mantra repeated in his mind every second, not words, a sensation: he was alone. He cannot escape this loneliness. He can run. But it will always catch up to him.
Elliot hiccuped, feeling the weight of his sensation crushing his body. He took rasped gasps, aching for air to reach his lungs after the sobs took it all away. His shaking intensified as a wave of panic set in. He had to have been dying, the loneliness was finally suffocating him and—
“Jesus, kiddo, this again?” Robot sighed, leaning against the wall, carefully taking in Elliot’s state.
Elliot flinched at the sudden noise and presence, finding himself further curled into the corner. His teary eyes jumped toward his figure, seemingly just realizing that Robot was there. How long had he been there?
The teary-eyed man decidedly murmured, “Fuck off, man.” These words would usually be laced with much more annoyance, but he was far too exhausted to express that.
He feels like he hasn’t slept in days. He had been sleeping, though. Was sure of it. Flashes of Krista popped up in his mind with these thoughts and weariness—him sitting on the couch, eyes drooping. Her voice, calmly asking: “Elliot, how have you been sleeping recently?”
I have been sleeping well.
I haven't been having nightmares lately.
This notion would've been nice, of course, if Elliot had felt that he was actually sleeping at all. And not just opening and closing his eyes every night. Opening his eyes in the morning and feeling even more tired than he had going into bed.
Elliot sniffed, opening his eyes and looking around. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t in Krista’s office—he was in his apartment. His clouded, distorted, and unfamiliar apartment. This was his apartment; rationally, he knew that. But it felt so foreign to him, an unexplored space.
Grabbing his head in his hands, Elliot suddenly realized that he had been breathing hastily, desperately gasping for air for a while. He had been trapped in his memory and kept away from his bodily sensations before. This understanding only intensified his feelings of absolute panic. He rasped desperately for air as the shaking intensified. The world proceeded to get blurrier, farther away—hazier, dimmer.
Robot walked closer, approaching him as one may approach a stray dog—cautious, careful. Fearful of being bitten, attacked. He opted to sit down near Elliot, although he still maintained a safe distance between the two.
What do normal people do to get past this?
Though the question wasn’t directed toward him, eyebrows furrowing, Robot replied, “They talk to someone. Friends. Family. You know, not imaginary friends in their head.”
Elliot looked up toward him, meeting his eyes—voice shaky, faltering, “That’s clearly not an option.”
“Yeah...guess not.” Robot sighed, rubbing his eyes with his hands. Elliot wasn’t sure what emotion was spread across Robot’s face. Annoyance, anger, exhaustion? He didn’t really care anyway.
Silence stretched across the room as time passed. If someone had asked, Elliot would not have been able to tell them how long this silence lasted as he stared into nothing. Could have been minutes. Or hours.
Then, something settled inside of Elliot. He realized that his thoughts were running like scripts of code that urgently needed debugging.
He knew he needed to do: his debugging procedure. What he had always done. What his only option for dealing with this bullshit was—this fucked up society, this harrowing loneliness.
His sadness would be numbed, soothed. Temporarily, maybe. But, temporary relief was better than none at all. His pain was still present, but he noticed it less with it being drowned by the sweet embrace of the high—thoughts quieter, body relaxed.
Elliot stood up decisively. And, with a clear certainty in his movements, he made his way to the farthest kitchen cabinet. Robot watched, confused for a brief moment. Elliot’s movements were usually filled with discomfort, uncertainty, like he was bracing for pain every time he moved. Every footstep, every breath, every hug. Now, he was so sure. So confident in his actions.
Opening the cabinet and desperately searching, “No, no, no..” the man in the hoodie panicked. He couldn’t find his morphine. Maybe he misplaced it in his drug-induced haze. But, after searching through all the cabinets nearby, he began to doubt this hypothesis.
Where'd I put it?
“You know, it’s probably for the best. You used up the last of our anti-withdrawal meds. Don’t think you’d like to be showing up to our psychiatrist appointment shaking and yellin’ from withdrawals.” Robot remarked.
Elliot ran across the apartment, searching various cabinets, underneath the bed, everywhere he could. He didn’t remember using the last of it. When did he? No, no—he didn't. Robot must've put it somewhere. He was sure of it. This was one thing he was sure of. Was this a part of his plan to undermine him, get him to join forces again? Using his only way out of the loneliness.
His movements quickened, clearly panicked. Not bothering to look at Robot, voice cracking and filled with anger, Elliot yelled, "What did you do with it!?"
Robot stuck his hands up in defense, surprised by the sudden tone rise. "Nothing, kid, you must've forgotten when you last used it."
“No, I’m precise. You know that.” Elliot exasperated whilst continuing his frenzied searching—lifting up objects, moving them around.
Frowning, putting his hands in his pockets, "Why don’t you go to bed? It'll be better in the morning. Not gone. But better," Robot continued.
“How do you expect me to fall asleep when I'm feeling like this?” Elliot stammered, still tearing his way through the room, looking for his relief. His only relief. His lifeline.
Did I really use the last of it?
Do you know?
How could he debug now?
Elliot slowly made his way to the bathroom within his frenzied search, not thinking about what he was doing, where he was walking—purely behaving on instinct. He leant down beside the bathroom sink, looking through the basket underneath.
He wasn’t thinking for once. His body was just operating; he was just simply a passenger in this process. Sorting his way through the items, toothpaste, cotton balls, and then seemingly finding what the search was for—a blade hidden beneath all the hygienic products. Elliot grabbed it and then suddenly realized what he was doing, dropping it in fear. He didn’t even know he was looking for this, just something in general. Following a vague instinctual drift, he made his way to the bathroom, the container, and then the blade. All of this was so familiar, felt like routine, similar to his morphine habit.
Have I done this before?
What is happening?
Suddenly, with this question, memories came flooding his brain, uninvited. Long, exhausting nights filled with the horrid ache of loneliness, soothed by the swift cuts of the blade when he didn’t use morphine. Morphine certainly worked better, he thought. But this used to work at soothing his aches, so why not now? It was at least something. He could buy more morphine tomorrow.
“What are you doing?” Robot stammered, caught off guard, and cautiously getting closer to the shaking, disoriented man.
“Factory reset,” Elliot muttered. Maybe he couldn’t debug his brain, but he could perhaps shut it down for a little bit. A nice, lulling reboot.
You would grab anything on the surface of the water if you were drowning, wouldn’t you?
Pulling up his hoodie sleeve, Elliot rubbed his shaking fingertips across his old scars. The scars have been on his arms for years—how could he forget about this? It was right in front of him. Attached to him.
What else could he be forgetting? His mind spiraled, racing, so many thoughts at once. They overlapped each other, looping and looping. The tears fell out of Elliot’s eyes, but he didn’t bother to wipe them. Life was drifting away, dissolving before him.
He was shaking, scared, thinking: what else is he forgetting? If he forgot something that was clearly in front of him, how could he trust himself? He forgot Darlene was his sister, that this hallucination was his dead Father—wait, had he done this on purpose?
“Did you make me forget?” Elliot accused, eyes looking everywhere but Robot. Elliot had meant for the question to come out menacingly, but it just came out off-tune.
Robot's shoulders slumped, hand slightly twitching. He looked toward the scars, toward the floor, and then at Elliot's tear-stained face. “I didn't. I assumed that you knew. I mean, the evidence is right there on you." He pointed toward Elliot’s arm.
Elliot properly looked at Robot’s face for the first time that night. Everything was so hazy that he couldn't focus on Robot's blurry face beforehand. The shaking man looked away, staring at the wall again. Nothing felt real; he wasn’t sure this was even real.
He closed his eyes, drowning in his worries. Wondering whether this was all a grand delusion, wondering what else he was forgetting. Uneasiness formed more as he realized that his memory wasn't the most reliable source.
When he opened his eyes again, after however many moments had passed, Robot was sitting beside him, with his hand gently placed on his shoulder.
Elliot didn’t know whether or not to trust Robot. Whether to lean into the touch or punch him, tell him to get out of his head. He was finally in complete control again, he wouldn't lose it. Robot hadn’t been able to take control for a while.
Did Robot actually care about his well-being? Or is this all just a desperate attempt to gain control—to gain trust again?
While contemplating, Elliot unconsciously leaned into the touch. His shaking lessened slightly, breathing slowed down.
Robot sighed. “Kiddo, wait—you know, I can take over. All you have to do is stop fighting it.”
Elliot quickly realized the fucked-up irony of this situation with the verbal reminder of Robot’s genuine presence. His touch—his imaginary, unreal touch—shouldn’t have felt comforting whatsoever. Robot is the least real thing in this room. So, why did he feel like Robot was the only real thing actually here?
Everything else was so, so far away.
With a bitter laugh that was devoid of humor, Elliot speedily pulled himself away from Robot's touch. “I really am fucking crazy.”
“Don’t need any subtext to realize that,” Robot replied, not daring to touch him again, but still remaining next to him.
Elliot found himself looking at his hands. The edges further softened, drifting out of focus. His hands felt so far away, and he was further drifting away from them. He was miles away from his body. He couldn't handle not feeling present anymore, an observer in his own body. Was he really even in control now? Was he ever? Maybe this was all a dream—one of the ones he had told Krista he wasn’t having.
Is this real?
Would you tell me if it wasn't?
Elliot's fingertips moved to his forearm once again, staring at his old scars. It didn't feel like he was looking at his skin. He was looking at a foreign body, one that was shaking horrifically, sweating, and littered with scars. He was watching himself think, move, and breathe from a distance.
Has anyone seen these?
Did Shayla see these? She must’ve. We were probably both too high to notice in the moment.
Elliot felt tears build up again. He missed Shayla, the security of her presence. Missed the way she made him feel. He felt on edge with everyone, but her—his walls were able to lessen. Not completely, but still reduced. It was nice. To be beside someone without being in flight or fight. To feel touch as affectionate and warm, rather than an attack.
While thinking of the pleasant memories, the painful ones filled his brain. He couldn’t think of her without thinking of that trunk. Her lifeless eyes. The blood. His heart rate increased, hands shaking. He wondered if the painful memories would forever bleed into the pleasant ones.
Robot’s tone sharpened, though not raising his voice, “Hey. Elliot. Look at me.”
Elliot hadn’t expected such a troubled face to return his gaze.
“You need to calm the hell down. You're spiraling. Just stop fighting it. Let me in.” Robot coaxed.
Elliot scoffed.
What would Robot do once he had control again? He'd probably go out and do something that he would have to dismantle.
However, he would do almost anything to get out of this black hole. He really was drowning, engulfed by the scalding waters of loneliness and haziness.
Would you let him?
Well?
Elliot quietly replied, voice laced with resignation, “Fine.”
He felt a sense of peace in this decision. The idea that Robot had asked, instead of just took. He atleast had control in this way.
Elliot closed his eyes, hearing ringing in his ears and taking note of his sharp headache. He opened and closed his eyes, each time the world getting blurrier.
Open, close, open, close—
When Elliot opened his eyes again, he was in bed, feeling the sun beaming in through the window, warming his cold body. He jumped up out of bed in a panic.
How long has it been?
He checked the clock, 10:05 AM, Saturday. It had only been a few hours. If he had gone out to hack without me knowing, he would feel more tired—right? Maybe Robot did just go to sleep.
Or maybe, that's what he wants him to think. Maybe all his plans were dismantled now because of a single moment of weakness. Fuck.
Elliot stood up out of bed, deciding to check his computer.
He was aware that nothing would present itself. Robot was him—he would’ve hacked somewhere outside of their apartment or hidden his tracks well enough for anyone to be unaware of what had happened.
Though, this helped with the uncertainty of the moment, the regret of giving up control. This careful search through his computer logs was an illusion of control. He knew this. He checked regardless.
"You aren’t gonna find anything, y'know. I didn't do anything last night." Robot resolved, sitting on the bed with his eyes directed toward the computer screen.
"M-hm.." Elliot replied sarcastically, not buying it.
Has Robot fucked everything up?
You never answer. Now then, not now.
Is it nice to observe uncertainty, instead of living with it?