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Thoughts. That's all they were. Little phrases that wormed into your brain and wouldn't leave. It reminded him of the maggots in the bodies of small animals he saw outside. He felt bad for them, but that was a long time ago.
Now, he stood in the living room of his house. The furnishings were nice, but he never really paid them much mind. A couch, the coffee table, the telly. That's all he ever really used, anyway.
Standing here, he thought of it again. How old was he now, 23, 24? It was his birthday recently, he thinks. He'd check the calendar later. The days all ran together lately. I had been getting better, he thought bitterly.
The worms came back, and he tried to brush them away again. He knew what Heart and Mind would say if he told them. He was still just standing there, darkness creeping the edge of his vision as he stepped out and wandered through his thoughts. He didn't like thinking about it. He couldn't seem to stop himself.
Most of his birthdays weren't notable anyway. Cried on his 21st, felt so happy on his 20th that it didn't feel real, cried on his 19th, blacked out on his 18th {thanks}, cried on his 17th... He imagined them like dolls lined up. He could see all of them, though blurry and devoid of color. Posed in models of terror and fear and joy. He missed joy the most. He tried to brush them away. He couldn't stop where his thoughts were going.
That feeling again. He rubbed his throat absently as it tightened, trying to ignore how exposed the back of his knees felt. He didn't want to think about it. Please don't let him think about it. The house felt a little smaller.
He walked over to the couch to sit down, tugging his shirt instead. He was happy now, wasn't he? It didn't really matter. He shouldn't be feeling this way, anyway. He shouldn't be feeling. He had cut that part of himself out, let it grow feathers to fly away. He saw its face every morning, a mirror of a mirror. The world closed to just this room. The hallways ended in darkness, the doors would open to nothing. The backyard scene in large windows behind him was just that. A scene. A backdrop painted on wood to mimic the outside. He could be convinced of this, anyway. He could hear his logic sneer at the idea of believing it. It didn't matter, it couldn't hurt him. Right?
He kept his hands on his knees. He couldn't remember the last time he felt like this. He couldn't remember the first time he felt like this. He worried he's lost a decade of his life to it. Ending his own life, the worm that wouldn't go away.
He thought he'd gotten over it, but it seems it would just come back. The big black dog that he fed table scraps. He fed it at night before bed, when he'd wished he wouldn't wake the next morning. He fed it on buses and car rides with friends when he wished a crash would send him to the hospital. He's thought about dying in so many different ways, it felt exhausting. It used to be a comfort. To fall into nothingness before he could grieve the loss of any friends. He'd rather be dead before anything could hurt him. He now frowned at the idea, at letting that big black dog rest its muzzle on his chest so easily. He'd guessed he'd always wanted a dog, when he was younger.
He'd resorted to taking a knife to his heart instead, to separate himself from the pain. The tightness of his chest used to hurt so bad when he thought about it, now he just felt empty. He wondered absently if Heart could tell he was thinking about it again. He thought he cut these thoughts out with the feelings to, but that seemed to not be the case. It hurt less, though. Maybe he was getting better.
He raised his legs on the couch, curling up and leaning on the armrest. He couldn't help but start feeling smaller. He didn't remember when he invited the dog into his life, let it make a bed in his mind. It had been there in the black-and-white pictures of his memories. Flashcards he could dig up, some with dates but most without. Him, the dog, the world gone of color. He hopes he smiles more, now.
He rubbed the armrest to try to not drift so far. He didn't want to look at those flashcards. He was happier in the present, right? Instead, he brought up the list, ages he didn't think he'd make. I'm 24 now. He had swelled with pride when he first realized that. 20, 18, 17, 15, 13. The numbers went on. The youngest could draw out a sob from him. Whose fault was it? Why did a little kid want to die so badly? He couldn't really remember anymore. It didn't feel like that had been him now, anyway. He could see the smiling face of a version of him much younger. He knew logically it was a body he had lived in and grown out. It never really felt like it had been his.
His eyes felt wet. He didn't want to do anything about it. He couldn't feel, anyway. He'd cut that part out of him. And then what happened? He'd buried them. Over and over and over and, he always buried his feelings. They weren't his. He thought about other things that weren't his. His friends, his body, this life. The static had always been on the edge of his thoughts. It claimed a majority of his sensations. He struggled seeing people as people. Sometimes he saw them as empty automatons designed to fill out his personal hellscape. But that would be too egocentric, too easy of an explanation with whatever was wrong with him. It hurt him to think of other people that way, but he couldn't always stop it.
He could hear Mind's voice again, chastising him. He hated feeling like this. Hated feeling so small and pathetic and stupid. A distant wonder of where those notions came from. It didn't matter, it was all true. He couldn't do anything. Couldn't do anything right. In the present moment, he's crying over his own stupid thoughts. Feeling like he's nine again over his own stupid, suicidal thoughts. He could stop it at any time, surely. Surely he's in enough control to stop having stupid fucking thoughts that upset him.
He thought about dying. He used to believe in an afterlife. He stopped going to church once he could get away from the control of his parents. Now he knows there's nothing. That was frankly the biggest deterrent of killing himself. It would be painful, sure, but if he did it right it shouldn't last long. Right? But knowing that he wouldn't see his friends again made him really scared. He liked being alive nowadays, even if what he was doing wasn't living. He liked making music, he liked being with his friends. He felt guilty for all those times he wanted to die. Especially before he really knew what it would entail. He wondered what kind of funeral they would hold, what would be in his eulogy. He hoped he would be remembered kindly. He felt like a selfish jackass most of the time.
His tears spilled over. He didn't want to be thinking about this. God, can't I do anything right? His pleas were heard by nobody. No one is there. It was just him. Stuck. Small, alone, on a couch in his living room. He was the only real person here. And he couldn't dismiss the thought of killing himself, ending the world he knew. He wondered if there was a version of him out there that was better. Healthier, maybe. More in control. Confident.
He thought about the other two in the house. Somewhere. The rest of the house wasn't real, but because neither of them were in the living room with him, they must be somewhere else.
He thought about Mind first. Robotic, yes, at this point. A better version of himself, unafflicted by the whims of the body and the heart. Mind was efficient, intentional. She didn't need to drag herself through broken glass to do anything. Didn't need to waste time eating or sleeping [though, sometimes it was something she enjoyed]. Her inevitability was kind of irritating. And she seemed to remember more than he did. He didn't want to say he was jealous of everything she could and wanted to do. After all, she reminded him which medications he needed at every meal and helped organize his pill case. She also kept him from taking too many or from mixing the wrong ones. She would recite a description of serotonin syndrome, from the one time they had looked it up, whenever he thought about it. [It would be painful. You'll feel like you're being hunted. You wouldn't be able to stop sweating. Maybe you fall into a coma. No one would be able to help you, then].
Though, he hadn't followed up on her reminders to remove the now-unprescribed and expired medications. It was hard for him to do things sometimes. He forgot if he had taken anything this morning. Frankly, he forgot what he was doing before he entered the living room. The days all ran together.
He turned his attention to Heart next. He only really felt empty about them. They've been through a lot. Heart spoke in color so much. They painted a beautiful world, rich in every hue and shade. They talked about the ugly colors just as highly as the treasured ones. He never saw anything besides black and white. He wondered if you could cut him open and find nothing inside. A hollow shell, an imitation of a person. A copy of a copy. He didn't want to say he was jealous of Heart, though they seemed to be much more alive than he was. Why? Was emotion really that important? (We're all important). He sometimes wished Heart's emotions would spill over into his own, like his empties into theirs. The river only runs one way, though. He could never take up the color.
He couldn't bring himself to sit up. Guilt and sadness, stupid, pathetic little thing can't even be grateful to be alive. He tried to turn what he was feeling into anger {he could at least understand that one} but it just fizzled out. He felt empty again. The aside was a little refuge from the tidal force of feeling he held back. It wasn't his to feel. Not anymore.
He was crying in the dark again. What time was it? He didn't remember. The thoughts were back, just as vivid as earlier. He could see himself {not myself} standing at the edge of a pool of blood. Standing under a tree. Standing at the threshold to the bathroom. Looking up and seeing—
He shivered. I should probably go to bed, a distant thought. He should reach out and pull it in, but he couldn't be bothered. He liked the idea of his soft bed. He spent way too much time lying in it. He let the thought drift off, forgetting what it was he had thought about. He wanted to sleep but he didn't know how he was going to get to sleep like this. Too warm, too cold. He wanted comfort, but he couldn't ask for it. Who would give it to him, anyway? He wanted help, but—
A door creaked somewhere in the house, followed by shuffling. He froze. He had thought his fear couldn't get more intense as the steps slid down the hall towards the central room. It sounded like a body being dragged. He didn't want to think of the images, conjured from memory and imagination. He didn't want to close his eyes. He didn't want to leave them open. They crossed, blurring his vision, and he felt only marginally better.
He wouldn't see what stood at the doorway, though. His mind whined as the steps got closer. Something touched the doorframe, he could hear it. He let out the small whine. He didn't mean to.
"Soul?" Heart—of course it was just Heart—called out, voice low to not awaken the third inhabitant.
My name. That's my name. I'm real, I'm here, I'm—he uncrossed his eyes. Heart stood in the doorway, right hand touching the frame. They weren't looking at him, but it's not like they would be able to tell anyway.
"Soul, are you here?" Heart repeated again, a little louder. They swiveled their head, moving their ears to hear a response better. They added, more to themself {he could still hear this}, "This isn't funny..."
He could only let out a rumble, then a scratchy "Hi". He was surprised at his own voice. That's what he sounded like, didn't he? The voice in his head might have sounded a little different. How long had he been sitting on this couch? Maybe it was the crying, maybe he really hadn't spoken in days, maybe—
He started as he felt a hand touch his feet, flinching.
"Sorry," Heart muttered, moving their hands to the left to feel the armrest before sitting down in the empty space. He had been so occupied that he didn't notice Heart moving closer. A defect to correct later. He hoped to remember. He drew his legs up to give them more space.
"Someone moved the table in the hallway," they were just making conversation. A wry smile on their lips, but it's not like he could see it well in the darkness. This damn static made it really hard to make the finer details out, always moving. "Why do we even have little tables in the hallway. I could've tripped!"
He didn't respond. Heart didn't continue, dropping the smile. They both sat in silence for a while.
"I can't get to sleep," they admitted. Confirming his suspicions. Neither can I. "I keep having these," Heart pulled on the hem of their hoodie, bunching it up in their claws hands, "thoughts. Um," they tongued. It was uncomfortable for them, clearly. He could only imagine, with his own discomfort supposedly being a dulled version of whatever they would end up feeling. "I thought... I thought I—we—were getting better about this, but..." They kept trailing, dragging on the words. Why did they keep trailing? It made his skin crawl. Just get it out, it'll be easier. "I keep... thinking about killing myself? But I'm not even all that sad? Or stressed, or, or—"
"Then stop thinking about it."
"What?" Heart turned to face him, their lips curled up in confusion.
He shrugged as he stared off into the dark of the TV screen. Heart couldn't see that. "Then stop thinking about it. It just makes it worse." He felt like something else was speaking through him. Were those really his own words, in his own voice? His own thoughts? He felt a little dizzy. Something more to figure out later.
Heart was stunned for a few moments. "Atlas, I know it's your fault." The accusation started a buzzing in his head. He shouldn't have been surprised, though. He already knew this. He hated that he couldn't seem to stay in or out of focus in conversations. Or take criticism. Was this criticism? "You don't have to hide it from me. I already know."
He curled in on himself. He didn't want to think about it, he didn't want to talk about it. This is just like when he was younger when he asked for help. He didn't want to know what Heart was going to do. He wished he was already dead.
Where he had expected a sigh, Heart made no sound. Instead: "I feel like you haven't eaten today, have you?"
He couldn't speak.
They took his silence as agreement.
Heart stood up and shuffled to the other hallway, down to Mind's room. Presumably. They couldn't really cook for themselves, and clearly didn't trust him to do it. It was embarrassing to feel so babied, but he didn't really feel like an adult at the moment. {Imagine that. 24 and I still get treated like I'm 10}. He hated letting either of them care for him. He hated feeling like a burden. He was supposed to have a job like they did, right? He never seemed to be able to do it. He screwed his eyes shut to try to stop this train of thought, to think of something else. Heart was so... weird. Strangely empty. They'd been weird ever since the incident, sure, but. It was hard for him to get a grasp on whatever was wrong with them. Despite their job, it often just felt like a performance. Did Heart feel anything anymore? Maybe he's just not used to their sympathy. Maybe he's just finding patterns where there aren't any. Making things up. Maybe—
He looks up as two sets of steps arrive at the doorway. Mind is there, glowing a soft blue. She's so bright. She always knows what to do. She walks right up to him, takes his hand, and lifts him up off the couch. Her hand was cold, it kind of hurt. She had been sleeping, he supposed. She liked heating her hands, or maybe she just ran that hot. He didn't know. He never asked. It would feel awkward to do it now.
She doesn't let go, pulling him to the kitchen. Heart follows behind them. All are quiet. He felt like Heart and Mind shared thoughts between the two of them. He wished he was able to join in.
Mind lets go of him and leaves him at the island. Heart stops next to him. She turns her head back to him, flashing a feigned smile as she moves to the light switch, "What would you like? I think something with protein, maybe?"
He muttered something simple. Mind smirked at him as she went on to prepare the food. She always seemed to know better.
He had been staring at the floor when Heart went to grab his hand. They glanced at him, then moved to pull him around to the chairs at the island {Why did they have chairs at the island?}. They sat down. He sat down next to them.
They spread a wing out, gesturing, "To take your mind off of things." The most direct thing Heart has ever said to him. Today. Probably
He complied, running his fingers through the soft feathers, pulling out any loose or damaged ones. It was amazing how well they could be kept. Heart generally struggled to keep them. They'd had some help recently. He hadn't thought about the thing that had upset him in a bit. They both were great at making him feel better. He always just needed to talk to someone. Even if it's not about what's bothering him. It was nice. He liked the wings. They reminded him that his friends were real, or real enough to him to matter. Real enough to touch. You can't argue with that. It was nice, it was nice.
He didn't notice the pinpricks in his eyes until Heart commented on it. "You're breathing's hitching."
"Yeah," he took a deep, shaky breath. The real world. This was the real world. As real as it would get for him. At least. Everyone's so weird to him. He didn't want to cry in front of either of them. Even though Heart was allowed to. Even though Mind was allowed to, as rare as that was.
Heart drew their lips into a straight line, then smiled as they changed topics, "You should probably get me a white cane."
He snorted, "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Just picture it and it'll appear. You don't even have to buy me anything."
"No, don't! They'll hit me with it," Mind called from her place in front of the stove. She was also smiling though, before she returned to her work.
Heart let out a choked laugh (the only kind they could make), responding to her comment. The two argued for a bit, playful banter this time. He found himself smiling as he returned to preening Heart's wings.
The warm light of the kitchen thawed his chill. He was at ease. He could appreciate the colors, the heat of the oven. The food had a smell as it cooked. Heart had a smell, even though they were just sitting there next to him. {Not unpleasant, mind you. They probably had washed recently, hence the soft feathers}. There were people here who loved him, whose voices he could hear fill the house. He wasn't alone anymore. He was safe. He would be fine.
He could be happy, even if just for this moment.