little star

i'm dying inside, but it's alright

     sal ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his wet bangs out his face. the mirror in front of him had a crack running down the middle, distorting his reflection. he grimaced at it, before promptly sighing and banging his head against the mirror.

     sal cursed himself for succumbing to the numbness and fatigue because now his limbs were sore and his joints cracked like a firecracker when he'd dragged himself out of bed.

     he found that it was pathetic, really, that he had been in bed for the past week. sleeping for most of the day but lying awake at night, eyes wide open. it was easier than getting up.

     (like, fuck, if the world wasn't going to let him die, then it wasn't worth his fucking time)

     frowning, sal wasn't sure if the bad feeling wrapped around his head was from frustration or reluctant defeat.

     slapping his cheeks repeatedly, he shook his head to shake the exhaustion out of himself. his face had hollowed out a little bit and his tan skin had turned ashen. essentially, he looked like a corpse. he frowned at that.

     tiredly, sal cocked his head to the side, pulling at his eyebags with frozen fingers. it was nothing new, sleeping for days straight.

     tugging a baggy shirt over his head, he wandered off to his study room to get work done. in truth, he should've gone to get something to eat or drink. but, unfortunately, he was practically immortal—he couldn't starve to death even if he had wanted to.

     (that being said, kids, please eat three meals a day)

     a part of him found it amusing that he, who was practically an immortal, struggled to do basic tasks; like washing the dishes, for example. dirty plates and utensils sat in his sink, waiting to be cleaned; alas they would probably have to wait a few more days until that could happen.

     twisting the discolored handle of an old door, he pushed it open and trudged into the room. he scrunched up his nose, sneezing at the dust in the air. his eyes were slightly watery as he flicked a light switch, the lights above blinking until the room was mostly illuminated.

     tall shelves had now been revealed, carved from thick and ancient wood. they appeared to stand taller than the ceiling, taller than the sky, and to be longer than the lengths of this earth. the shelves held small jars, each one carrying a luminescent ball that quietly hummed with magic. some shelves carried candles, melted wax that had oozed onto the wood hardened and cold.

     the walls were painted a rich black, the floor the following suit, and glow-in-the-dark stickers had been carefully placed in some places. his sister had stuck them there when she'd come to visit, complaining that the room was far too sad to look at. he still had leftover sticker sheets, neatly tucked away under a pile of paper in his desk. maybe he should send a letter or a text, he missed her.

     rubbing his eyes, bye sighed; it had been a while since he'd actually done his job. in a way, he missed the translucent glow of the lights, the towering rows of shelves, and the smell of burning candles. at times, because he was usually holed up in there for days, it was suffocating and putrid, but it was also comforting.

     he was stood in front of a shelf labeled, the words i wanna die written in cursive on a piece of paper taped to the wood. drawing a line through the dust, he walked along the lines of jars, their dim lights flickering and unsteady. he cocked his head, smiling a little as he said "hi" to one, and watched its light flare for a moment before dimming once more.

     those ghastly lights were called sprites. bobbing balls of gas that floated around in the jars that sal stored them in, bumping against the sides like an astronaut in space. they were a bit like files, documenting the self-esteem and mental stability of someone on this earth. this included immortals as well. despite that, he didn't think he'd ever encountered his own sprite—it made him doubt he had one in the first place.

     tiredly, sal picked a jar off row f, spinning the jar in his hands and chuckling as the sprite spun in loops. rubbing his eyes and yawning, he read off the tag: "dean..." sal mumbled, swiping the pad of his thumb over the smudged lettering "...dean alonto."

     he peered inside the jar, looking at the sprite—the flames were diminished, looking a bit like someone had tried to stamp it out with their foot. sort of like a sputtering lighter or a flickering birthday candle with wax dribbling down the side. rubbing away the dust, sal whispered, "i promise you're loveable, bud."

     the sprite hummed with energy, something sounding a little like a squeal shaking the glass jar. sal gives the top of the jar a reassuring pat. there was only so much he could do from far away.

     "hang in there for a bit, you're doing good," sal said, placing the jar back on the shelf. he scanned the rest of the jars, his heart panging a little at the dying flames, "you're all doing good, i promise."

     continuing his trip down the aisle, he hums a simple melody under his breath. despite how much he complained about humans and their destructive tendencies, he didn't want them to die in horrible ways. jokingly, he blew a kiss at a jar and scoffed at himself, but gave a smile when it flickered back to life.

     this was a routine he had followed continuously for literal centuries.

      sometimes humans are reluctant to get themselves help because it's so much easier to lie in the darkness until their bones grow brittle and they die of old age. sometimes it's because the people around them insist they're fine, content with watching their loved one, child, or student rot away until there is nothing left but their despair. sometimes they think they're being overdramatic, laughing off the misery that stays holed up in their minds.

     because they couldn't, because they wouldn't, sal does what he can to help. but sometimes, most times, whimsical whispers of hope aren't enough.