Beautiful Lovers

6.

EDITED

Paris closed the door of his small, city flat and locked it. After a long day at the university, when he had to run from one lecture to the other, he returned. The familiar breathy scent of heavy study books of the two roommates, the leftovers of the dinner and suffocating air welcomed him just like any other day. But Paris was far from relieved after he came home. He didn't feel a tingling feeling of security and warmth crawling up his body. Just emptiness. It alarmed him way less than it should have.

"Hey Bena." he greeted the girl who was leaning against the counter with eyes on the glowing display awkwardly. Bena wasn't the prettiest girl he has seen before. Her ginger hair was tameless, in a bun that was falling apart most of the time and the look in her brown eyes was cold, yet raging. Her features were sharp and distinctive just like her usual words. But there was something unruly, and wild about her that one simply couldn't look away. Don't misunderstand. He didn't feel anything romantic towards the girl, but Bena was so strange and she made him so curious, he almost cursed it all.

Bena looked at him, frowning, her eyes filled with hidden anger and disgust. She nodded stiffly and Paris only helplessly watched how she disappeared in her room like he was just a ghost. He only heard her mumble something Italian before she slammed her door.

"Alright then..." sighed Paris. He was kind of lonely in this big city. In this big world. Only a greeting or smile would help his messed-up life, but maybe he wanted too much. He didn't blame her for not wanting to talk to him, but he was angry that she didn't see him. That he was falling, that he couldn't breathe, that he cried in the middle of the darkest nights because he didn't know how to live anymore. Even when the only thing that was separating them was a brick wall, they seemed distant. But after Paris looked with a sigh on the beech door of Bena's room, he knew what he wanted probably wouldn't help much. He was in too deep. It was like he fell in love with darkness and its shadows. It didn't seem to be willing to let him go. Still, he let himself keep that small, selfish wish. Wish for someone who would care. For just a little bit. And then he was willing to let them walk away. He deserved it anyway.

Paris went into his room too. His bed was still unmade and plans, books and cups were scattered around. The last few days he was too tired to do anything to tidy up. He drew the curtains and the February light blinded him with its surprising blaze. Small children ran under his window, their knees buried in the shallow layer of snow with red cheeks and gloves. Laughter reached him as strongly as the sunlight warmed the surface of his desk, but he didn't see the beauty of fresh February in the city of skyscrapers sprinkled with icing sugar. The boy lifted one of the papers with his sketches. The pencil paled already, but the angry scratches he nearly tore the paper with in frustration were still visible. He was blind when it came to the beauty of his world, and still, he was addicted to it. It wasn't because he lusted after gorgeous women that would hang onto every word he would say. It was because he was afraid that his life was always revolving around something kind of ordinary. Something ugly. And when he was looking at that sketch and when he gazed through the window, he saw a reflection that he dreaded. He didn't want to be common. If that made sense. He wanted a wonderful adventure. That was his definition of beauty. But Paris didn't have any energy to fight anymore. He gave up. Maybe too soon and too easily. But it didn't matter anymore. His mother, Lauren and doctor Jane would say that the only thing he needed to do was look at the world a little better, but Paris has seen enough. He felt enough. Doctor Jane said that he hadn't... made peace with certain things. That he blamed himself for them. And he knew it was true. The guilt, the knowledge that he should have been smarter when she came home with so many wide smiles. That he was too ordinary to know what was going on, but... well, maybe he was right. It didn't matter anyway.

He sat in his chair with his feet on the table and closed his tired eyes. He craved sleep. He was yawning since the early afternoon, but he was afraid to fall asleep... what if she wasn't? What if he would have to be in that darkness all alone? Or even worse, what if he would have a nightmare? What would happen if he fell asleep that night and she wouldn't be there? What then? He ruffled his hair in frustration, and even when he was trying, this thought in his head begun to ring like an annoying church bell. Maybe he was right back then. He was going crazy. It made him very uneasy. Suddenly his shirt suffocated him, his shoes seemed too small and it was hot in the student's room. He cursed his damn thoughts and bent next to his bed. He reached out under it and pulled out an old, black shoebox. The corners of the box were damaged from his earlier constant opening and closing. Always with a renewed knowledge of his actual pain. Paris threw the sock on the top of the box somewhere in his room carelessly. With a little bit of difficulty, he opened the box. He hasn't done so in a long time. He didn't look at the photo of his mother, him and her. He kind of wanted to forget that it was there. You can't imagine how much it hurt him. His gaze instantly fell on the black cover of the book, which was illuminated with sun rays. Like it was calling him. Paris even smiled a little when he realised that doctor Jane, who gave him the diary probably wanted to trick him with his favourite colour so he would write into it. It almost made him laugh, but it was so strained, it sounded more like a painful chuckle. He sat at the table again and stared at the ominous book. The black cover returned his gaze. Like the blank pages were waiting on him. It seemed ridiculous. But still, her face appeared before his eyes. After so many years he still couldn't say her name. Like someone cursed him. He used to get angry when she teased him about looking too pensively just like their morous, racist grandpa. Or she would bump into his shoulder and tell him a joke about puppies that he never understood. Paris breathed in deeply. The tremor of his hands broke him even more and he realised how hard it really is. How much he lied to himself. Paris opened the book of which destiny was not to remain empty and he sighed. He had to show that he tried at least. The boy promised it his mother, Lauren that he would. And she would want him to. He lifted the pen above the paper, ready to stain the yellow pages with his darkness.

"It doesn't matter where I go. This goddamn feeling just won't go away. And even when no one is looking, writing these words seems like a crime. It doesn't matter how many smiles a force. It doesn't matter. I feel heavy and alone like I am going to cry and scream any moment. And there is no damn escape from this. I am in a middle of a maze that has no paths. I'm trapped. The only thing that I can do, is lie down and hope that it will go away. But it doesn't. It's still here. With me. And I don't know how to stop it. God, I don't know, what to do. I'm trapped. And I have no idea if you can help me."

He looked at the words full of painful words and suppressed salty tears. Those words will always be pressed in the yellow pages. No. Not always though. They will crumble one day just Paris's soul was crumbling just then. It sounded so simple, being happy. He imagined a lot of things under the term, but he knew that it might just not make him happy. Some people don't believe in God, sometimes they don't believe in destiny and some don't believe in love. And Paris? He didn't believe in anything and anyone. Not even himself. The lines in the book were trying to trap the pain he poured in, but they could never contain it.

"I'm sorry Rosaline." he finished writing. But he couldn't force himself to say those words. 

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Sweet dreams. See you on Thursday :)