An Attempt Was Made

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I shouldn't have worried about getting my roommate triggered because apparently, he was 'trigger-proof'. He told me that night how he had once witnessed an accident where a truck hit a little kid and the tires went over his skull, crushing it and spilling his brains on the road. Even after having observed such a horrifying event with his own two eyes, shocked as he was, he still didn't feel any strong emotions. In fact, he said he had never seen a nightmare in his lifetime. My roommate's problem was, as it seemed, the sheer lack of problems in his life. He had never been in any argument, nor affairs/relationships. His inability to feel strong emotions and the lack of depth of his feelings were part of what brought him here. He was coerced, of course, because in his words, "who cares if it's my home or a rehab, it's all the same, anywhere and everywhere."

I could now grasp (a bit) why his face was utterly expressionless most of the time, and his eyes so completely depthless. He was more of a robot, a machine, than a human.

I had asked him the first day what his name was, and I had received the strangest reply ever: "I don't have a name."
It was bewildering to me. "Why?" I couldn't help but pry.
"Because you can call me whatever you wish and I'll respond all the same. So, what's the point of having a fixed name?"

As weird as he was, his mind was incredibly sharp, and his words seemed to cut through steel. His every action seemed well-calculated, premeditated. That, however, was not the case. He was not a psychopath- that much, I was certain of.

And occasionally, some emotions resurfaced in him, like a pleasant surprise. At times like that, you could see a subtle glow and a bit of a shine in his eyes. Those were the only occasions where he'd ask a question or start a conversation by himself. Like that first day.

Today, he seemed more upbeat than usual. "Must be the meds", I thought to myself.
I had started calling him 'Enzo' since any name worked. Plus this name, in particular, reminded me of two things I'm very fond of. One, Enzo was the name of the dog in 'The Art Of Racing In The Rain', and the other thing... yes, you guessed it, bEnzodiazepines.

Enzo seemed like he was in the mood to talk. It was 9 in the morning and Enzo was already pacing around the cabin and the ward, with a hint of a smile on his lips, almost mischievous. I was still in bed.

"Enzo", I called him.
"Mornin'", he replied. He did know my name but avoided calling me by it.
It had been 5 days since his arrival. In these five days, the more I tried to get to know him, the more elusive he seemed. He was not a chatterbox nor mute, however, he knew how to conceal himself well. The only concrete information I knew about him was he'd be turning nineteen in six months, and I had just turned twenty.
As he stood by my bedside table, I propped myself on my right elbow and looked up at him. I was hyper-fixated today on getting to know the real Enzo. Who was Enzo, really? Did he have a history of substance abuse like me? Did he have parents that loved and cared for him? Could this alexithymia of his be merely an act? Could he perhaps be a criminal/sociopath/murderer? If yes, would he hold a gun to my head? What was his reason for avoiding every inmate other than me? Why did he never call me by my name? How many people had he slept with? What was his sexuality? My head was full to the brim with countless questions of countless kinds, most of which were irrelevant and inconsequential.
He always avoided speaking of his family, though, and the last time I asked him about it, he just remained completely silent. Not a sound. At that moment, it felt like time was standing still, and if I dropped a needle, it would hit the floor with a loud thud. Thus, once again, I had to leave my cabin to avoid the highly awkward silence that hung in the air.

But I was fearless today. Even if he stayed silent, I was firmly determined to keep shooting questions at him, never cooling it until my thirst for answers was quenched.

I wanted to start with the family question, however, I stopped myself last second, afraid that if I brought it up, he might not answer any of my other questions.

"If I may ask, what is-"
Before I could finish what I was saying, though, Enzo interrupted. "Were you about to ask me what my sexuality might be?"
It took me about half a minute to register what he had just said.
"Are you some kind of a psychic or a mind-reader or something?"
"Trust me, I'm not. I'm just one of those people with a special gift of intuition," said Enzo, with a slight smile. I realized that was the first I had seen him smile since his arrival.
"Okay, then answer the question."
"Asexual."
Flabbergasted, I replied, "Me too."
Enzo was still smiling, as he gave a curt nod and resumed pacing around.
"Any other questions?" he asked after a while. Our eyes met when he turned to look at me.
I was still in a trance-like state. I had been staring at him like a hawk. His smooth, bright olive skin and black-brown eyes, smooth black hair, and his small nose- everything about him was alluring. If his hair had been longer, anyone could mistake him for a girl. Lust was something I had never felt in the span of my life of twenty years and yet, at that precise moment, I wasn't sure what I was feeling.
I snapped out of it as I realized the situation was about to turn into a staring contest.
"Well, that explains why you'd never be in a relationship."
"I suppose so. Have you been in any relationships?"
"No, not really. If you don't count the two pathetic excuses for a relationship, that is."
Enzo smiled again, this time almost reassuringly. For a fraction of a second, it felt as though he was about to take my hand and give it a gentle squeeze, but of course, he didn't. Even with his smooth black hair cut short, he had an air of femininity about him.
"You did tell me you have trouble feeling emotions. Is that the only reason why you're here?"
"No. I have a history of abuse."
I had anticipated that answer. After all, the place was a rehabilitation center, too, and not just a mental hospital.
"Which drug?" I asked.
"Benzodiazepines. But not clonaz, though. Alprazolam. Xannies. This is why out of all names people have called me by, yours is my favorite. I suppose you have abused benzos as well?"
"Yeah, I have. So we both fell in love with drugs, huh", I said while shifting my gaze to the window. It was a beautiful morning. The weather was perfect. A cool breeze reached us through the wide-open window. I could see the houses lined up next to each other. The sound of life, people getting ready for their morning commute, the clatter of dishes and spoons, the whistle of a pressure cooker somewhere. I could feel myself starting to get slightly homesick.

"Now there's Xanax in your coat", said Enzo, sensing my mind had flown away.
I snapped back to reality. "You listen to guccihighwaters as well?"
A bit of a smirk played on his lips. As if to avoid saying it out loud, he changed the topic. "Nice weather, don't you think? Not too hot, neither too cold. I suppose this is part of what makes people adore spring."
"It is, truly. If ever I have the luxury of choosing the occasion of my death, I'd choose a pretty day. Like today. And it has to be either in summer or spring. Springbreak...forever."
"Okay, blackbear", Enzo replied.
I laughed a little. "This guy is like a blessing from God, no kidding", I thought to myself.