A Meadow Of Wild Flowers

2 Hair Colored Gold

Atticus sat on the hardwood floor in the living room, drinking the expensive red wine straight from the bottle, attempting to drown himself in self pity. So far, it hadn't been working. He was still very much able to breathe and was sad about it.

The message had come three hours earlier when he was in the company of Jonah, his only friend. He'd laughed it off and pretended the words hadn't stung when really they stabbed him right in the heart and twisted the knife before the sadness latched onto his soul and it felt like it was sucking his life away. He'd pretended in front of Jonah, pretending to know what was said and laughing when it was necessary, but he wouldn't be able to repeat any conversation topic from earlier if he'd tried.

Luckily Jonah could talk enough for the both of them and never catch onto it.

Mira had messaged him to notify him of the fact that all he did was drag her down with the false illusion of obligations. He wasn't sad at the fact that he'd lost a potential partner or some sort of fling, but it was eating him up inside at the possibility that his loneliness was caused by him forcing someone to feel obligated to do something for him or to "fix" him. The longer he was with Jonah, he realized his loneliness had increased exponentially. He could feel it in his bones, weighing him down like lead weights.

Atticus had intended to message Mira back to ask - professionally - about what she felt was her obligations to him. He felt like he would've typed out a message similar to that of companies who'd received a bad review on the internet, going something along the lines of: I apologize for your experience with us, what can we do to improve our business and accommodate your needs?

It was maddening. This newfound desire to please everyone in hopes of having some sort of companion was always crushed by something he'd seemed to have done.

Atticus had tried to ask Mira, but it seemed she'd blocked him immediately after sending the message. What could he have done that was so bad that she didn't want him to fix it? Depression was eating Atticus alive.

He'd downed a total of three large bottles of wine, tears leaking from his emotionless facade, and he was now beginning to hiccup. He was beyond the point of being able to stand up properly and not risking falling over, and gods knew there was no way the young man could possibly carry a conversation.

Finishing off the bottle, he threw it against the wall and watched it shatter, growling out a rough "Dammit!" He panted heavily, wishing he was capable of talking to someone, anyone, about what he wanted most in life. Once the veil of anger slipped away and showed it was really sadness in disguise, Atticus laid his head back onto the cushion of the sofa and cried freely, quiet sobs wracking his body even though he was alone in his own home.

From the outside, it had seemed as though Atticus had everything someone could possibly want: money, cars, a multitude of businesses he checked in on once a month, and a few houses, the one he was currently in being his third. All he was missing was someone to share it all with, which is what he longed for more than anything else in the world. He'd give up everything he had if it meant he wouldn't be alone anymore.

Sadness had taken over his entire being and left him paralyzed as tears flowed freely and he wished he'd had more wine in the cupboards. Atticus didn't bother to move for the rest of the night and just let himself become one with his sadness as he drifted away into a rocky sleep.

°°°

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Atticus drawled, half awake. His hair stuck in every imaginable direction, his shirt's buttons were unaligned and made the right side look like it was halfway up his stomach, and his back ached due to sleeping in a seating position in the floor against the couch. He imagined his breath was lethal, but he really didn't care as all he wanted was for whoever was knocking to stop: his headache had gained a throbbing rhythm.