Heaven.

Zackari. Zackari only cared about his mother. And she wasn't even his real mother, and died a long time ago. But he really didn't care about himself. That said a lot about his appearance. He was 6’1, and his shoulders were slightly crooned in. He had shabby black hair. His skin was as pale as the fresh snow that glided through the chilly December sky out his window. The ends of his fingers were frostbitten and almost the same color as the plum that sat on the kitchen counter. He was a schizophrenic. Sometimes he would hear voices telling him ‘they’ would find out, but he didn't know who ‘they’ were. He was also a heavy smoker. Sometimes these two intertwined and as the smoke lifted off his lips, they created monsters only he could see. Zackari, as a twenty one year old, was especially fascinated by humans, although he hated most of them on principle. He thought humans were beautiful. He cherished how their skin is stretched over their bones. He loved the crooks and crevices found all over their body. He adored they way hair spun out their scalp like a living spiderweb. He admired their long, elegant fingers. He fell for their pointy elbows and knees. He idolized how beautiful their face were even though they weren't perfectly symmetrical. He absolutely glorified their eyes. And the list goes on. He was almost always alone in the three bedroom apartment on the 23rd floor, other than when his roommate returns from his fancy ‘business trips’. He called the apartment his paradise. It wasn't much of a paradise, though. Pale blue paint was peeling off the ancient walls of paradise. Paradise almost always smelled of cigarette and coffee. It was ALWAYS cold in paradise, even in summer. It was more of a hell than a paradise. This morning in paradise wasn't any different. Zackari jolted awake from one of his many nightmares. Most of his nightmares consisted of his dead mother, haunting him throughout eternity. He never knew the cause of her death. In fact, nobody knew how she died. He gawked at the ceiling for a couple minutes before sliding off the sofa. He never slept on the beds, he didn't feel very safe in the bedrooms. The sofa did not provide much comfort either, though. He hadn't slept for three days and he was hallucinating heaps. Zackari had enough of this. He walked to the storage room, his hallucinations getting worse. He saw monsters around every corner and the aggressive voices inside his head were tormenting him. Paradise this morning was rather a hell for him. He started scavenging the storage boxes for pills. Pills to stop the hallucinations. He stumbled over a large, dusty, cardboard box his mom gave him when he moved out. It had been three years, and he still hadn't opened it. He was afraid to open the box, he was afraid that old memories would spill out of the box and stain his already blemished mind. But right now, he didn't really care. He scuttled around and found a pocket knife he hadn't seen in years. He thrusted the tip of the blade deep into the box, already regretting this. After a few minutes of flimsy fiddling, trying to open the box of regret, he finally ripped through the first layer. Inside, he spotted a box wrapped in gorgeous red fabric. It filled up most of the box, leaving out a gap in between each wall where many spiders were scampering around. He gave little chuckle, imagining the gaps as corridors for the sulky creatures below. Zackari gently lifted the box, smirking as he briskly peeled off the red wrapping. He gazed in, as his eyes broadened and he staggered back a few steps.