Alone Together

1: Back Home

The apartment smelled nothing like it did before Melvin left. Melvin gagged when he closed the door. "First, they haul my ass to the looney bin..." He groaned as he shut the door behind him. "...then they fill my house with bleach and lemons."

He looked to his dead house plant and asked it, "Remind me why I don't murder people more often?"

When he received no response, he shrugged and moved to his bedroom.

He flung the door open and flung himself onto his bed—the only thing that felt right. It creaked against his weight, the mattress molded to fit his body. Melvin pulled his thin blanket over himself and kicked his shoes off. He stuck his hand in the sheets, letting it roam against the mattress and the blanket until he could feel his familiar fabric.

"Now...where are you...?" He felt it against his fingertips and he yanked it from under himself. "Aha!" He held the cape in front of him, eyeing it in the dim evening light that pooled in through the blinds. "Found you!"

Melvin rubbed his cape against his face, loving it's purple color and smooth fabric against his skin, sniffing it in hopes that the scent would take him back to warmer times. "I've missed you, Capey..."

Melvin seemed to be the only thrilled about his arrival—he hadn't known his neighbors that well but he could feel their stares when he passed them in the hall. Guy from the institution is back. Didn't you hear? He killed a man.

Melvin couldn't even remember half of what the doctors and psychiatrists had said, nor what they had tried to prescribe him. It was a big, boring blur. Pill after pill, question after question; it drove him insane just being there, having to sit still and act like a civil human being. The bag of pills he came home with were shoved into the junk drawer and that's where they would stay.

He knew what the neighbors were saying about him, what the people in the streets saw on his face that they recognized from the news—but that was months ago. If no one had convinced themselves he was a 'reformed' man, they probably forgot all about him.

Melvin had stopped caring. Right now he could go for something to eat.

With his stomach grumbling, he forced himself up out of bed and made his way to the door. But, not before looking into his mirror on the back of his door to see if he could get his hair in any and all directions.

That institution promotes so much sanity that even his hair couldn't take it, having drooped to his shoulders in sadness. He went to the bathroom, filled his hands with gel and massaged the roots, saying, "I know, I know...I hated it there too. But guess what?"
When his hair extended to every direction, he sneered. "We're home."

After arranging the poofs to where they needed to be, he noticed the slightest hint of stubble at his chin. Melvin only groaned; the mean-doctor-people didn't let him touch any sharp things, so he couldn't shave at the asylum. He was surprised, however, that only so little facial hair had grown.

Frustrated, he forced himself into the bathroom. Luckily, the light bulbs weren't changed, and the room still had a certain dimness that he took to a liking. Melvin loved his darkness, and let as little light in as possible, no matter where he was.

He scavenged his drawers for a razor that wasn't there, because hadn't bought any. "Shit..." He grumbled. An idea popped into his head, and he left, and returned with a sharpened kitchen knife.

Melvin picked it up and took a long look in the mirror. He didn't have a real beard, but the stubble did place the shape on his face and he saw the resemblance to someone he'd long forgotten.