Before the Rain

Fourteen: I Don't Believe in Anything, Especially Not Myself

"Cal don't just stand there awkwardly," Adam laughs at myself, "Come in here with me."

He leads me into his bedroom in which I had only seen a few times. Many of our sessions were held in the tree house due to his odd and inexplicable admiration of it. The only reason I had ever enjoyed it strictly came from the surrounding canopy of red and yellow. That, and the cold.

Adam's bedroom walls were painted in a dark gray color, the piping on the walls indicated that this was an older house, most likely built in the early twentieth century. As along with the piping at the edge of the ceiling, he had strung sets of red, green, and yellow Christmas lights around the perimeter. The lights unevenly hung lower in some places, creating a sense of imperfection. For some strange reason, I became quite fond of this detail; this imperfection. Perhaps it was because I could relate. Nonetheless, his room was entirely comforting in every way. He had two shelves in the corner of his room up against the gray walls, both completely stocked with various books. Below the Christmas lights band posters and a few prints of artwork littered his walls. Conceivably, I noticed his bed last, and definitely stared at it for quite too long. The bed itself was a queen in size, the frame encompassing it a rich, cherrywood. The comforter on the top of the bed was a forest green(I attempted to smile at that) with a Dia de Los Muertos themed knitted afghan laid at the end of the base. It was looked so warm and peaceful. Two words I wouldn't necessarily use in any instance as a positive. However, today it was, because it belonged to Adam. It was where he fell asleep, where he dreamt, and I desperately wanted to be a part of that. Fuck whatever issues I had acquired before convincing myself what I had actually wanted. I want him and nothing else. Well, except my own death. But even then, I wouldn't entirely get what I wanted. That's unless Adam were to come with me; but of course that is very much impossible. Besides, I don't believe in anything, including opinions upon the afterlife. Also, unlike myself, he actually deserves to live.

He interrupts my thoughts abruptly, "So yeah, this is my room."

I mock-glance around the room as if I hadn't previously evaluated it to its absolute extent, "I like it."

His face lights up immediately, perhaps even brighter than the Christmas lights strung above the both of us, "Really? I thought you like, hated everything. Of course accept books like these."

He turns to one of the cherrywood shelves, hastily selecting a small set of books in which he then proceeded to hand to me, "I already read them a few weeks ago. Bought them right after you mentioned Romanticism to me. I thought I'd give them a shot if my favorite patient likes them."

I stare at the three books in a somewhat ardent and vigorous way. The first was a paperback, Young Goodman Brown by Nathaniel Hawthorne. The story told of a hopelessly lost man, hopelessly lost in the forest; he then comes upon his own doppelgänger and the two attempt to figure out what the fuck was going on. Or something like that, I hadn't read the entire thing yet. The next book, however, I was a bit obsessed with: Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. It wasn't necessarily an actual novel (it was a book of poetry) but it was still one of my favorite books. The final was definitely the most main-stream of romantic literature, The Scarlet Letter which happened to also be written by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

I found myself almost entirely overcome with a strange and foreign emotion; one in which I have not felt in a long time.

Happiness.

"You can have them if you'd like," Adam advocates.

I ignore his most generous offer, "I'm your only patient though, how could I possibly be your favorite?"

He chuckles lightly, "Really? You're like my favorite person Cal. Also, you aren't the only one; I've been an intern at a mental health facility for a month now."