Saving Prince Charming

The Comforting Quiet

In a quiet nook within Thomas Sanders’ head, there was a… a something. It was dark, and it was cold, and it sometimes sent shivers down Thomas’ spine, (and not the good kind). And since it lived in a sector of his mind that no one ever went to, it festered. It grew. And now, it was powerful. And dangerously unnoticed.  

Because behind that ever-locked door lived Thomas’ conscience. The thoughts and feelings that were uniquely him - Thomas and no one else- happened there. They lived and breathed and flourished there. And the traits never dared visit this most sacred place, lest they pollute his very being. Or at least, that was their theory. They decided it was simply best not to risk it.

So, sneakily, the Thing that now resided in ‘that room’ became deadly influential, more so than some of the original traits, with no one the wiser.

It was nothingness, so it took from others.

It stole life force from Prince.

It did the same to Morality.

Anxiety, it seemed, wasn’t affected at all.

And Logic?

Logic… well…

*

Logic’s room was quiet, a comforting shield of safety around the two slumbering traits. They lay on the floor in yesterday’s clothes, facing each other, unaware of the trials and tribulations the new day would bring them; but they wouldn’t remain undisturbed for long. In fact, Logic now stirred in his slumber, waking up slowly as he tossed and turned under their shared blankets. And as he woke, he sighed for dreams lost and for reality’s harshness. But such soft sentiments weren’t meant for people like him, so he quickly moved on.

Logic had always enjoyed the gentle not-silence that came with being alone in a room with a good friend: there wasn’t much talking, because there was an atmosphere of general understanding, of communication, and there was no need. And it wasn’t completely noiseless, either, because there were the subtle sounds of breathing, or maybe the turning of a page, or perhaps even pencil on paper. It was rather comforting, really. But that was illogical.

“Anxiety? Are you awake?” the darker trait yawned and blinked open his bleary eyes.

“I am now, thanks Logic.” Anxiety grumbled, and turned away from the other, taking his pillow with so that it covered his head. “Five more minutes.”

“You know, I think that was the most cliché thing I’ve ever heard you say.” He retorted as he sat up, rubbing at his eyes with unnecessary vigor.

“Yeah, well… your face is cliché.”

“One- we have the same face, Anx. Two- that didn’t even make sense.”

“You might even say it was… illogical?”

“Oh come on! That one was just plain unoriginal!”

“It’s like six in the morning, what did you expect, poetry?”

They were both giggling now, filling their little silence with something that was (for once) equally as pleasant. But with the chuckles came the awareness of being fully awake, and with that came the awareness of their surroundings, and with that came the awareness of the noises happening outside of Logic’s room. And they were not happy sounds.

Prince, for instance, was complaining. Loudly. You could even say he was screaming at the two of them. And Dad, well, he was trying to keep quiet, but he was rather obviously in pain.

“Dad’s awake.”

“Yeah.”

“Prince is. Um.”

“Being Prince.” They laughed, but the light was gone from it, replaced by shadows of expectation and of guilt.

“…I’ll get the Prince.” Logic let out a deep breath. He didn’t particularly want to deal with that particular trait this early in the morning, or ever if he was being truly honest, but he knew that he was more equipped for dealing with him than Anxiety was.

“No… no, I’ll do it. You go check on Morality.” Logic’s head whipped around to face Anxiety, who rubbed at his neck. “Look. You need to see him—” Logic tensed, remembering that night (was it only the day before?) when Dad fell unconscious, when his every sense was blurred by tears, when he couldn’t even think for all his emotion swelling over him and held together only by his best friend’s arms [was that how Anx felt all the time?—] “I can handle Princey for a few minutes, don’t worry.”

“I don’t worry.” Was his automatic response, but it was more a result of years of telling himself that he wasn’t allowed anything but analytical decision than anything else.

“Yeah, sure you don’t.” Anxiety winked, grinning, letting the weight from his heavy heart and trepidation sink him into the carpet.

“Wait! I— Oh, whatever.” He shrunk into the floor, expecting a much more pleasant visit than the one Anxiety had forced upon himself.

*

“Logic! Dad! Anybody?” Prince cried out, looking rather comfortable snuggled up in his pink blanket on the couch they had left him in. Anxiety scoffed.

“I see you air for the theatrical is alive and well.” Anxiety droned, blowing his hair out of his eyes.

“Oh! — Oh. It’s just you.” Prince closed his eyes, rubbing his eyes in a way that mirrored Logic’s actions not so long ago. This wasn’t nearly as welcoming a situation, though.

“Yep. Just me. And I’m just here to move you back to your room, so don’t complain too much, Pretty Boy.” Anxiety made his way over to the couch Prince was reclining in, and offered his hand. Prince recoiled, acting for all the world as if Anxiety’s hand was the most vile thing he’d ever come across.

“I’d rather die than—”

“Then that’s what you’ll do, on this couch, because you were too stubborn to take my hand for about two seconds.”

The Prince grew pale, then. Or, paler. And Anxiety knew that playing on his fear of death was a tad below the belt, but he was just… done. He didn’t really want to be here, Prince didn’t really want to be here, and this got them both out of the situation quicker. Hopefully.

The Prince tentatively reached out to take his hand, and—

And Anxiety was writhing on the floor, screaming.