He walks through the streets, analysing each person. Their eyes are all so hopeful. He hates them. He hates their eyes and he hates their existence. He wishes the world didn't exist. Ever. Or that he could at least create it the way he wants to.
It hadn't always been this way. He hadn't always been this way. As a child, he was kind and sweet and cared about how other people felt. He'd helped people, stopped them from doing bad or stupid things and he'd shown them the correct way to go. Of course, that eventually changed and here he is now, as dull and as empty as the grave his mother had lain in.
He reaches his destination, picking up a basket to carry his shopping. The shop is loud and busy and he despises it. He despises the fact that everyone is so happy and chatty. He collects his items as quickly as possible and pays and leaves.
He decides to stay home for the rest of the day, waiting for his roommate to return from school. He wasn't usually one for wanting company, but today he felt that a drunken chat would be nice. His roommate had planned a birthday party for him, and he hated him for it. He decided last week that he'd drug everyone and have a little fun at least. He gets home, taking his coat off and placing it beside his hat on the coat hanger. His hand lingers a little beside it, as he hasn't worn it in at least a year. His roommate bought it for him on his last holiday to America. His friend had gone to visit family and left him alone for about half a month. That half a month was blissful and lonely and his chest stung from the silence of the house. The only time it was not so blissful was when the gas man had arrived to check the boiler and tried to start a conversation which resulted in him becoming exhausted. Despite having enjoyed that half a month, he is appreciative of his roommate. He occasionally provided an escape for the other, acting as a vessel for contained violence.
Before he realises, his roommate is at the door, talking to him, or rather at him, as he had blanked out the world for a while. He looks at him, watching his lips move, but not hearing anything at all. He blinks, shuddering when the other places a hand on his shoulder. It goes numb.
"Espen, are you alright?" His roommate asks him, but he replies only with a slightly surprised facial expression. "Espen?!" he repeats.
Espen opens his mouth, hoping something comes out. "I'm fine." He tells Sachairi, his Danish accent thick against the air of the porch. Sachairi doesn't believe him one bit.
"Tell me what's wrong, Espen. You can't stare at me as if I'm speaking Japanese and then tell me you're fine." He smiles a little, which stings his eyes. He shakes his head.
"I was just thinking about some things, it's not an issue. Thank you for the concern, though." He manages to fake a smile, which causes Sachairi to tilt his head, before shaking it and walking to the kitchen to cook the food he'd bought earlier that day. Espen makes the drinks, waiting for the other to leave the room to allow him to drug the drinks, and making sure he has a stash of his own that is not drugged. After he is done, he takes a quick nap to restore what energy he can before the party starts. It will be fun. It must be fun. He must be happy.
