Pisanthraphobia (H2OVanoss and Others)

Chapter 2

It had been a long time since they had played Gmod. For Terroriser, it was probably one of his favourites, but he couldn't bring himself to pick up the controller, no matter how much the fans wanted it. No matter how much he wanted it.

His "Alright!" shirt was crumpled in the back of his closet, along with various other objects that he couldn't bear to look at. At one point, he had tried to get rid of everything, but for some reason he never did.

Most of the time he forgot. He had deleted the games that could trigger memories, unsubscribed to all of their accounts and deleted his posts about them. His YouTube account would block anything that mentioned them, and he was ignorant.

He hadn't really spoken to any of the guys in awhile, except for Brock. The rest would forever be in regret, in remembrance, and he had moved on. They were separate now.

He had moved to a New York apartment, the city full of life and energy he loved. It was like an addiction, but he ignored anything that he disagreed with.

Bright colourful lights danced behind his eyelids when he slept at night, and he scarcely ever slept at home. He would make videos in the mornings, and at night he would let himself be free.

There was always alcohol. He always drank, not because he needed to, but so he could bask in a land where he didn't have to think, where he didn't have to care.

A bit after the incident, he had gone to a therapist, and they told him that if he ran away, things would only get worse. He had never gone back.

In his mind, he wasn't running away. He was moving on, and sometimes you didn't have to think about things that don't exist anymore. Once you're dead, there's no reason for anyone to care.

He would invite people back to his apartment occasionally, both guys and girls, but things only ever lasted around an hour. Then they would leave, no words spoken, and he would forget.

But there was one thing he didn't want to forget. It was always there, and despite how he pushed it off to the side and ignored it, it was always loyal, always a voice of reason. That voice was Brock.

Moo had always been close to him. They hadn't known each other since childhood, and they spent most of their years together talking online, hiding behind a screen. But now, he was something more.

He couldn't explain it. Brock would come over and let himself in, always worrying and hovering around him in a frenzy. He would tell Brian that it wasn't healthy, that he needed to get help.

But more often than not, Brian would stare. He wouldn't ignore the desperate pleas, the hurt in his voice, and watch him. The brown doe eyes were shining with life, and when he watched them he felt more alive than he did when he went out at night.

Eventually there was a point when Brock would realize he wasn't listening, and Brian would pull him next to him in the bed. They would lay there together, not doing anything except being in the same room.

It gave Brian a sort of content longing, and for some reason he didn't forget the next morning. Their meetings were the way he held on to reality, and he wondered if someone could know if they were in a state of amnesia. Maybe it was all a dream.

There was one time where he almost lost everything, almost lost him. They had been there, lying in his bed again, and he felt Brock start shaking. Something had happened earlier in the day, and something about him was different.

And then suddenly he was up, frantically searching in the closet for the safe. He slammed it on the ground, breaking it open as he slowly sat up and opened his eyes. As he did, Brock had thrown it all, all of his memories that he had left behind, straight into him.

Everything has shattered, and he felt an eerie calm wash over him. Brock could only watch as he sat there, eyes open but unseeing. It felt like an eternity, and he almost wished it was; because it was then that he said it.

Go Away.

It was the first time Brian had reacted, had spoken to him in months, and the emotion in the monotone was like someone ripping his heart out. Tears flowed down his face, and he ran.

It was several weeks later that Brian remembered him. The safe was back in his closet, and he had forgotten what was in it. He didn't care.

In a drunken stupor, vodka from one of the many bottles in his fridge hidden in a sprite bottle, he walked. Somehow, he managed to find the apartment, and he knocked the door off its hinges without even trying.

He had enveloped him in his arms, a plate shattering from the numbing shock. Brock had hugged him back, and then Brian had left again.

After that, things returned to the way they were; Brock's words silent to his ears and the visits often how he woke up hungover.

He had created a new email account after that, his inbox spammed with reminders he didn't want. Brock had found out, and somehow he had stopped getting messages. It was a blessing, but then after a while he forgot why his email address had changed.

As the days went on, he was in a timeless spiral of late nights and forgotten mornings. The only person he cared about had become his sunlight, and he didn't need to remember the light of day.

One day, he would remember if what the light was, but for now he was isolated in his mind.

And of course, in his mind, nothing mattered.