self-destructive empathy ; setosolace

5

hi i changed the title of the story from "lie to me" to "self-destructive empathy"

~

Rehearsal.

As a child, my parents had always told me "practice makes perfect." Of course, that philosophy does hold some truth to it. The more adjusted and "well-prepped" you become towards a certain craft, the more simpler it becomes. Additionally, the more practice you receive, the more opportunities you'll have to fix your mistakes (or at least spot them).

When your parents say "practice makes perfect," they [probably] don't mean shoving all your practice sessions into one day. A practice should be extended on a day to day basis, not rushed. Nothing could prepare for the shit-storm that's brewing in my mind, however.

I've been panicking in my car for the past ten minutes. It's unnecessary to worry this much about getting a book from a bookstore, as well as practice what you're going to say in front of a librarian that you may or may not have offended. It's a mental handicap of mine to excessively worry to the point in which I cannot properly function. Ty says it's stupid and I should get over it, but I can't. I'm just the type to think too much.

I'm not really the risk taker type. I try to avoid things that will cause me to go into crisis mode, such as rollercoasters, grocery shopping, or getting gasoline. Of course, they're usually inevitable and I'll just have to get over it (Ty would eventually mock me and repetitively say, "I told you so!").

I want to exit out of this car and get the deed done, but my body physically won't let me. My mind is screaming at me, telling me to rehearse just one last time. That last time turns into two, then three, then four. It'll keep going and I'll eventually realize that I've wasted my time contemplating over an issue that could just be easily solved. Just open the damn door, Brice!

I muster all the courage I have left in my body and pull against the car door handle. It's nice to step outside and feel that cool breeze against my sweaty body. I shut the door and bolt across the street, hoping I won't get hit. I'm not good at walking across streets either, my timing is usually horrible and I nearly get run over half the time.

I'm standing in front of the glass doors that lead into the library. It's either now or never, and I'm choosing now. I pull the door open, but oddly it won't budge. I pull at it again. No, this doesn't make sense, the door should have opened if I pulled it. What if they're closed? What if Seto saw me coming and—

Oh.

It says push.

Breathlessly, I push the glass door open and walk inside. It's exactly the same as the last time I had came yesterday. It's excruciatingly hot, especially since I'm wearing double layers. I don't know why I expected anything to magically change once I had waltzed in, it's a library for fucks sake!

I head towards the front desk. Anticipating the same brunet probably reading some book in the computer chair, I'm pleasantly surprised to see his sleeping figure. His head is planted against the desk, propped up with his own arm as a pillow. His body is somehow even more relaxed than it previously was, and he's drooling a bit. There's a small puddle of saliva on his desk and it's staining his pastel purple sweater.

I stare at him with bewilderment for a while. Honestly, it's astonishing how he can sleep on the job like this. I mean, it's a library so it's quiet enough to do so, but when you're the only employee expecting loyal patrons, aren't you suppose to be awake at all times? His sleep schedule must be really fucked up if he's choosing to snooze near lunchtime.