Midnight lovestory

Coming to terms

"How've you been this past week, Mark?" the man asks and looks intently at the other, slightly younger, man for any indicators whether he's lying or telling the truth. "Fine. It's been great actually", the younger man answers and remembers to smile; he found out fairly quickly that smiles disguise the lies better than eye contact does. "That's nice to hear", the man says with an earnest smile, "you've been sleeping better this week? Last week, you said you didn't get much sleep". Mark also learned in the first few weeks that a lie should always be followed by a truth – one lie, one truth, one lie, one truth; like a circle to survive. "It's been about the same, I'd say. Maybe I've gotten a little less sleep?" He hates talking about how much he sleeps, or rather 'his lack of sleep'. They always want to know why he can't sleep, why he's afraid of falling asleep, why he fears the nightmares. The older man scribbles something down on the pad in his lap before he says, "Have the thoughts been worse this week? Since your sleep's been worse, I mean. Normally those two walk hand in hand". The younger man pretends to think about it, like he has to actually think about how bad the thoughts've been this week. He knows exactly how bad they've been, he's had these kind of thoughts since he's fifteen, for Pete's sake; he knows how bad they've been, "They've been about the same, a little less intense maybe". The look the older man sets on him as he leans back in his chair is scrutinizing, almost calculating, letting him know he should've told something a little closer to the truth, so he hastily adds, "It's not so much the thoughts, you know? It's more the nightmares – they've been bad this week". At least, that's not a lie, and sometimes you have to give one thing in order to leave another be; you should know which battles to fight and which not to fight to win the war. The older man doesn't look entirely convinced but the eyes lose some of their intensity at least, "The nightmares – what've they been about?" And that clams him up. He hasn't been able to make him talk about his nightmares so far, no one has really, and he suspects it isn't going to happen in the near future either. His nightmares used to be about everything and anything; from trains he has to board but is always too late to, to pigs going wild, to corpses laying about, to getting killed by a member of his own family. But the last year? And especially the past four nights? It's been mainly about- he quickly cuts his own train of thoughts off by pressing his middle finger hard against the cliff between his brows. In some religions they'd probably believe he's poking himself in his third eye whereas others'd say it's just a bundle of nerves that's placed right there; Mark doesn't know and he really doesn't care either – he just knows it cuts his thoughts off instantly and effectively. The scribbling starts again and when he looks up, the other man's writing something more down before he looks up, makes eye contact with Mark and says with a smile, "Let's skip that one. You want to tell me about your week instead?" His brows furrow at that, "What'd you like to know?" It's not really a 'no' but it's not a 'yes' either; depends on what he wants to know. "I don't know.. like, have you been able to get to classes? Or maybe tell me about something special or extraordinary that's happened". Something that's happened? Nothing special or extraordinary has happened. More like big. Or awful. Or- "I went to classes on Monday. But I wasn't able to get myself out on bed Wednesday or today". Give a truth to hide what a psychologist'd love to hear about, to get him off trail. The smile on the other man's lips grows, "That's big. You haven't attended class since Wednesday the week before last. You did good!". He nods once, his lips have some difficulty to actually grow to a smile at the praise; he doesn't feel 'good', he's regretted his decision to leave his apartment ever since. If he hadn't left his apartment to go to classes, he wouldn't have went grocery shopping when he did and he wouldn't have met- "Something happened at class?" the older man asks and Mark hates how good he is at reading people. "No", he looks up, smiles, squares his shoulders. "Something happened after class?" Again, he shakes his head, "No, nothing". But his eyes betray him, like the traitors they often are, when they momentarily stray down to the man's shoulder, breaking eye contact. Mark can basically hear the wheels in the other man's brain work in high speed. They're both silent for a short while before the older man carefully asks, "Is that 'something' the reason the nightmares've been worse?" Mark's jaw tightens subconsciously, he knows it and he hates it, but he also knows that there's no way to convince the other man that 'no, that isn't the reason at all' so he leaves it at it is. "It happened on your way home?" he asks even more carefully; he knows he's toeing a dangerous line between Mark staying and Mark bolting out of there. And Mark's heart's picking up speed, the older man's getting too close with his questions, and his hands grip at his right ankle on top of his left knee. The older man looks about as tense as the younger man feels and he hesitates a heartbeat before he offers, "You want to talk abo-" "No", Mark cuts him off. Because how could he talk about it? How would he even begin to explain how he met his ex when he went grocery shopping after class on Monday? The same ex he thought he'd spent the rest of his life with. The same ex that gave him an ultimatum a year ago after months of worrying for his well-being – either Mark seeks professional help or they break up. The same ex he'd finally pushed out of his life that very night a year ago after refusing to seek help. The same ex he'd tried to commit suicide over because he knew he'd fucked up the moment the door closed and everything fell silent that very night a year ago. The same ex he'd seen on Monday, laughing and looking happier than he'd looked in almost a year before finally laving Mark. The very same ex that looked so happy with another man and not with Mark. In that moment Mark knew he'd done the right thing by pushing him out of his life; he would never look that happy beside Mark. But just because he knew he'd done the right thing didn't mean it didn't hurt like he'd lost half of himself completely. Mark tries to hold onto the knowledge that he'd looked that happy beside Mark once, though; that Mark had been able to make him laugh years ago. But life tends to catch up to you and all the bad things from Mark's childhood just caught up to him and made him make the worst, yet clearly the best, decision he'd ever made in his entire life that night one year ago. "I want you to be honest now, Mark", the older man's serious voice breaks through, "are the suicidal thought coming back?" 'Coming back'? They never really left. To be honest, they've never left my side since I was fifteen, like a soothing companion. "No. No, you shouldn't worry", he smiles, honesty in his voice. He's not suicidal anymore, he just has suicidal thoughts.

September 21st 2017