Sincerely, Mike

04: Sanity is a Full-Time Job

Hours later, Mike was still seated on a stiff barstool at Trè's kitchen counter, staring blankly at the sealed envelope lying in front of him as if in a trance. His head in his hands, he absentmindedly traced over the intricate patterns etched into the marble countertop with the tips of his fingers, never once looking away from the small cream-colored paper package.

Barely even present in reality, Mike's focus could only be broken by the unmistakable sounds of Trè lumbering down the stairs and the boards of the stairwell creaking in distress under his weight.

Slowly, Mike swiveled around on the stool to face his friend, his heart immediately sinking in his chest upon observing the now even darker circles underneath Trè's normally glittering cerulean eyes and the blood slowly encroaching upon their whites. Something about the frown settling on his lips and the worry on his brow told Mike that Trè was in one of his crushingly low moods and that any attempt at conversation or consolation had a very high probability of going horribly wrong.

Apparently, it seemed, the nap Mike had insisted he take had done little good, if any at all.

Mike watched carefully as Trè slowly shuffled to the other side of the counter, his eyes stormy and his aura seemingly on-edge. Leaning his forearms onto the countertop, Trè heaved a deep sigh and rested his head on the cool granite, his eyes slowly drifting up to meet Mike's.

They begged for no mercy, and they cried for no help; they simply stared on, defeated.

Mike sighed, pursing his lips. He knew from the look on his face that Trè wasn't exactly open to talking, but the fact that something was wrong was so blatant to Mike that it just felt wrong not to even attempt to offer his friend some form of consolation.

Mike cleared his throat, leaning his head down just a bit so that his eyes were more level with Trè's.

"I...I was finally able to get Spazzy to eat..."

Mike stumbled awkwardly over his words, not really sure of any other way to start a conversation with the downtrodden man who stood before him.

Expecting Tré to perk up at what would have otherwise been amazing news, Mike was fairly surprised to see his friend's gaze dart away from his, a glazed look suddenly appearing in his eyes and mixing with the now characteristic and ever-present looks of hopelessness and defeat.

"Yeah," Tré breathed lackadaisically, his eyes and mind elsewhere.

"It was just one cookie, but hey, that's better than nothing, right?" Mike was eager to continue the conversation.

"Yeah. I guess. Whatever."

For some reason, the words and the tone with which Tré spoke them saddened Mike. Something about seeing Tré so frustrated, so defeated, so utterly destroyed by his emotions and so devoid of any and all hope-and knowing that there was little to nothing that he could do about it- crushed him.

It was evident to Mike then more than ever that everything that had happened in the past month had just been all too much for Tré. He had been pushed beyond his limit, stretched far too thin; he had become a slave to his emotions and as a result been utterly destroyed by them.

The man who stood before Mike that day was broken beyond repair, now reduced to nothing but a faded negative of the image he had once been.

He needed a break, Mike knew. And one far longer than a two hour nap.

"Tré," Mike began softly, reaching a hand out and gently tousling his friend's strawberry blond hair, "Tré, listen to me, buddy. I need you to look at me, this is serious."