AGALMATOPHILIA

THE _-:50:-_ FINALE

Two weary feet drag themselves up a flight of stairs, the light honey colored wood worn, old and stained with the past history of previous owners. As Tyler grips the rail, pulling himself up towards his bedroom, he stops just before the platform, a small, pink stain on the lightened, deeply scratched wooden floor.

Staring at the stain, Tyler twists his mouth in thought, huffing through his nose in a sort of displeased yet content way, dragging his toes across the spot, although he clearly recognizes that it would be well beyond dry by now, curiosity gets the better of him, the way to mark looks makes it look wet, fresh, and Tyler first instinct is to touch.  

He wonders where it could've come from, toes still upon the blemish, who might've put it there, how the stain could've come to be, what it was made of, Tyler wondered what marks he would leave behind for new families to find, what pieces of him would forever be ingrained into this abode, perhaps the blood stain in the bathroom from where he had cut himself shaving would forever remain, ironically, it had bleed deep into the grout of the tiles, resistant to his furious scrubbing with various cleaning products.

Or maybe where he had dropped a jar of pasta sauce on the kitchen floor, the pristine white kick boards now a faint orange, and though he had tried so hard to remove it, like the blood stain, it had been left too long, too late, and already made its mark on his lovely little home.

Tyler didn't mind his own marks and stains, they comforted him, he felt like it was really his own place, no one else's, and that he truly did own the house, and the feeling of needing others around, perhaps as a safety blanket of some sort, a room mate, melted away, he didn't want anyone else making marks, spots, stains in his house. 

It was his, he finally had his own place. He forgets this, knowing he could stand there all night, thinking, he moves his feet, shifting side to side before he turns to his right, down a small hallway, exhausted, slouched, all he wanted was to sleep after the day that he had.

As he dragged himself towards the bathroom, hands holding his tired body up by using walls and door frames to grip onto and bounce off, Tyler thinks about his old apartment as a sort of tangent from his own new house, about Brendon's beautiful new home with Gerard, up in the rolling green hills filled with various brightly colored flowers, he sighs, genuinely starting to become concerned as he thinks about the toy shop as it was one of his old homes.

He was aware it had been burnt, he was there, he had watched as Josh had hurriedly poured gasoline over the entire place, the tears pouring down his face, mixing into the gas.

The pit of Tyler's stomach falls to his feet as he reaches for his mirror cabinet, eyes slowly moving up to meeting themselves, his hand drops back down to grip the ceramic lip of the basin, shoulders slumped, and he sighs.

Josh had so much pain in his beautiful caramel-mocha eyes, as he flicked that burning match through the open door, the place exploding into a ball of fire, shrapnel and fragmented shards of glass and wood blasted past Tyler's head, his whole body dropping to the dirty, wet ground, but Josh remained standing, staring, those eyes harbored so much heartache, and in that moment, Tyler wished he knew what was wrong with Josh, what had happened to him for him to become so cold.

He had remorse in his gorgeous caramel jewels, pain danced throughout the glints within them, so much regret dripped from his slouched shoulders, his usual, uptight, straight postured demeanor had grown weak, shriveled, his appearance disheveled, untidy, hair messy, Josh didn't look like Josh.

In fact, Tyler felt sorry for this Josh, he wasn't the one who had kidnapped him, he wasn't who had hit him, or Brendon, the person who could make such horrific dolls, this was Josh. The real, and raw Josh, and Tyler wanted to hug him.