Maybe he just had to admit that he was royally fucked up. Or maybe he could convince himself that he was okay for just a little while longer until he could find time to fix himself.
For now, though, Ave found himself indulging in ice cream and suppressing his emotion as he watched Simpson reruns. And fuck, was he depressed.
His friends hated each other. They could never agree on anything, and Ave'd be lying if he said he didn't try to fix their friendship every time he could. However, a few hours ago had been the last straw for him.
"Guys, stop yelling at each other!" he pressed towards his friends, both of whom were in a heated argument.
"She doesn't leave me alone!" the first yelled. "Even when I asked her to shut up!"
"Yeah, well, he was the one that was complaining about never getting help!" the second retaliated.
"Jesus fucking Christ, both of you need to shut the fuck up!" Ave screamed at the top of his lungs, in the middle of a park, no less. "I just can't be your mediator for this shit anymore! I'm not gonna be friends with either of you if you keep fighting over stupid shit that can be solved by someone giving in! And I sure as hell can't do it for you!" Both simply looked at Ave, then at each other. The second rolled her eyes.
"I think it's fucked up that Ave has to keep doing this," the second told the first.
"All I did was ask him," the second replied. "He didn't have to come."
"Why did you ask him, then?"
"So we wouldn't fight!"
"Well, obviously, it's not working!" Then, Ave just snapped.
"That's fucking it!" he cried, nearly on the brink of tears because God, he could not do this anymore. "I am not talking to either of you anymore until you make up! If not, then fuck if I know when I'll talk again!" And he found himself storming away from the playground, various children eyeing him as he kicked a tree, and ignored his now stubbed toe.
That was what dragged Ave from bad to worse. He knew he wasn't going to sleep, and he didn't care if he threw up from the sugar he's had nonstop. If he could just do anything, smoke, drink, jump off a building, he'd feel better, or at least numb.
Instead, all he had left was his room and his sorry ass.
Slowly, he dragged himself from his bed, leaving the TV on as he trudged towards the bathroom.
He looked like shit.
His hair, short and black, was greasy and scruffed. He was still wearing his dark red hoodie that he hadn't taken off since yesterday. His eyes were bloodshot around his brown irises, making his skin look sullen and tired. His mouth parted just enough to show the damage done from his overbite.
No. He was shit. The living entity of a piece of shit.
He grabbed the shaver from the drawer and plugged it in. His hair was getting long on the sides. He'd just shave the sides down to a nub, just enough to be manageable again.
He watched the hair fall into the sink, getting a second mirror to shave the back.
He felt like a new person. Better.
Maybe, if he could find it, he'd break out his old leather jacket from last Christmas and wear that everyday. Find his old spike belt and some fingerless gloves lying around from when his dad used to wear them. His mom had only just cleaned out the storage shed last week, he was bound to find something to fit the person he was keen to become.
He'd wait until after dark, of course, to sift through the boxes as his mom slept. Snag a pack of cigarettes while he was there from her. Maybe test the liquor cabinet.
He was ready to fit his mood, because for him, there was no going back from this shitstorm.
