Thousand Paper Cuts

Two : a flicker of candle

Mark :

His whole life seemed inappropriate, like wearing warm knitted sweaters on hot day of July.

He was still lying on his bed, his comforter near his feet, dangling around the edge. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, which was so perfectly made, unlike his life.
It was 10:00 a.m in the morning, but all of the radiant colors of the sun were blinded by his curtains.
The songs of his best friend's favourite band "Stardust" were playing on his old CD player, since night.
He had been crying endlessly and shouting the lyircs of the Song "Dying Everyday", as it went :

"Her fierce emeralds, shining above
Revealing itself, as no one loved
A wild thunder, in month of May
What is this life, If dying everyday?"

He got up, his hair wild like snowflake, and made his way towards his large kitchen, realising he needed something to eat. His whole damn house was nothing but darkness, like him, except for the little light coming through the curtains. He microwaved yesterday's spicy bufriedo's and sat on his blue vinyl couch, staring at huge screen of television he wouldn't ever watch.

There was a poetry quote by St. Edna Vincent Millay, his favourite poetess, that said,
"Night falls fast/ today is in the past."
Although it seemed true for everybody else, but not for him. His life was a slow caravan, and his nights did not fall fast. Every second seemed like a year, he couldn't run from.

What is life? He asked himself everyday. Why were lives even given, just to be taken back? How to escape the suffering?
There was always suffering, like being away from home, having hell lot of homework, or perhaps a dead friend he still couldn't believe was dead.

Mostly he would never go out of his home, but yesterday, he had wanted Stardust's album so bad, so he went outside, and his day was ruined by some stupid redhead.
He could have just sent Phil, but he had wanted to do that little thing by himself. It was something as convoluted and simple.

He thought about all those people who felt nothing in their lives.
It wasn't like that for him. Even if he felt nothing, he felt it completely.
Why do people leave? Is it such an easy thing to do? He thought. God, make it all stop spinning. Let this earth swallow me. Let the oceans drown me. I don't want to come back anymore.

There was a wall in his room, where he'd pinned all the thoughts that'd come to his mind. There were even things, memories, little notes on that wall.
So he took out one small piece of yellow paper, and wrote :
How to escape the suffering?
He slapped it on the wall, amid other unwanted thoughts and lines that were always there in his heart.

As he was unconsciously thinking about the conscious, the door bell rang. He suddenly raced into his kitchen. Who the hell came at his house?

It had been few months, that no one ever visited, except for Phil, who worked for him by bringing households he wanted from the outer world.
Anyway, with his black hood on, he opened the door, while avoiding sunlight.
"Dad." He said at once, while closing the door as his dad came inside.
He would sometimes talk on the phone with him, but it was second time he came here.
His dad was in his early forties, but he looked real young, mostly because he was a cheerful guy.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" His dad spoke fast, while looking at his dark living room.
His dad sat on the couch, and in the little light that came in through the curtains, he saw his dad's eyes changing colors every moment like the sky. That was the only thing he shared with him, a little similarity.

Mark didn't sit with him, but just stood at the corner like an abandoned child.
"What brings you here, after all this time?"
His dad, who was slumped on the couch, said,
"Mark, I am fully aware of this inevitable fact that people leave all the time, but at some point, you need to take off the bandage. Of course it'll hurt, but it'll be fine soon. It had been months, and it's a lot of time to heal. That's why I didn't visit. I knew you needed time, but now, you need to get a life. Look at this place!"
He gestured towards the broken lamp in the corner, few books placed randomly everywhere, and his closed windows.
Mark frowned, picked up one book lying on the floor, and said,
"There is this poet, and he wrote,