Close your Eyes Part 1

The emptiness is killing me.

The sadness is killing me.

As far as I can see

Nothing is what I want it to be

I can only dream of me

Me at my happiest

Me at my most joyful

Me at the peak of my life

I can only dream

When I close my eyes

He slouches over the sink, glaring glaring at the mirror. Dishevelled, dark hair. Bulging, brooding eyes. A white t-shirt loosely drapes over him, coupled with an unusually short pair of boxers. Lost in thought, his left hand slips. He nearly falls, but manages to grab the toilet bowl on time. A cup crashes on the floor. He gasps. He grunts as he lifts himself up. He raises his head and stares at himself once more. You put white paint on yourself and you will look exactly like him. Sprinkle a few hairs on his chin, sides and upper section of his mouth and there you have him. Young but old. Blood vessels throb in his lifeless eyes, devoid of any joy, enthusiasm, peace. His eyes start to swell. He lowers his head and takes in a deep breath.

Let it go.

But I can't.

He looks at his razor. Spots of shaving cream dried up on it.

Back at the mirror, his body stays still for a minute.

He trudges out and is greeted by the bed, welcomed by a few rays of radiant yellow sunlight squeezing between the lowered curtains. Blanket messily folded. Pillows stacked with a lack of thought. A table sits to the left. Textbooks and worksheets strewn all over the place. A water bottle sits lonely at the table corner. A bible. Dusty, evidently closed for a very long time. Panning across the pile of mess, is a photo on a heart-shaped photo holder. A selfie. A middle-aged Caucasian man and Asian woman embrace two boys, lying on a picnic mat, beaming with joy. He slowly steps toward it. He picks it up.

He sits down in a meditative pose on his bed. He shuts his eyes. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Another breath in. Another breath out. A slight frown on his face forms.

I see them every time. I see their smiles. I hear their laughter. For once I miss their shouting, their screaming. The open fields where we would play. We. Would play. Radiant, lavish green, now a dull greyish look this time of the year under these... melancholic clouds. I want it all back. I really do.

He opens his eyes. He glances at a calendar on his table. November 12. Below it, is a quote.

Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.

He raises shakes it. His watch beams brightly in the dim environment. December 12, Saturday.

I always hear the sobs. The rain. Trickling down the umbrella I held. The day that broke me.

Shall I do it?

He stares at the curtains. He gets onto his feet. And approaches it. Then he stops. Rooted to the ground. He stares at the slight illumination of the curtains. A long sigh. He shoves them aside, welcomed by a bright morning. Strange. Usually dark . He grabs the latch and twists it every so slowly, pushing the window open. A cool wind gushes over him. He breathes it all in.

He raises his leg over the window.

Then his other leg.

His butt then rests on the window as he looks a long, long way down. No one seems to notice him. They just walk by, minding their own business.

He looks down.

A young couple. Holding a young kid. They are laughing. A lot.

Such a time is long gone.

Other people walk by. Many looks of happiness, sadness, anger, frustration, arrogance. None of this matters to him.

Beads of tears start to trickle down his eyes. His breathing begins to quicken, his face growing even more pale. His hands hold the window tightly. He looks up at the morning sun, unhinged by its sheer brightness.

His hands loosen slightly, about to push himself away from his room. About to let go. About to be set free.

"Hey!"

A familiar voice is heard. His heart skips a beat. He blankly stares in front of him for a second. He looks down. A look of confusion written on his face. His mouth moves but nothing comes out.

To be Continued