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When you can't get out of bed in the morning and you feel the weight of every hand on the planet weighing you down, telling you to go back to bed. You have nothing better to do, why waste your time?
What would you do if you got up that day? Everything in your home is a potent reminder that you're nothing. You have nothing. You will be nothing until the day you rot- which appears to be arriving sooner but not soon enough.
When Roger woke up and felt the hands of the world on his shoulders for the definitive time he determined enough was enough. He got dressed despite the efforts of the hands pulling him back to bed, back to sleep, back to five more minutes. When he left that morning he left a note by the unmade bed, 'Be back soon.' despite the fact that he lived alone. Who knows who he left it for- perhaps it was for the bed itself. It had served him more sympathy than any human ever did or ventured to produce.
He often wondered why he lived alone. He was in his late twenties, had a somewhat stable job, and three friends who often attempted to pretend they cared for him. He wanted to find a nice girl to settle down with, maybe start a family, but he knew when your brain takes over your body and makes you tear your guts to tatters each night that no one would love him. No one ever had given him the time to slip past, perhaps understand, why he was so broken and therefore no one would ever attempt again. You wouldn't get the chance.
He understood- he loved many things. He loves flowers; working in a flower shop was what he'd always loved to do. Being surrounded by the magnificently illuminated buds was always his favorite part of the day even if the hands inside of his organs gripped extra fast that day. He loves the sky; the clouds always reminding him that there's something above him, perhaps looking out for him. He loves people; but they don't love him.
Roger often wondered why he lived alone, but he knew the answer. He was too afraid to admit it, but he hadn't ever loved himself to begin with. He's exhausting to be near, he is lazy, and he is always on the verge of a breakdown. When a bomb is ticking, do you stick around or avoid the area for your own safety? When you are the bomb there's no avoiding the blast.
His friends sit through hours of his rambling because he only speaks to stray cats that surround his home and the four walls surrounding him. He speaks too fast, too full of excitement to finally tell someone about his day, and therefore no one hears his stories he'd been itching to tell someone about. He hardly has life; he wakes up, goes to work, and comes home. Microwave dinners are set at the empty dining room table and he eats only accompanied by the television across from him and the sound of his own voice echoing back to him.
"How was your day? Well, it was alright. Work was fine, I saw that stray cat I always see. Gave him some of my lunch. Oh, and was the cat nice? Why yes he was in a frightfully good mood today!"
It was lonely. He could go for hours speaking to the mirrors and echos of his own cracking voice. Speaking to photos, fictional characters on the screen, and even about the things surrounding him were not uncommon. He had long forgotten the comfort of another human next to him, no longer remembering what it was like to wake up and have the drive to live another moment.
He no longer spoke to himself in mirrors, on his way home, and to the TV. He no longer wanted to hear his own voice, like nails on a chalkboard.
A box of stainless steel razor blades appeared in his bedside drawer. He didn't remember buying them- perhaps the ghosts in his walls had become tired of his incessant moaning and crying throughout the night. You would think if they were conscious enough to manifest a box of razors they would have given the young man company, but alas the spirits remained soundless echos within paintings. Perhaps they were just as lonely and wanted him to be able to take the chance they never had, perhaps they wanted him to join them so they could have someone to keep them company.
The day he knew it was over he walked into the flower shop early in the morning, but the familiar smell of roses and Tigerlily didn't greet him. The store was dusty, a shadow of the familiar place it had been. Everything seemed grey and dull. Costumers cooed over depressing, drooping flower arrangements and gushed over their elegance. He couldn't understand why they were so lifeless, why anyone would want something so sickening in their home.
'Be back soon' Seemed more like hopeful wishing at this point. He hoped he'd be back soon, but the world seemed to drain of color everywhere he walked. The sky was no longer above him and the people seemed to be in a worse mood than any day before.
Razor blades in a nightstand, concealed so obviously it was virtually flawless.
No one would unearth them, but if they did, would anyone worry? Who would be there to obstruct him from painting his bathroom red? He would dissolve as an isolated man, his only companions being the four walls and comfortable mattress he called friends.
'Be back soon.' was becoming an astonishing thought.
The lifeless flower shop collapsed behind him as he left the building, no longer being burdened by the weight inside of it. It was allowed to be freed of its misery, unlike the blonde strolling the corner with a skip in his step and an itch on his wrists he couldn't seem to scratch.
Be back soon, and soon he was. The box was now on the bed, the ghosts begging him to accompany them inside of the paintings. His note was on top of a long, shiny blade. His bed was made, his dishes were cleaned, and he was now in a three-piece suit. It was the most expensive thing he owned.
The moment it all goes away, it's like the scentless odor when you're in a flower shop.