#dacry

cropped

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He rests his over-warm forehead against the cool toilet seat in his grubby apartment bathroom and closes his eyes. The bout ended awhile ago, but he hasn’t yet found the strength to peel himself off the floor, nor does he feel steady enough to guarantee his legs won’t buckle underneath him as soon as he’s upright. On any other day he’d have someone with him, wiping the bile from his chin, the tears from his cheeks, rubbing his back as he choked up what must be the 100th mouthful of sick this hour (by his own biased estimation). But today? He is alone. Not that it is anything other than his own fault, mind, but that doesn’t make the absence hurt any less. He screws his eyes tighter shut, tears burning behind the closed lids, yet refuses to let them fall. Breathe in. Out. In. Out. Let it pass. I did this, he thinks. It’s been four days. Four days since the argument. Four days since she swept out of their apartment, stone-faced but barely holding back tears. Four days since he ruined everything. The release is not deserved, in his addled mind. Besides, even if he did permit himself a few shuddering sobs, or (god forbid) to actually cry, there’s no one there to help him through it, and he doesn’t think he can get through that kind of thing alone. And right now he is so very alone.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Could even be days, for all he knows. He almost begins to doze off when a familiar voice startles him bolt upright. A voice he didn’t expect to hear again anytime soon, or perhaps ever, if there was any justice.

“Come here often, stranger?”

Stranger. He knows she’s… well… “joking” isn’t the right word exactly, but he can hardly think of a better one. Still, it hits a sore spot in him, and he swallows before turning bleary eyes toward her. He can hardly stand to look at her face for more than a split second. Can’t even look her in the eye. Useless, is what he thinks, but says instead:

“Oh yeah. Hang out here like this all the time, sometimes multiple times a day, ‘specially for the last couple.” He tries to effect a bright tone, but the raspiness of his throat and the guilt in his chest make it fall flat. “I’m one of the regulars, you know.”

“Yeah? Nice place, is it?” she asks, her own voice similarly flat, but betraying none of the emotions it concealed.

“Oh, the best. One of the hidden gems in this part of the city.” The distance this scenario puts between them is welcome, allowing him to engage with her from an impersonal context. “Great atmosphere.” He gestures weakly to the water-stained walls, dingy floor, and sick-splattered toilet. “And the constant buzz of activity really makes a person feel a part of things when they’re going it alone,” he adds, nodding toward a mouse hole in the wall, behind which faint skittering can be heard in the momentary silence between them.

“I can see why you like it.” She doesn’t move from her place in the doorway. A pause. The air seems to fizzle with unspoken emotion, but clings heavy in his throat when he starts to open his mouth to fill the silence. She beats him to it, however.

“So, you’re going it alone then, stranger?”

Stranger. There it is again. The pang of guilt accompanies it once more. They may as well be. He wouldn’t blame her one bit if she considered them strangers after what he said, but these thoughts barely have time it form before she continues:

“What’s been happening these past few days that brings you to this quality establishment so often? You don’t look too good.” Her face remains unreadable as his eyes flit up to take in any expression, any hint at all of what she might be feeling before darting away again.

“Oh, the usual. Working my day job at a little shop near here. Taking in the local pub scene. Exploring the gourmet cuisine offerings. Wonderful nightlife, this place.” The mere thought of the cheap booze and dodgy food he’d been filling the void with the last few days almost sends him reeling back over the toilet, but he manages to bite it back, forcing a tired half-smile instead.

“Oh? Seems like a lovely couple days, by all accounts,” she says. “So what’s got you looking so rough, then, stranger?”

“Well…” he pauses, emotion tightening the back of his throat. A small breath. He composes himself. “I, uh…” his voice starts to catch again, but he presses on. “I lost my best friend.”

The last word comes out strangled and terrible, and for the first time he looks her in the eyes. She holds his gaze, eyes steady and unwavering, until he takes a shuddering breath and breaks away, rubbing his cheek against his shoulder to brush away a tear that spilled out there.

“Oh?” Her voice is gentler this time. “I’m sorry. That sounds difficult.” She’s giving him an opening to talk about what happened without having to confront her, and he takes the opportunity gratefully.

“Yeah,” he laughs wryly, but the sound sticks in his throat and comes out as half a sob. “Yeah, I, uh… I said some things—awful, terrible things—and the second the words left my mouth I wanted to take them back.” A shuddering breath. “But I couldn’t!” Another strangled chuckle, and he shrugs his shoulders a bit. “Because you can’t, ya know? Once they’re out there—“ he gestures vaguely to the empty space between the two of them (it feels so much greater than the meter or two it is in reality) “—there’s no reeling them back in.” Tears start to spill down his face in earnest. A long pause. “I think I really hurt her.” His voice breaks badly, and he looks up once again to meet her measured gaze, if only for a second before a choked sob wracks his frame and his eyes flick down to bore holes in the grimy floorboards.

She stands unmoving, unspeaking, allowing his emotion to fill the silence. When she doesn’t respond, he continues:

“I just—“ He tries to regain composure, and fails. “—just wish I could let her know how sorry I am, but it’s not the kind of sorry that words could ever hope to convey.” He focuses on the floor between them, and one of his hands grips his thigh so hard he’s certain it will leave a mark. Another broken laugh escapes him before he stills and, voice hardly more than a hoarse whisper, adds “But she’s gone now,” allowing himself to re-engage in the context of strangers meeting. “And I don’t know what to do. And I don’t know what to say. And I wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to talk to me again, but I miss her and I’m just… so sorry.” Another pause as his breath comes in shallow gasps around stifled sobs. “I’m sorry.”

Finally, she moves. Not toward or away from him, but she adjusts her position in the doorframe, shifts her feet a bit, and as he looks up in response, it’s her turn to get to know the floorboards.

“I think,” she starts hesitantly, “that she probably knows. And I think that if she were here, she’d probably tell you that yeah, it hurt. A lot.” Her tone is even, measured, but her eyes betray the pain behind the words. “But I think she’d also say that she cares about you, and even though she needs a little more time, she forgives you.” And for a second, their eyes meet again. Neither of them breathes, neither of them moves, until he turns away to scrub a hand over his face as the tears spill down his cheeks, and coughs harshly when a wet sob catches in his throat. He spits the salty phlegm into the soiled toilet water once the fit ends, and wipes the tears from his eyes again with his sleeve, sniffling.

She closes the distance between them and flushes the toilet, which he had neglected to do after his earlier bout of sickness.

“You know, I think she’d also say to take better care of yourself.” She pulls a handful of tissues out of the box on the tank of the toilet, and presses them into his hand when he reaches up to take them, using her other hand to hold his in place for a moment before releasing it with the tissues. He stares at her for a beat, not processing the fact that tissues had been passed during the brief contact. “And to blow your damn nose,” she added when he remained motionless, shocked by the gentle touch.

He comes back to reality with a soft oh! and rustles the tissues around as she turns on her heel to leave, but stops when she pauses in the doorway. She hesitates for a second.

“I missed you, too,” she says softly. “Don’t do it again,” before leaving the room without a look back.

Xarian’s account is 31 because the last owner is 31 irl.

Chrissy is 34. :)

Onii is 29 ( or close to it)

And Dacry is 30 something….

What’s wrong with 30 when Chris/Mandy is 49?

Shut up GenZ. We are the elders of imvu and you ain’t shit

-Օӏժ ʍɑղ Куℓє, 35😎

Boys kneeling and shaking and crying and vomiting, either over a toilet or on their hands and knees, the hard tile sending a pulsing ache through them.

Boys kneeling and crying and shaking and feverish, too hot in the chest and too cold in their knees and fingers and lips quivering and feeling, more than anything, just *so empty*.

A boy so vulnerable like that, the world almost spinning, nothing solid- until someone comes up to kneel behind them, maybe someone they trust whose presence offers relief or someone they don’t who they just can’t help but relax into because they’re the only thing that’s *solid*.

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Lola

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intersex lesbian

autistic & traumatized :)

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masochist

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