#maririnwrites

Some Days, The Night Is Too Quiet

21:30pm , December 20XX , Elias' dorm room .

The scent of spices and savoury meat lingered in the air, long after the dishes had been washed and set on a drying rack. It wasn't like any light would seep through the clockwork curtains of the circus tent— the sky was always dark and overcast in Dionysia. But the room felt more dim at night. He told himself it was probably one of the flickering lightbulbs from the string of lights that decorated the ceiling. A far more convenient explanation than any thought that dared whisper through his mind.

Elias sat cross-legged on the armchair closest to his line of bookshelves, cobalt eyes scanning through the stack of magazines that had piled on his lap as the night progressed. It was a bit old school, sure, but it felt marginally more credible and focused than scrolling through Wikipedia articles on his phone. They'd served him well in the past. But right now…

The sugary taste of the lollipop in his mouth registered far more than the blurring words and photos that passed through his gloved fingers.

He'd been awake far longer than he'd like to admit. Probably just the cold, gnawing at his bones. It was the same excuse he used yesterday, and the day before that, so surely that only strengthened his case, right?

He caught himself staring at the picture frame on his coffee table. A beautiful, middle-aged woman stared back at him, his chest aching and eyes tightening. He forced his gaze back down to the glossy sheets of paper in his hand, before he could do something foolish, like think about the life he'd left behind.

Of old townhouses, where the neighbourhood kids chased each other under the July sun.

Of his friends, who probably thought he was doing far greater things than he actually was as a Darkwick student.

Of his younger self, who took every quaint moment for granted in favour of the American dream.

Of his mother, who he swore he'd find a better life with in Japan.

Suddenly, his room, filled with furniture he'd brought with him back from New Orleans, filled with the scent of gumbo that didn't sit quite as well as the meals he grew up with, felt foreign to him.

Four years living in a country he only knew from second-hand memories at bedtime. There really wasn't enough time to adjust to these newer surroundings. At least, not when he forced himself to sift through layers of masks and facades until others grew tired of searching for whoever they thought he really was. No— that was just a game he played. A performance from a jester whose biggest joke was convincing himself he wasn't lonely. It was much harder playing the everyman for an audience of one. Especially when the cold had a foreign, nastier bite to it here, too. It only reminded him he would be spending another Christmas on this lonely island, instead of home.

But that was a thought for another day— maybe a day where he'd actually open up about any of the failures and responsibilities that ate at him every night, only to convince himself it was another manipulation tactic on his end.

When his eyes finally readjusted to the magazine in his hands, he caught a faint crease on one of the pages where his thumb sat. A wry chuckle escaped his lips.