He ran into a room and sat against the newly locked door, holding his face in his hands and trying to not cry. He smiled sadly to himself, reaching up to tug lightly on the bandana a friend gifted to him.

He always felt guilty when he did this so he pulled the phone from his pocket and unlocked it, opening two chats and checking up on his friends. One didn't question his response to the return of the check-in and offered him a virtual hug, the other, however, caught on. They refused to let him leave the conversation before he elaborated on what "fine" meant in the context.

And suddenly, the months of silence built up like water in a dam spilt out in one long message. The message spoke of his guilt and fear, the terror he's constantly in, the memory gaps he experiences more often than not and the pain he's been in. The friend didn't judge or ask more questions and he smiled, eyes tearful yet not from the pain or anything near as shameful as before.

The friend didn't know he was him, but they did know who he was. And even if they didn't, they didn't seem to care.

He got up shakily, checking that the door was locked and went into the shower. This wasn't to get clean physically, it was to write a story so he could escape.

He wove a tale of hero's and villains, gods and their powers, the good and the bad of a world he felt that he actually belonged in. His siblings had domains of their own and his was logic and creativity. He told a tale to no one but himself of how his siblings and him were free to be themselves safely. Created a world where no one could harm them because they were gods. Made an escape where he didn't have to worry about them surviving because of him, but where only they could be their destruction and where the others would do all they could to prevent any of their downfalls.

He smiled, laughed, and stepped out. The memory of the place faded into nothing but the feeling of home, no clear faces or family names keeping in his mind since he'd forced himself to forget it all many years ago.

He missed it, sure he did, the family, the feeling of belonging to something and the loud heartbeat that all their magic kept in a rhythmical thrum. But right now he needed to get back to reality, because you can't have a life worth living without a life.

But he opened up a server chat again, the channel open to everyone, and typed out this story. It could be of anyone and everyone at some points in their lives, but those who sat silently watching and hoping for him to get help would know that his name is ***** but he goes by Mumbo Jumbo since that's what most of his speech is described as.

When a knock sounded against the door?
When there was someone outside who cared despite Mumbo having forgotten them long ago?

Well, that wasn't his problem to worry about, he could just sit there for a little while longer, in comfortable clothes and a warm but safe room.

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Author here, I'm deadn't! =]