Between the seams are scary dreams.
I'd like to be, eventually, able to roam around so free.
I have secrets inside of me.

Can you discover why we're even here?
Can't you feel? I think the end is near!
But are you sure you really want to know?
There's so much I fear with such a long way to go.

Go away, I hear you say
You think you know it all, hooray!
But no, you don't, not even close.
There's one last piece of the puzzle to go.

Groundbreaking - Plushtrap

Oh, how much Ethan loved the Moon wasn't quantifiable, and neither how much time he spent staring at her, up there, in the night sky, surrounded by stars.

Her brilliance was almost hypnotic, keeping his eyes glued, and she, so mesmerising and bright, made him forget everything else. A sensation of peace wrapped him, calming his heartbeat and making him feel purified from all of his demons. He felt light like he hadn't a body keeping him attached to that world that was making him live hell.

When he looked at the Moon, he didn't think about it: he stared and that's it, emptying his mind and let himself being enchanted by her allure like it was a lullaby cradling him and promising him it was going all alright.

He knew he should've slept, that his psychiatrist recommended him to rest, that insomnia would've worsened his condition, but how he was going to sleep if every time he closed his eyes "they" tried to drag him with them, making him live it all over again? How he could've dared to sleep if the monsters that infested his mind were torturing him with horrible visions of what he lived not so much time ago? And how, with what courage he could confess that to his friends? Why add another preoccupation to his already chaotic friends' lives? They had to be his parents, made sure that he ate, that he took his pills regularly with the correct dose at a specific time, that his weight wouldn't drop too fast, that he took his integrators, that he wouldn't do anything stupid and he wouldn't develop bad habits, and all of that when he was relatively fine. When he had a crisis, the tasks doubled, and then they had to be with him until the moment he went to sleep, keep him away from sharp objects and keep him company while he was crying and feeling useless.

He was already a dead weight, forcing his friends to give up a couple of hours of their time every single day, how could he obligate them to take that responsibility even at night?

So he kept quiet, living his nights awake, staring at the Moon, that Moon that brought so much comfort and helped him feel a little bit less guilty and a little bit less useless.

It became easier to pick up a razor, without judging eyes or pointing fingers. He'd run, without thinking, the shining blade on his pale skin and he'd feel a faint pain, a barely perceived ailment while the object seemed to dance on his arms, following a rhythm dictated by his head, becoming more and more erratic as time progressively passed and minutes mingled, making him lose the sense of time.

"Put him there, he's enough drugged to not understand what is happening. Make sure to lock the door, God forbid he thinks of escaping" "Gregory, I don't think he has the energy to do that, but better safe than sorry"

Dark. Cold. Where am I? Who brought me here?

And that music sounded so sweet to his ears, that incessant rhythm that only he could hear, while he continued to cut.

"Lottie, don't do that, you're better than this and you're better than him. He doesn't know what he just lost, you're a gorgeous and kind girl, if he decided to let you go then it's his fault" I don't hear much of what they're saying, but I think Charlotte is angry. And when she's angry it's never good.

Uh? She... she freed me? Why? "Come here"? Wait, no, stop touching my hair, what are you doing? Help. Get your hands off of me, no, don't touch me, please...

He remembered. He remembered well. Those cold fingers travelling his body, with him that couldn't do anything to stop them. "You stay still or you starve" and so he stayed almost immobile, and oh, how much he was shivering...

He remembered the fear clawing at his stomach, and that paralysed him. He couldn't move nor cry, he stayed quiet and waited for it to end and he ate, still trembling.

And he cut, cut, cut and the obsessive satisfaction to see the vermilion liquid dripping, staining his clothes and the floor, so silent, so dark from the lack of light.

He felt alive. It was the only way for him to feel like a person. He saw the blood soiling in such a marvellous manner and he felt like a living being.

No one could understand him.

"They will take the blades away, Ethan, they won't understand"

And he kept quiet. He didn't want them to take away his only source of happiness. His only way of existing.

His head was spinning, but he didn't care. He stared at the Moon, as his sight becomes increasingly blurry as the time passed, while all the blood continued to spill from his arms.

Oh, the redness, how fascinating. How... well deserved.

His mind shifted to darker thoughts almost immediately, and he still stared outside his window, not showing any external signs of the sudden change. Maybe that was the reason no one noticed his condition.

Look at you, how disgusting. Self-harm. Don't you think about the consequences? Are you that dumb? Don't you care about your poor friends? Oh, I forgot, you haven't got any friends. They're all going to laugh at you because you're so ridiculous. You even forgot to take your pills. It's hard for you to keep up with every one of them, isn't it? You're so stupid that you can't even remember what's the dose to take without going to the hospital.

A tear silently slipped on his cheek, and he emitted a small whimper, but that's it. He didn't cry. He hadn't got any energy left.

***

A sharp pain hit his ankle as he walked. He bit his lip to not make any sound. He couldn't tell his friends about the fracture, they already went beyond for him and just throwing a huge medical bill in their faces seemed unfair and selfish. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath then started walking again. He felt like someone was stabbing him repeatedly through the bone, cracking it even further, he felt the sting, the pain, he felt he'd die at any moment. A tear slipped on his cheek, as he cried. He couldn't do it. He just... couldn't. Walking with a broken ankle was beyond his capacities. The only thing that had him to try and try again until he was a shaking and crying mess on the floor was the absolute certainty that his friends would hate him for putting another responsibility on them.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Better hide that fracture, you have to do it. At least you'll have under control one thing. ONE. Is that really THAT hard? You have to control only ONE DAMN THING and yet YOU CAN'T DO IT. Your life is slipping through your fingers like sand, you're wasting your friends' time, you're a depressed freak with a broken ankle and a disgusting human being. Can you control ONE. GOD. FORSAKEN. THING?!

The voice in his head was getting more aggressive. At first, it was gentle, reminding him politely of his flaws, then started insulting him, then this. But it was right. His friends were taking care of him, he had nothing under control, he felt like he was useless.

He will hide it and walk like a normal person. He won't make his friends suspicious. He'd do this.

And, unfortunately, he was right.

***

"Ethan? Ethan, where are you?" Mark's voice echoed a bit in the almost empty apartment. He flinched, feeling uncomfortable by the emptiness of the place, reflecting Ethan's recent mood.

It was his turn to check if he was alright, but the silence of the room made him want to go home. But he couldn't. He had to make sure that there weren't any problems.

Ethan didn't answer, but Mark was used to it: it wasn't uncommon that his friend didn't want to talk to anyone, and he understood that, but he wrote a message before to notify him that he was coming, and he asked if he was up for conversation, and he said yes.

He heard a clumsily suffocated sob coming from the bathroom, and with his anxiety rising, he walked to the door.

"We should look for a psychologist, an experience like that surely scared him" Said Mark, after having put Ethan to sleep in his room. "I know one" Amy piped up. "A friend of mine said that he's very professional and competent. This could be the solution" "It's a good idea, I hope it's true though, I don't want to damage him more than he already is".

And that's how his personal Hell started.

Mark was worried, he knew that when Ethan was crying something serious happened. His concerns grew when he unsuccessfully tried to open the door. "Ethan?" No answer.

He didn't want to be there. The aseptic office had white walls and reminded him of a hospital, making him uneasy. The pain in his ankle wasn't getting any better, making it almost impossible to walk. He didn't know how he did it. The psychologist, after all, contributed to his nervous mood. That uninterested stare, indifferent and almost judging made him feel like everything he was going through was made up. "Okay, we finished, kid" Finished...? He barely asked him questions. He got out, and heard the phrase that would've signed his sentence: "Kids these days have no decency, they make up everything to gain compassion".

The diagnosis was concise: desperate attention-seeking behaviour.

"Ethan, please open the door..." Nothing. He still heard him cry, but he had no idea of what had happened. A little voice, acute and trembling, resembling a child's one, came from behind the door: "Who are you?" Ethan had amnesia again.

Fantastic.

Since the diagnosis of a new psychologist came, his behaviours started to make sense, but the situation didn't get any better. Plus, he was sure that there was something else, he didn't know what, but his gut told him that Ethan had omitted some details.

But at that moment he didn't have time to think about it: he had to assist Ethan in an unknown and threatening location, convincing him that he was a friend and he'd help him.

"Hey, stay calm, it's alright" He tried to talk to him with the sweetest voice he could make, and that seemed to calm him down a bit. "Who are you?" He repeated. "I'm Mark. A friend of yours" "It sounds familiar... you seem trustworthy" "I am" "You said you are a friend of mine... how do I know that? What if you're armed?" "How about this: I'll talk to you behind this door and you can stay there. I won't force you to open it and you can ask me whatever you want" No answer. "Ethan?" "Fine". He sighed, hoping it wouldn't take too long for him to recover.

It happened sometimes that Ethan had amnesia, but in a few hours, everything was normal again. Staying calm and answering his questions was more than enough. "How did you enter?" "I have a copy of your keys. The psychiatrist said that everyone who takes turns to check on you have to own, in case you'd lose them or have a crisis" "Psychiatrist?" "Yes" "Why do I need a psychiatrist? What do you mean by crisis?" "You went through... a lot. You had problems coping with it and we looked for help. Sometimes your mind shifts into darker thoughts and you need a hand to get out of it" "What happened in that period of time?" "No one of us really knows. We know that in general you were... mistreated" He took a deep breath. He wasn't feeling ready to tell that story yet, even though he did it plenty of times. The wound was still painfully open, but he couldn't show it. In that state, Ethan became a very efficient feelings photocopier, and if he realised you were sad, he became too, and certainly, it wasn't the moment to make him feel bad. "How do I know if you're telling the truth?" "Why would I lie to you?" "To fool me and take me away from my friends to keep me in a dark and cold place and then starve me if I don't obey your orders" There was no way to make him forget that. The trauma was so deep inside him that remained even if he forgot everything else, his identity included. "Listen: do you have your phone?" "Yes...?" "Good. Could you please go on YouTube and search Unus Annus?" "Why?" "You'll see". Silence. "Is... is that me?" "Yes. It's you" "And who's the other man?" "It's me". He heard a video playing in the background and then silence again. The door opened.

Ethan struggled a lot to get up, his ankle hurting like nothing else, he became just more tolerant. Mark, however, didn't know this, as he assumed that the squeaky sound coming from his mouth had to do with the crying.

"Hey" Mark smiled. "I'm so fucked up, man" "Aren't we all fucked up? You're just the one that shows it more than the others" He giggled. "Yeah, I guess so" "I came to check on you, do you feel like cooking or...?" "I'm not hungry now" "Ethan" "I know I can't skip meals, it's just..." Then he went pale. "Ethan?" Mark's voice felt like a distant echo, the world was spinning and he felt himself falling. Mark caught him before he'd bang his head, and his body was so light and cold...

Luckily he prepared himself after the amnesia: Ethan's brain had to store up an incredible amount of information, and it was normal that his already weakened body didn't manage to keep up with the stress.

While he was laying him on the bed, he realised he skipped dinner.

Oh no, he couldn't do that.

"His body needs a regular routine concerning nutrition and another stress given by hunger won't do him any good. He mustn't skip meals, his body won't react nicely"

He couldn't wake him up, he needed time to rest but he had to eat. His mind was full of thoughts and possibilities, calculating every downside of each choice he had. If he woke him up, Ethan would be at least confused, maybe even panicked, also interrupting his brain abruptly would even make him forget important facts. On the other hand, if he let Ethan sleep, his body would probably be very pissed and wouldn't react nicely.

What if I mess up? What if he forgets something vital for him? What if he forgets where he is? What if he has a panic attack and then refuses to eat because he's tired? On the other hand, his body can be a bitch when it wants to, what if he doesn't feel good at all when he wakes up and doesn't want to eat? What if the consequences are far worse than the psychiatrist said? What if he passes out again? What if...

A choice had to be made, he couldn't think anymore. Indecision was out of the question if the subject was Ethan. Thing is, Mark always wanted the best for him, he made sure that he was always fine, well-fed, well taken care of. The thought of being the cause of permanent damage to his already delicate brain destroyed him. What was he supposed to do? He didn't even know if the things he was told by Ethan were true or if he was omitting something important, how he was supposed to help if he didn't have the full picture of the situation?

And it was right then, against all odds, that Ethan woke up. He was, at first, confused, maybe wondering where he was and how he got there, but then... it all went downhill.

Mark could've sworn that it was one of the most painful things in the world seeing Ethan in that state: he felt a pain in his heart that he couldn't describe properly, but it was not pleasant. And there they were: Ethan crying on his friend's chest, soaking his shirt, his whole body wracked by sobs while his lips were trembling. He could barely speak, and the words coming out of his mouth were apologies: for the fact that he was soaking Mark's shirt, even though he told him that he didn't give a fuck, for being a boulder, for stealing his friends' precious time and for letting his fears control him.

He lifted his head towards the other's warm, brown eyes to seek the comfort and protection that he needed. His eyes were red and puffy, his vocal cords seemed wore out and the only sentence he could mutter with a soft yet pleading voice was: "Save me". And Mark didn't need other words; there was already everything: save me before I'll do something stupid, before I'll do something I'll regret, before my own mind gives up.

"Here" Mark said, giving him a glass of water with his pill after he managed to calm him down. Ethan's face scrunched up in disgust. "Ugh, I hate those. They're the worst. I always feel dizzy after I take them" He complained, reluctantly taking the glass and drinking it in little sips.

Mark waited patiently, then took his glass and put it in the sink. He sighed: he knew Ethan wouldn't take the news well, but he hoped he'd come to his senses.

"Ethan, listen..." The other's head perked up at the words, eyes a little wide like a child's ones. "Yes?" "Your psychiatrist said you have to take pills for insomnia too" He confessed, lifting a big weight off of his chest. The other didn't answer, in fact, he didn't do anything. He didn't look angry, annoyed or sad, he was... empty. Mark didn't know if he was unwillingly accepting his fate or preparing for an angry reaction.

In all honesty, he didn't know which one would've been worse.

Instead, leaving Mark flabbergasted, Ethan took him to the door and waved goodbye at him, then closed it.

He stayed there for a few seconds, trying to understand what had just happened in those ridiculously fast minutes, then he calmed down enough to think like a normal person.

It wasn't unusual. He'd do this whenever he was uncomfortable and didn't know how to say it, so he'd just shoo his friends away. Sometimes they'd argue about this habit of his, one side saying it was the best way to cope with the trauma and the other saying that it wasn't healthy and he'd need emotional support.

The only thing he knew was that it wasn't good, especially after the pills Ethan was fragile and needed to be supervised, but he couldn't enter taking advantage of the fact that he had his keys: his friend already made clear (a lot of times, might I add) that he didn't like surprises. He despised them after the experience, since the "surprises" he got were always painful, either for his body or his brain. So, everyone always paid attention to send him a message, notifying that they were on their way so that Ethan could prepare psychologically.

He decided to knock. After all, this was the polite thing to do instead of bursting into the apartment. He lifted his hand, but, before he could do anything, he heard a loud "thud", a sound of someone falling, and then...

Crack.

"Shit" He muttered to himself. "This is not good. This is not good at all". He heard a muffled scream and then crying. He forgot everything as his mind entered "panic mode: oh fuck what do I do" the second he heard something cracking. He opened the door, only to find Ethan on the floor in a fetal position, trembling and holding his left leg.

"Ethan?! What happened?!" He rushed to his side, worried and panicked, trying to understand what the hell happened. "I don't know!" Ethan almost screamed. "I don't know, I was walking and suddenly my legs collapsed, I heard a crack, my ankle hurts, it hurts so fucking much God damn it" He managed to say, choking out his last words. "This is the pills' fault, it's all their fault, and now this hurts! This fucking ankle hurts like hell!" Mark tried to comfort him as best as he could while trying to call an ambulance. He held his head, trying to be both caring and not invasive and, based on Ethan's reaction, he was doing a pretty good job. He distracted him with lame jokes, trying to take his mind off of the pain he was enduring, while also trying to talk to the paramedics.

He didn't know how he managed to perform three actions at the same time and doing them decently, but he didn't care. He focused his attention on distracting Ethan while waiting for the ambulance.

And that's when he saw them.

His forearms were mutilated, with white scars and freshly opened wounds, going all the way up to his arms. There were maybe hundreds of them, some were even cut on top of the older ones, as there was no room left. It was a horrifying sight, and his terror increased when he realised that he never noticed the cuts. None of them did. Ethan was always wearing hoodies and never pulled up his sleeves. That wasn't suspicious since it was winter, and they'd never thought that he could do it.

Apparently, he did. And it was bad. Really bad.

Luckily he managed to contain his reaction to not panic Ethan further, but on the inside, he was freaking out.

He panicked more when he noticed black bags under his eyes, and asked himself if everyone around him was blind. How no one noticed those? They were very visible.

More importantly, how he didn't notice earlier? Even if Ethan put concealer to hide them, that day he had been crying, so it probably went away.

Probably he was too busy taking care of him and making sure he didn't do stupid things rather than taking a close look at his eyes.

He had to tell his friends quickly, he had to tell them everything.

The paramedics arrived pretty quickly and loaded him into the vehicle. Mark came with him, not leaving his side once as they were speeding while calling the people who were close to Ethan and telling them what was going on, and finally, they got to the hospital. In the meantime, Ethan passed out, maybe from the pain, maybe from the fact that he hadn't slept for weeks, but when his body felt so light, ready to turn off, he felt... amazing. He felt relief and fear at the same time. As he closed his eyes, Mark could've sworn that he saw him smile.

"So... you're saying that his ankle was already about to break and this was the last straw, right?" Mark asked the nurse who checked on him. "Not exactly. His ankle had been fractured by what appears to be a baseball bat or something similar, but it received no cure or medication. It healed poorly and it was extremely fragile; his body did what it could. We probably will have to perform surgery, I'll send the surgeon as soon as I can" Mark's eyes widened, as he was trying to process the words. "What...?" He managed to say. "I know it's a lot to take in, take your time" She said softly. "I have to go now, I have other patients. There's a button if he wakes up or there are problems, and there's always a member of the staff ready to help you" He thanked her as she ran away, then he began thinking.

Broken ankle? But... when did he break it? And how? Is it possible to hide a broken bone? Why hadn't we noticed it earlier? And how? And, more importantly, why did he hide it? Why would anyone hide a fracture and endure God knows how much pain for... for what? I hope the surgery goes well, though, he deserves it.

He didn't know half of the backstory. He didn't know what was going on in Ethan's head. Even though he had a feeling, he knew almost nothing. That's what scared him. He feared that whatever monsters he was facing were far more vicious than what they initially thought.

***

Pain.

Where does it come from? My bones. Where am I?

Pain.

What are they doing to me? I can't move, what's happening?

Unbearable pain.

My bones are breaking.

Help! Somebody help! I don't want this, I want the pain to end! Help!

I can't move. I feel like I'm dying.

Why? Is this a nightmare? Help me! Somebody end this! Please!

And yet the agony protracted itself for two hours, two hours while he was awake, conscious, feeling every single bone being moved, fixed, replaced.

He panicked. His head hurt. He felt like his rational side was shattering, he almost could feel the pieces scattering all over the place, as he was slowly shifting into insanity. He wanted to scream, desperate, wanting to put a stop to the whole thing, but he was paralysed. It was useless trying, and he gave up, crying into his mind, silently sobbing. He just wanted the pain to stop.

"Is he okay?" Asked Mark, watching Ethan sleeping. "Surgery went well, anaesthesia too" Said the doctor. "I turned to him and he had his eyes open, but I think I was just hallucinating" Mark froze. Open eyes? He hoped he was too focused on his job to really notice it. "Of course he'd still have side effects from the drugs but he'll be fine."

No one really knew how much he was wrong.

Water. Just water. All he sees is water. Then the blurred bathroom. Then water again. He barely feels the sting from the hand yanking his hair. He has enough time to breathe, then he sees water. Then the blurred bathroom again. He coughs this time, feeling like he had swallowed a gallon of soapy water. He barely has time to process what's happening, then his head gets dunked into the water again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

Mark saw Ethan moving weirdly, head turning left to right, arms randomly grabbing whatever they could reach; he was holding his breath, then exhaling after fifty seconds or so. Repeat.

Should I wake him up? Is it a good idea?

He thought that he could reassure him once he woke up, so he went over his bed and called his name. Nothing. He touched him. Nothing. He shook him. Nothing. He shook him more vigorously, and that woke him up. "Hey buddy, how are you feeling?" Mark asked, smiling. He obtained a confused look. "And who are you?" Asked a puzzled Ethan, tilting his head to the right.

Another amnesia.

Awesome.

"I'm Mark, a friend of yours" He didn't seem convinced. "Where am I? How did I get here?" "Your ankle was broken, I called an ambulance, they picked you up, you had surgery and there you are". He got up to look out of the window. "Ah, yeah, surgery... I felt it" Mark froze and turned to him. "What... what do you mean?" "I felt it. It was painful. I was paralysed and couldn't do anything to stop the pain". Mark didn't know what to say, he was shocked. He couldn't believe Ethan went through Hell again.

And the doctor saw him! He saw that he had his eyes open! He was furious.

He really didn't know how he was supposed to feel: angry, sad, worried, scared? What was the protocol to follow when your heavy traumatised friend got surgery but the anaesthesia didn't work? He felt like he was lost in a sea of doubts and questions. He could only hope that, apart from the amnesia, he'd be fine.

He couldn't be more wrong.

***

"Ethan... tell me what's going on. Please" He knew there was something wrong with his friend. Two days had passed from the surgery and Ethan seemed dead. He was walking, breathing, eating, he was a living being... but dead inside. His eyes would stare into space, he'd be unresponsive for a long period of time and then have amnesia.

It felt like they had gone back to four months earlier, where they found him and brought him home. Back again. Four months of progress completely gone, he was once again ruined and Mark didn't know when the situation will decide to get any better.

They've been to the psychiatrist the day before, however she didn't seem too worried. She said it was normal, he just needed time to heal. She said it again when they mentioned he woke up during surgery.

Thing is, they couldn't make him take his pills. He'd flat out refuse or, if he was tired and with few energies to argue, would throw them up later. All of his friends tried, but to no avail. He was as stubborn as a mule and they couldn't force him taking advantage of the fact that he was weak.

Mark tried to calm himself down, thinking that maybe it was just a side effect from the surgery, that it'd be over soon. He tried to be positive, even though, deep down, he already knew that Ethan's mental health significantly worsened.

He almost believed that they could return to the previous life they had, he tasted a bit of that small victory, sweet and almost invasive, he felt himself light, less worried, just for a moment he truly felt in Heaven, before being thrown into Hell again when it happened.

It happened on the evening of the third day post-surgery, while Amy and Mark were cooking for him. He was... weird. Well, weirder than usual. He was silent, he didn't speak, just stared into the void, like the two days before. But he was also as immobile as a statue. He was sitting on the couch cross-legged, zoned out, completely still. He didn't move his hands, his feet, he wasn't even blinking, like he was re-living something. A flashback, maybe.

Both of them noticed it, they shared a look, then Mark told Amy to stay there as he was going to Ethan to try and understand what was happening.

He got close to him, in response he got nothing. He called him, and he got nothing. He got closer, and yet he got nothing. He called his name again, nothing.

"You brat, that's what you get for misbehaving!" He was cold. He felt cold. He felt naked. Well, he was. He was thrown, once again, in the dark basement completely naked without food and water for trying to eat as he was starving. This time, though, there was something else they planned for him. In the dark he could hear someone unzipping their pants, then footsteps towards him, and then a hand touching him...

"Ethan?" Said Mark, while putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Are you oka-" He wasn't expecting that. Amy wasn't expecting that. Ethan wasn't expecting that. No one in their whole life prepared them for what they'd see just seconds later.

Ethan screamed, took Mark's hand and violently threw it off of his shoulder, then bolted to his bedroom and locked the door.

They were dumbfounded. They couldn't process what had just happened.

They had no idea what was going on in Ethan's mind.

"Get away from me!" He screamed, terrified. He didn't see anything, it was dark, he didn't even know who that person was, but he didn't care. There was no way in the seven Hells he'd let them touch him. He got up to run, but he was taken by the arm and pinned to the ground. The person was heavy and very determined to keep him there. Terror filled his mind. He was no longer a human being. He felt like a tiger in a cage fighting for his life. He did what he could, he kicked and tried his best. He did everything in his power to stop the monstrosity that was about to happen, but there was no way. There was no way to block those fingers travelling his body, there was no way to bite the lips brushing against his neck, there was no way to stop the horrendous abuse he was about to go through.

They didn't understand what was up with Ethan, why he was in his bedroom crying hysterically. Mark tried to knock, but the response he got was enough to make him stop. "Go away! You won't get me! I don't want it! I don't want you! Stay away from me! I won't let you touch me like you did a second time!" The tone was aggressive, he was aggressive and ready to fight whoever dared to enter his room.

Mark was almost heartbroken: he never, in all those years of friendship with him, heard him being aggressive with the intent to harm. He never saw him like that; terrified out of his mind.

"Ethan, please calm down, I'm here to help you-" He wished he didn't say that. He wished he hadn't touched his shoulder. He wished that everything could be reversed. He wished that the pain and the stress his friend was going through would leave him alone. He wished... he wished that all of that would've never happened.

"No! Go away! You manipulated me, you tricked me, you kidnapped me, you hit me, you hurt me, you locked me away, you tortured me and you raped me! What else do you want from me? What?! I gave you everything, you took everything! You ruined my life, you destroyed it! What fucking else do you want?! Kill me?! Fine, go ahead, do it! I don't have anything to lose anymore! Kill me and end this Hell before I do!" And, out of the blue, he stopped shouting. He started crying, then whispered: "I just want the pain to stop..."

***

Mark had nightmares of Ethan being kidnapped and abused for a week since that evening, and the worse thing was that he knew what he was dreaming was even better than what Ethan went through. He couldn't imagine all the terrible things they did to him, and frankly, he didn't even want to know. His fantasies were just a mere fraction of the whole thing, they were optimistic confronted with the abuse that had happened.

They told the psychiatrist, and all she did was giving him stronger pills, which he promptly refused to take. To top it all, he also started feeling nauseous, having headaches and throwing up randomly. Sometimes he had stomach aches, and they were strong. So strong that, when he was sitting, he was doubled over in pain, and when he was laying down he was in a fetal position. Standing was out of the question. The psychiatrist prescribed him painkillers, which he gladly took. But they weren't strong enough. They did almost nothing and all he could do was crying from the extreme pain he was enduring. It was ten times worse than the broken ankle.

There was nothing his friends could do more than trying to comfort him without touching him - which was strongly forbidden having seen the reaction - and dosing the pill for him.

He still refused to take the others and didn't want to go to the psychiatrist. He'd fight for hours, finally caving in when he was too tired to argue. They all noticed the sudden change: the woman was nothing but nice to him and to them, perhaps a bit colder in that period, why Ethan would refuse?

They eventually stopped going but never understood why he'd do this. One day, he was sleeping on the couch, and Mark thought it'd be a good idea to take a peek in Ethan's room, and we all know how his ideas always turn up.

Let's just say that describing that place "messy" would have been flattering, since it was more than messy. It was pure chaos. Clothes scattered on the floor, the pillows on the floor together with the bedsheets, the mattress cover half removed, and blood. Old blood staining some parts of the floor, some towels and a razor thrown in a corner.

Also, there were papers in that mess as well. As he read them, he realised it was some time of diary. It seemed like he was in a TV series where the protagonist finds a diary that will reveal some shocking secrets, except one thing: respect to that situation where the journal would be nicely put in a drawer, and the calligraphy would be legible, and it would be overall a well-kept diary, Ethan's was... papers poorly written all over the place, some half torn, and it was disturbing, to say the least. There were detailed descriptions of what he went through, requests of help and... an incomplete suicide letter. It was on a yellowish paper and it was illegible, torn then put together with tape numerous times.

He froze. Ethan planned to commit suicide and yet no one noticed.

He had to do something. He had to protect him. All of them were even more responsible now. They had to make sure he didn't do it. They had to convince him that life was still worth living.

***

The Moon. How beautiful was she? Too much. She was so mesmerising, shiny, inviting. He loved her, she helped him when no one could. She was the only one here for him all the time, calming him. Previously he looked in the mirror and almost destroyed it: he saw the reflection but... it wasn't familiar. It seemed like another person, it was not him. He didn't even recognize himself in the mirror. Thankfully, he looked up and there she was, ready to lure him in her garden of peace and shadows.

He still covered that mirror, though, after he realised how fucked up his mind was when he didn't even recognise his reflection.

How that condition was called? Psychic Fugue? Yeah, that. He and Lucy - the psychiatrist - talked a lot about it. Well, she talked about how with her magic pills everything would be back to normal.

She also told him that he needed a pill for every condition, and considering he had five - Complex PTSD, Major Depression Disorder, Psychic Fugue Disorder, Depersonalisation, and Derealisation Disorder - and the ADHD, there was a lot. At first, he didn't think too much about it, neither his friends did, but after a while, he started feeling ill. Stomach pain, headaches, even fever at some point. He hid it all because he didn't want to worry his friends, but started refusing the medicines, apart from the ADHD ones. He felt like he'd die if he continued, since the pills were strong. The strongest on the market and everyone had to be very careful when calculating the dose. When he stopped, he felt better, in a way. The pain in his body didn't stop but at least he felt he wasn't going to die. Then, he refused to talk to her again. She'd make him take his pills as she was convinced that was the only working therapy available.

He was alone. He'd be for half an hour before someone would come to check on him. He stared at the Moon once again, feeling more attracted to her. He felt better, and he got closer to the window to admire her. He wished there'd be a way to go to her without rockets or anything like that.

He wished that he could finally find peace after months in Hell. After going through all of that for nothing, as his conditions were worsening, day after day, he wished there was a way to stop it.

"Hello sweetheart, how was your trip?" He heard a masculine voice. Nathan's familiar one. "It was fantastic, my dear, thank you for asking. This village is lovely!" A feminine voice he did not recognise exclaimed. "Gregory, Charlotte and I are going out to an important business meeting, you can stay here or go out to talk to the people. They're kind and you have a flawless French" He heard shoes and high heels sound above him. "Oh, hush! It's not true, my mom is French and yet my language skills are insufficient" "You always underestimate yourself, my dear. You need to learn that you are a fantastic woman" "Perhaps I should..." "Have fun here, but don't go into the basement" "Why? Are you one of those murderers in horror movies that keep their spouses' corpses in the basement?" He heard laughter. "No, Scarlett. It's not finished yet, and I don't particularly like the fact that your pretty eyes will see a... messy room like that" Of course he'd use any excuse to keep curious people out of there. He lied all the time and he was good at it, he knew how to trick a person. "Fine, my dear, I won't go into the basement" "Thank you, see you in eight hours" "See you!" And a door closed. He didn't know why she disobeyed his boyfriend, he didn't read people's minds. But he'd be forever grateful for Scarlett's curiosity.

He heard the door of the basement opening with a creaky sound, then the lights turned on. He covered his eyes with his arm since he wasn't used to all that light. "Oh my God!" A feminine screech filled the room and his ears. He heard footsteps coming down the stairs and, instinctively, covered his face with his hands. "Sacre bleu! What happened?" Her loud voice only scared him further. She understood what was happening, and adjusted her volume to a whisper. "Did Nathan lock you here?" He nodded. "I can help you". He was silent, staring at her with wide eyes. It was the first nice thing someone has done for him in three months. He felt, for the first time in a long time, truly happy. "I can drive you to the next police station, which will take four hours. The nearest city is Montreal. Where are you from?" He took some time to think: he didn't know if he should go back to his birthplace in Maine or in California, in Los Angeles. In the end, he opted for LA. He had his house there. "Los Angeles..." He muttered, still not fully trusting her. "Their business meeting will take eight hours, I can drop you and come home in time and if I don't I'll tell them I went out for shopping. There's an airport and I know that you could book a flight from Montreal to Los Angeles and it will approximately take six hours. Where's your phone?" He didn't know. "I'll find it for you. Now let's get a move on, we can't waste more time".

A smile made its way on his face as he thought about Scarlett again. She was the one who saved him and brought him home. He'd be forever grateful, he honestly didn't want to know what would've happened if she hadn't saved him. She even gave him the money for the plane ticket and her number, insisting that he'd text her or call her once he landed. He did. He did because he felt it was fair that he'd reassure her after all she did for him. For a stranger. He took his phone out. Behind the cover, there was a note, a bit crumpled, but there. It was the piece of paper that he used to communicate with the police officers there. He was too shocked to form a decent sentence so Scarlett, on top of everything, wrote it for him.

"Je ne parle pas français. Parlez-vous Anglais? Aidez-moi s'il vous plaît!"

He still remembered the meaning, and he felt he'll continue to do so even in a year or two. It meant "I don't speak French. Do you speak English? Help me, please!" And they did. They recognised him since he was on the list of missing people, immediately phoned to LA Police and gave him time to call everyone.

He still remembered the joy, the muffled screams, the tears. It was the last time he felt happy. The last time he smiled without forcing himself to do so. The last time he laughed feeling it vibrate inside him and not only a - convincing, but faker than a ton of fools' gold - sound, imitating his laugh so well that no one, unfortunately, noticed.

But he remembered also the fear, the sneaky chill that ran up his spine whenever they touched him. The voice in his head that screamed: "You are in danger". The - barely, but still there - perceived sensation of disgust. Every time someone would hug him he'd feel caged. Terrified. Anything, but not happy. He felt all of his emotions hiding in fear someone would hurt him as Nathan did. The emptiness in his soul was normal. He felt... void in his chest. He wasn't sure he felt his heartbeat, just scary emptiness that threatened to consume him and throw him away like a useless, meaningless marionette.

That's what your so-called friends are going to do if you don't man up and stop with this bullshit. You aren't really hoping that they'll believe you, are you? They're doing it out of pity. Your fans are waiting patiently for you to stop being an idiot and upload something on your dead channel. Mark had to stop Unus Annus, since it was too much for you, according to Lucy.

Mark understands. I know he does. He never asked me to record something for that channel, he took care of me every time I needed it.

Oh, you're making a fool of yourself. Of course, my dear, he's nice. He can't beat you up in front of everyone, can he?

He can't what?! Mark would never do this. He'd never hurt me on purpose.

You took all of his efforts and threw them away. You stopped a big project and, on top of that, you gave him other problems. Everyone would beat you up and abandon you. He didn't do it yet because he knows everyone will find out. But he hates you. Everybody does. Amy would probably hit you with something as soon as you and she are alone, Tyler would straight up snap your neck, and your parents will watch. All of your friends will. Because you don't deserve to be helped. You were so stubborn.

Stop it. Don't talk. Shut up.

You always said you could trust Nathan, he'd never hurt you, he was a good friend, just a bit weird. You let him manipulate you. You let him kidnap you and abuse you. You let your friends worry. You let them waste your time. You didn't oppose once.

It's all your fault.

***

"Mom! Dad!" He screamed loudly enough to scare himself. He was sweaty, his heart was running a marathon and he couldn't breath properly.

"Gregory, keep him here, I have to do something". They stopped at his parents' house. Why did they do that? He tried to get up to see what was happening, but he was too weak. He knew where they was because he recognised the street, but he didn't know why they were there. "Nathan, dear, come in!" Ethan's mom said with a smile. His dad greeted him and his brother waved at him. They were all smiling: they didn't know what was happening, from all they knew Nathan was a nice friend of Ethan's, who was supporting him and caring for him and, as his family, they were happy about it. "Good afternoon, mrs. Nestor, it's nice to be honoured with your presence" She blushed a bit and her smile grew wider.

"Mom..." He choked out, starting to cry. His poor mom. His beloved, fantastic mom.

"Mr. Nelson!" Nathan said enthusiastically, and offered his hand. "I'm Nathan Lumley, nice to meet you." His impeccable manners surprised his parents, and they let him in. After all, what could go wrong.

"No, don't let him in, don't let him in" It was like he was talking to a horror movie character, exept it was real life and the tragedy that was about to happen in his memory couldn't be avoided. They couldn't hear him. It already happened.

He heard screams. Curses. Cries. Gunshots. Then silence. Like nothing happened, Nathan came out, a gun in one hand, a grin on his face.

"My family..." He killed them. He killed them all. He was an orphan. No more parents, no more brother. He didn't even attend at their funeral because he was kept in that hellish house. He wasn't there.
As he cried himself to sleep, he thought about what a degenerate of a son he was. He wasn't there. He just... wasn't. And that made him feel crushed, useless, cruel. He wasn't at his family's funeral. He was alone.

***

Everything is said and done

He stared, once again, at the Moon. She seemed closer that night, shining more, as if she knew what he was going to do. The decision was taken and no amount of talking could convince him otherwise. He couldn't live like that. No more.

Everyone has had their fun

While writing the letter, he took the time to thank his friend for everything they'd done for him. They deserved it. They did what they could to help him and he'd be forever grateful. They made his journey to his beloved Moon less painful than what it would've been if he was alone.

Time to make my exit from this fairytale

He already knew how he'd do it. One last suffering. It was the perfect time: no one else was in the house and he still had half an hour. He thanked the traffic that prevented Tyler to be there on time.

My departure was foreseen from the very beginning

He was always destined to end his life like this ever since he came back to LA. He was never so sure about something. He should've known that his body and his mind were trying to tell him that life, with his problems, wasn't worth living. He tried to stay for three more months, but in the end, he gave up.

Assume life of insanity

At first glance, people would describe him as "insane". Someone who had a voice in their head, who randomly shouted at random people and had random panic attacks. Yet he managed to seem normal and truly being himself at home, alone. He preferred to hide his problems. He wanted his friends to love him and even if he failed, or so he thought, he could have the benefit of the doubt.

Sayonara

Hello, nice to meet you

Sometimes he'd have amnesia, especially after a nightmare or a panic attack. He'd forget where he was, when he got there, why he was there, who was he and the people around him. He hated when it happened. He felt like he was there physically, but he was not there. He didn't recognise what was around him, he felt like someone threw him in a stranger's house.

You seem familiar, have I met you before?

They were so patient with him. They stayed with him hours and hours just to make sure he was alright and it'd pass. Thanks to them he didn't have to deal with it alone. They were so considerate, so sweet to him, always ready to comfort him and make him laugh.

Goodbye sweetie, nice to see you

He looked out of his window again and saw the Moon. It was nice to see her again, she was always there for him. Silently staring at him and calming him down. She felt like a friend, an old one, as if he knew her since when he was little. He felt a connection between him and her that he couldn't explain properly.

Haven't talked in quite a while

He also felt somewhat guilty that he ignored her for some time. He didn't look at her so often as he used to, and the bitterness towards himself was torture.

Insanity

The more he thought about the word, the more it seemed to fit him. He couldn't think of any other word that would be perfect for him. That could sum him up so easily.

The weight of the air is torture

He remembered his panic attacks. How he couldn't breathe. How he felt he was drowning in his own existence. How he wasn't thinking straight. How he just wanted the pain to end.

Psychopathy

Nathan. That name alone was enough to make him cringe. He remembered those cold, dark eyes. His always perfect manners that hid a vicious personality. His magnetic appearance. His savoir-faire that attracted naive people like him. He had fallen right into his trap and he got out, but he wasn't sure if the outside world was better than that cold, scary basement.

Don't know who I am anymore

Who was he? He'd forgotten it many, too many times. It was like a cloth had been wrapped around his memories, and he couldn't find a way to reveal them. He would into the mirror and would see a stranger. His reflection showed someone, but it wasn't him. When the fog that was confusing his brain would prune itself his memories would become clearer, but it took time. A very long time.

Why don't you take a chance?

That was his chance. He could finally escape from the never-ending torture he was going through. He would've met the Moon. He would've been free. He was sure he wouldn't be missed, he was so convinced that everyone would be relieved. That's why he did it. "I won't be missed anyway. No one will grieve for me and my funeral won't even be celebrated. Why bother? I'm useless".

I was never meant to be this painting's main centrepiece

The protagonists of books are, often, made heroes for many reasons. Readers empathise with them, it's the objective of the writer. A hero is seen as perfect, as the ultimate form of a human being, as the one who would never commit any crimes, any sins and would always protect people weaker than them. They often sacrifice their life for someone, for something, anything, in an extreme attempt to gain compassion and sympathy. And that's how they are approved and sometimes idolised.

Hidden in a corner, my outlines are fading

But Ethan is not a hero. At least, not the common type of a hero. From society's point of view, he's just another suicidal person. He's not unique, not special, not even human. He's "another". Another dead person. Another piece of a puzzle to be written on a newspaper for profit. Sacrifice for someone or something is seen by society as a way to serve itself and to reach the "real" martyrdom, the extreme fulfilment of the "self". Society wants someone that would sacrifice themselves to feel important, worthy to be mentioned. It wants tools, not men, ready to give up their lives, the most precious gift for an ignoble creature like a human being, in order to take advantage of said tools and elevate them, put them on a pedestal and be honoured of the privilege of being relevant. We're all the same, we have to be, we have to respect conventions and stereotypes because "it's the best for us". It's better, it's easier adapting, being the same person printed millions of times, until someone does something that makes society feel important. Sacrifice is the culmination of that "something". It's different than "suicide", obviously, "suicide" is a bad word. "Suicide" is selfish, incomprehensible, irrational, "sacrifice" is not. "Sacrifice" is good, it's martyrdom, it's perfect. Even if, logically, they express the same concept. Is it not suicide protecting someone knowing we're going to die? Is it not looking for death? Rejecting the gift of life is unacceptable unless it brings glory and honour to society: that type of rejection is "good" opposed to the "bad" one, which is sacrificing (see? It's the same verb) life because the weight of that "gift" has become so burdensome that it transforms in an imposition. For this reason, is "selfish". Refusing a rotting life. You have to keep it that way. Even if everything is falling apart. Even if the only way to be safe would demolishing the palace which will destroy itself anyway, causing more people to die. And if you don't do it, because society doesn't want you to, and if people get crushed, well, it doesn't matter. It's an unfortunate event. Actually, it's better this way. The "poor victim of an unlucky circumstance" is another tool to get rich. See? They talk about it in the newspapers, on the Internet in articles and social media. They are "victims", they are, somehow, "heroes" in their own way. They continued to do their job, to serve society, so they are worth mentioning. A suicidal person, on the contrary, is not. No one talks about a person that had enough. No one cares. If they do, they critique it by saying that there was another way. There had to be another way, they were "cowards". The heroes of the books would never abandon "their people" like that, they despise those who gave up even if they don't admit it. Giving up is "weak", that's something a hero would never do. That's why Ethan is "not" a hero. He gave up. He fought harder every day only to see his life falling apart, piece by piece, and realise he's "broken". He can't be fixed, and a broken tool is useless, because it has to be supervised and taken care of. For society, these people are "weak", they are "useless" as they're not serving it. They're a mistake, an error, and errors are annoying. Society can't be wrong. Society can't produce broken tools. So it's better if they destroy themselves with their own hands and then be shamed for it. It's easier. It's easier to sweep the "imperfect" under the rug and never talk about it again unless you need something to shame.

The days have turned into night

Ethan was unrepairable. He knew that. He always had. He just tried to fix himself but failed. He failed the task of becoming a functioning tool again. He witnessed the days slowly becoming heavier, unbearable to the point he could not distinguish between light and dark. It was always the same. The same torture. Again, and again, and again, and again.

Darkness has consumed the light

He witnessed his dream of living a normal life again fading as months passed. It seemed further and further the more time passed, until it became out of reach. He could not, concretely, wish for a better life simply because he hadn't got any hope left. He let himself being swallowed by the darkness without rebelling. It was useless.

Why won't anyone notice the torment?

His friends never noticed, until it was too late. When Mark found his letter, he was already convinced and no amount of attention and care would convince him to stay. He was tired. Tired of surviving and not living. Tired of remembering. Tired of everything his life was.

This madness is causing terror of my own self

He often found himself feeling scared of what he was. A ghost, a marionette in the hands of destiny. A mannequin without any will to live. Without any purpose. Any hopes. Any dreams. And he hated that. He was terrified of what he had become.

Self-conscious minds

He constantly felt guilty. Depressed. Empty. He couldn't feel true happiness just because he hadn't any reasons to be positive. How could he? He lived in a limbo made of grief and nightmares.

Persecution

His demons never left him alone. All of the nightmares, the voices, the panic attacks. Always there. Always kept him company. They were glued inside his body, made a comfortable refuge in his head and had no intentions to get out. His fucked up brain was easy to manipulate, why leave a cozy, welcoming den?

I won't survive like this

He thought that at least ten times a day when he was in that basement. Starving. Crying. Being abused and beaten on a daily basis. Being destroyed slowly. He continued to think that on the flight home to Los Angeles, when he had to hide his monsters from his friends and he was still thinking that in his final moments, more convinced than ever.

Sanity

He felt sane. Normal. He didn't hear voices, he wasn't panicking, he knew who he was and what his life was like. He remembered every detail for the very first time. He felt... he felt. He truly felt. All of his emotions weren't mixed or confused. They were under his control. His brain was under his control. He was controlling his body.

The light is peeking through the darkness

He belived that there'd be hope in death, that he'd feel better. He pulled his head out of that water that was drowning him for months and breathed. In and out. In and out. Inhale and exhale.

Purity

He wasn't a broken toy. He wasn't corrupted. He wasn't a mentally ill person. He wasn't a mistake, an imperfection in a "flawless" production of tools. He was Ethan.

Can't feel any more of the stress

Freedom. That's how it tasted like. It tasted like death. Suicide. The only way left. He tried everything, he let others try everything, but that was it. He was finally free to fly away from a society that rejected him like he rejected "the gift of life". Satisfying. He could breathe. He was not drowning anymore.

Sanity

He was normal again. He was like his friends: sane. No more panic. No more voices. No more pain. No more. Two words that broke the chains he was tied with, let his wings open so he could fly. Away. Away from anything.

It's already fading away

And the memories ruined everything again. He remembered his worst moments, Nathan, Charlotte, the drugs to keep him asleep during the trip, the evil born with the French village he was stuck into, the two incompetent psychiatrists, his family's death.

Cruelty

He was alone. Persecuted. Abandoned. Thrown away. He again felt the cold from the basement, the fingers travelling his body, the blood spilling from his arms. His brain shifted into an extremely realistic hallucination of everything he went through, and he stayed still, helpless, wordless. Silent.

There's things controlling me

It was like an entity was pushing him to do these things. To muster up the courage to kill himself. To be strong. To tie the rope that would be his trampoline to the Moon. Oh, the Moon. She was so beautiful. Mesmerising. Inviting.

Insanity

He stared at the rope, who seemed whiter than it already was. It was shining thanks to the Moon rays. It was like she was telling him it was the only way to get out of his personal Hell, and who was he to oppose her? He couldn't ignore her. He never did and she surely knew better than him.

The weight of the air is torture

He grabbed it and stared at it a bit more, trying to figure out how he could make it work. He then looked around his almost completely dark room to look for a tie-down point or something like that.

Psychopathy

He found it. It was so simple that he nearly slapped himself for not noticing it earlier. His lamp! It was hanging from the ceiling, it was perfect!

Don't know who I am anymore

He tied the rope to the lamp, letting it fall, then grabbed the final part and started to tie it like the way he wanted. As he was completing the noose, he was smiling. A true smile. He felt like the rope was silk, so soft, nice to touch, and oh, the Moon was so inviting. He couldn't wait to be with her. He had no patience left. He wanted to finally meet her.

Insanity

When he finished tying the noose, he stared at his phone, and various notifications appeared on the screen. They were mainly messages from Tyler, and he reluctantly let go of the rope to answer them. They were updates on where he was, how long it'd take to get there, to stay calm and try to resist the urges. He just typed "Goodbye, Tyler" and put down the phone. He heard other messages being delivered to him, but he didn't check them.

The illusion of ignorance

He walked towards the noose, then grabbed a chair and put it in place. A tear slipped on his cheek, as sadness spread in his body. He wasn't happy to leave his friends but he couldn't live like it anymore. Maybe if he had been stronger he would've managed to get by, but he wasn't. He gave up and chose to leave this cruel world to live a better life.

Captivity

He jumped. He panicked. He tried to shout but no sound came out. He felt the rope tightening as he gasped for air. It was more painful than he thought he'd be. He was beginning to see black and he tried to smile. He was happy. He was relieved. He was dying. He was finally dying. He managed to yell, to let out all of his happiness.

He screamed.

The corruption has taken me

But no one heard him.

When you let fear take control of your life, you end up in a far worse place than the one you were trying to avoid.