9
—

I was shuddering.

Hunger scraped the inner walls of my stomach as I lay beneath my bed. I didn't deserve the comfort of my bed, or a blanket, or even clothes.

I had lost track of time, though approximately three nights went by. I barely slept, only wept. Hours and hours strung by, but I didn't deserve pleasure—any pleasure.

It wasn't the first time I had put myself through this, and it sure wasn't my last. Usually, Ciro would tear me from my misery, but I had yet to see him.

Suddenly, my phone rang, and I scrambled toward it. I sighed. It was just Saffron, my girlfriend.

"Yeah?" I asked weakly, approaching my window to lean against its sill.

I felt her vehemence through the screen. "Why have you been ignoring my texts for so long? What's going on with you?"

I wanted to hang up the call right then and there, but then I thought. I needed to get my shit together. I needed to rebuild my structure.

"Did you hear me?" she tried.

Even though I was already infected with the cancer, it didn't mean I couldn't be helped. I thought of the vehement redhead and saw my ticket out of this pit.

"Jude?"

"Yes!" I crawled out from beneath the bed and stood. "Saf, I'm so sorry. I was in a really bad place these last couple of days—mentally... but still, I know I should have kept in contact—"

"Oh! No, it's okay just—"

I smiled, letting it slip to say, "No, it's not. It's really not." I looked down at my grumbling stomach. "Hear what, I'll make it up to you. Come pick me up, we'll go get some food together."

"Yeah?" This made me silently chuckle. She was just too easy.

"Yeah." With that, I hung up the phone.

I sighed out my window and squinted. There was a branch outside with a cocoon attached to it. With every gust of wind, the cocoon would knock gently against the top of my window panes as if it wanted to be let in.

I got the sudden urge to pick it and crush it, but I just sighed at the thought and got ready to meet my girlfriend.

★・・・・・・★

The plan was successful, to say the least. Over the next couple of weeks, I was the best boyfriend, taking Saffron to new locations almost every night; the best housewife, cooking for my mother and completing most of the household chores; and the best worker, expending so much energy into my new job that I got promoted after my second week.

However, I was still yet to see Ciro. A part of me missed him, but a larger part knew that he was the one to blame for my mental illness.

Balance had been brought to my beliefs and after binging those sweet gore videos against the gays, I was certain I couldn't possibly fit the description.

Everything was running smoothly—a little too smoothly. Given the life I led, it merely had to come crashing down. I was out shopping with Saffron at the mall when it happened. I saw Ciro.

"Jude," she called, tapping my shoulder, "isn't that your friend?"

This annoyed me. Did she really think she could notice my friend before me? I had known him for so long that my senses had adapted to detect him way before I even saw him.

I hustled in the other direction, but my idiot girlfriend failed—though I learned to never expect otherwise—to read the room. She hurried after me. "Jude, your friend."

"Jude?" I froze. The sound of his confident and loud voice sent my body into an involuntary paralysis.

Saffron spoke to him from behind me, "I tried telling him."

"He must have been ignoring you, love." Love? What did she ever do to deserve that title from him? He grasped my shoulder and made me face him. "Do you still hate me, my prince?"

My facade crumbled so shamelessly before me that I was certain it was visible. All my progress instantly became set back by a single nickname. For a second, I thought it was worth it. I mean, it was him after all. However, all the positivity shattered when we were approached by a single individual.

"Who's this?" the new guy asked.

I took him in as Ciro answered.

He was a skinny Asian dude with layered bleached hair that was languorous, yet maintained some sort of appeal. The guy had mild freckles and eyes that screamed he was a pothead. He wore a black cropped top that had the word 'slut' plastered across it and clearly thrifted, baggy jeans.

He smiled at me, fond of the way Ciro spoke of me, but I had to wipe it clean by asking, "Who's this faggot?"

His smile remained, but his brows came together as he looked at an embarrassed Ciro.

Saffron awkwardly said, "I'm gonna go get some... something..." and she did just that, leaving the three of us.

Suddenly, the Asian dude laughed. When he gathered himself, he said, "So no pretty introduction for me, Ciro? All cool, I'll introduce myself."

Ciro was livid, jaws clenching with an intense gaze. The guy spoke, but I couldn't help but feel the weight of Ciro's judgement.

All I heard was: "So in short, my name is Fegan. I'm twenty-two, and Ciro and I met at a strip club where I was one of the dancers."

My head snapped toward him, only to hear Ciro chuckling, saying, "You can't make those... not around... him." He swallowed his chuckles at the last word.

"My fault, my fault," he surrendered, using his hands to reflect this, flashing Ciro a grin.

"You know, I don't care," I muttered bitterly.

Fegan looked at me, still grinning with a nod. "Aight. So... what school do you go to?"

"I dropped out."

"Oh, cool." He mocked Ciro's British accent, saying, "As did I." Ciro shook his head with a smile. "We should all go hang out sometime."

"What makes you think—"

"You obviously need something to loosen up a bit."

"I don't smoke pot."

"Neither do I. I can put you on to something stronger, kid."

"What?"

"Peach, I—" Ciro awkwardly laughed. "—I think we should go."

"Aight," Fegan replied. "Bye, Jude. It was nice meeting you."

With that, Ciro led him by the shoulder for them to walk in the other direction. Without his lead, however, I was rendered motionless.

And if it already felt near impossible to move on my own, it hit me.

Peach? Ciro called him Peach?

My heart dropped with such a velocity that it simultaneously whipped the oxygen from my lungs.

★・・・・・・★

I was shuddering yet again, trapped in a confinement enforced by my own volition.

My stomach adapted to a life without food as I lay beneath my bed. I didn't deserve the comfort of my bed, or a blanket, or even clothes.

I had lost track of time. I barely slept. I couldn't weep. Days and days strung by, but I didn't deserve pleasure—any pleasure.

The biggest misconception about hitting rock bottom is that the only place left to go is up, but in my case, that couldn't be further from the truth.