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Josh knew he was losing it, because his head wouldn't stop ringing and his bedroom didn't look right.
For one thing, it was too bright and for another it was too quiet. It all looked far away - his fish tank, his book shelf, the desk in the corner. He stared at the bathroom door, and it stared right back at him. The bed he was sitting on seemed to be the only thing that felt substantial. The only thing that was definitely there. Even the light above him was too yellow, a faded nauseating yellow that made the shadows on the corner of his vision shift and change, change and shift. They had been there for days, and they were sneaky, because when he tried to look at them they skittered away. He didn't know where they went, and he didn't like to think about it. They left him alone when he needed them and they were there when he wished they'd go away. It was a game they liked to play, but he never won it. There was only one way to win it, and he hadn't realized it until that afternoon.
The end of tour always brought with it a flurry of depression and lethargy, but he wasn't expecting it to feel as bad as it did. It felt different, and that was what scared him the most. It wasn't just the usual numbness, that familiar feeling of being on autopilot, of playing the part. It was so much more than that, it was a bitter creature that had died inside of his chest. It hurt. God, it hurt. And he didn't have anything to distract himself from it, not any more. It was just there, and he had to carry it around with him like it was normal to have a body that was haunted by so many fucking ghosts.
He ran a hand through his hair, and then pulled back a fist and slammed it against the bedroom wall, relishing the pain that immediately exploded in his knuckles. He closed his eyes, not letting the whimper that lingered in his throat escape his lips. He felt the blood before he saw it, felt the bruise before it bloomed. The white plaster had cracked and there was a small dent where his fist had landed, but he didn't mind. The tip of relief, like the edge of a knife, pierced his heart - because the agony really did feel okay. It felt right.
He blinked, looked around the room with sudden fear mingling in his heart. Reality shimmered oddly before him, and the silence filled the room with an expectant presence. They were waiting, they were watching, someone was counting down the hours (minutes? seconds?) that he had left. He looked down slowly at his hand, flexing it, letting the soreness keep him grounded. Blood dripped down the palm of his hand, and a large dark bruise had already blossomed across his knuckles. It was ugly and raw and twinging with discomfort.
His cheeks were flushed and his breathing was sporadic and manic. The ringing in his ears had reached an unbelievable pitch, trilling fuzzily in the back of his mind.
"Shut up," he whispered, his voice cracking with the effort because he hadn't talked in hours (days? weeks?). It didn't, it kept going, seemingly growing louder and louder until it felt like his skull was going to break into pieces, his brain spattering onto the walls around him, flecking them with blood. He pictured it in his mind's eye. He saw a maid cleaning bits of his membrane off the plaster, whistling as she worked. He almost laughed. A surge of deranged anxiety rose in him like the sea. He tried to ignore it, but he knew he was going to drown in it. His knee bounced up and down with the manic energy of it all, and he frowned at his surroundings. They were faint, just sketches in a notepad. But he was drawn in thick, bold lines with all of the colors in the world filling his mind. Bright, flashing colors.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I didn't mean to tell you to shut up," he muttered, tugging at the ends of his hair in frustration. He didn't know who he was talking to, but he had to say something. Had to fill up the quiet. He took a slow, steadying breath and his gaze caught onto the tree outside of his window. It wavered gently in the breeze, silhouetted against the beginnings of a raging sunset that had started to burn up the whole sky. Slashes of golden clouds and wisps of pink danced together, and a sudden burst of sadness filled his heart because he knew, he just knew that it was going to be the last beautiful thing he ever saw.
He stood up slowly, still looking at the view, feeling his bones crack and creak under the sudden movement. Something waved at him out of the corner of his eye, an iridescent gleam of a shadow. He looked away from it, swallowing nervously as the back of his neck prickled with the ominous feeling of being watched, of being seen. It stared and stared and stared at him, unblinking, daring him to look back at it.
He made his way to the bathroom, where everything looked translucent and too clean to be a part of his reality. His reflection glared out at him from the mirror above the sink, mocking him. It was a pale man with bags under his eyes and faded red hair. A man with chapped, dry lips and tear tracks running down his hollow cheeks. It wasn't him, it wasn't him, it wasn't him.
He opened the cabinet with bloody hands that were shaking so badly he could barely focus on anything else, and found a bottle of pills stashed in the back. It didn't matter what kind they were, they just had to do the job, they just had to let him leave the shadows and the noise and the desperation. His mind briefly wrestled with the idea of leaving a note, but he couldn't find the energy to write one and he didn't even know who would want to read it. He let out a sigh, tears burning against the backs of his eyes. He didn't know if he was crying out of relief or terror. It was a fine line between the two, he supposed.
He popped the lid and swallowed a handful of them without hesitating, choking on the chalky texture and the sour taste, coughing in his haste, so loudly that he almost didn't hear his phone ringing on his dresser. He looked back into the bedroom in surprise, momentarily distracted. He set the rest of the pills down, fighting the urge to be sick, and stumbled over to the phone. It was too loud, too much. He missed the silence already, even though it was the silence that was killing him. He answered it with reluctance, wondering how the fuck he was actually going to talk to someone and make it sound like he wasn't in the process of losing his mind.
"Josh-," It was Tyler. Unmistakably Tyler. "Just because we're not on tour anymore doesn't mean we're not going to hang out, I haven't seen you in like two weeks man."
Josh closed his eyes. Waves of grey danced behind his eyelids, making him feel dizzy. He shook his head, tried to clear it. Flexed his hand so that a flash of pain shot up his arm. The thing in the corner of his eye shifted slightly, still waiting, still watching to see what he would do next.
"Sorry, Ty. I've been...," his voice died in his throat. He couldn't do it, couldn't explain.
"Busy?" Tyler guessed, then laughed. "Well it doesn't matter, 'cause I'm standing at your front door with pizza and a movie, so-,"
"You're at my house? Now?" he asked, eyes shooting open in shock. He felt a trap door open below his heart, felt it fall into his stomach so that a tsunami of blinding panic rushed over him almost instantly. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Yeah, and I know you're in because your bedroom light is on," he could practically hear the grin in Tyler's voice, and it made him feel even more sick because it practically choked him with guilt. White hot guilt.
"You can't - I'm not, I'm not feeling too well, dude," he muttered, trying to sound apologetic and normal at the same time. They both missed a beat, the silence between them on the verge of being tense. Josh waited, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. His heart hammered madly in his chest. He wanted to hang up, he wanted to scream for help. He didn't do either of those things. He just stood there, swaying slightly on the spot.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing," he replied almost instantly, and he heard the slur in his own voice. He wasn't exactly lying. He didn't feel well at all.
"Are you - Are you drunk?"
"No. No. I think I'm getting sick, or something," he injected a stroke of casualness into his tone, trying to sound more convincing. This was just making everything so much harder that in had to be. He could've been gone by now. Free. Away.
"Then a good movie should make you feel better, right? Come on, man, I've missed you. I just want to check in, hang out for a while."
His resolve wavered, and his legs were starting to become weak with the effort it took to stand. There was a shooting pain in his chest and he had grown suddenly cold and clammy, the way he used to get when he was sick as a child. His teeth chattered together painfully. He wondered if that handful of pills he had taken was enough to kill him. He half hoped it was, just to get it over with, but he didn't want to put his best friend through that. He just wanted to be alone.
"Fine, I'll come let you in," he found himself saying despite his feelings, the words bursting past his lips before he could stop them. He supposed it would be good to see someone before he went. Especially someone like Tyler.
By the time he made it downstairs, his body was trembling and his vision swam dangerously before him as he approached the front door. The dark walls of the hallway merged together with the floor as he walked by with his head down, his sight blurred, feeling drunk off of the anxiety of it all. He could feel beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. The realization that it was a lot worse than he'd first thought hit him like a ton of bricks, and made him want to back upstairs to finish the job properly.
Not having the energy to do much else, he swung open the front door with great difficulty. He almost vomited at the brightness of the sudden natural light that poured in from behind his friend, who stood there with a pizza box in one hand and a DVD in the other, just like he'd said. It was quiet for a moment, the only sound the whistling of the wind in the trees and the clock that hung on the wall in the hallway.
"Shit, Josh," Tyler stared at him blankly, his gaze raking up and down as he took in the sight of him. He sounded oddly strained, like all of the air had been knocked out of him.
"I told you I don't - I don't feel well," he coughed into his aching hand, and then winced as Tyler gasped, his eyes bulging in incredulity.
"What the fuck happened to your hand? Is it broken?" he asked, his face diluting with concern, though his eyes were taking everything in, adding everything up. Calculating the situation, as always. Josh attempted to shake his head, but it felt too heavy, and he leaned against the door frame in exhaustion. A breeze caressed his cheeks, and he let himself savor the feeling. It was something he had always loved, and something he would miss when he was gone.
"Can we just go sit down?" he asked quietly, running his tongue along his bottom lip nervously. He needed to get out of the light, he needed to find something to anchor his brain back into reality. Just until Tyler left. Just until he could leave for good. Nobody was counting down the hours (minutes? seconds) anymore. Everything in his mind had gone still, it was a graveyard, a place full of dead things that nobody wanted to disturb.
They made their way into the living room, where Tyler set down the pizza and the DVD on the sofa, and then turned to look at Josh almost instantly, who had collapsed into an armchair. The heaviness in his head was growing stronger by the second, and the pain in his chest was so debilitating that it felt like it was almost ripping him in two. He tried to take a deep breath, but even that felt like too much of an effort. He closed his eyes, hoping his soul would slip out of the window into nothingness.
"This isn't right, Josh," his friend sighed quietly, and there was no accusation in his voice. It was just warm and tired and familiar. It was sunlight filtering through a glass of whiskey, the sound of nostalgia and dusk and bittersweet memories.
"I'll be alright," he coughed, fighting off another wave of vertigo.
"How long have you been like this?"
"Not long. I'll be okay. Stop worrying," he muttered, letting his head fall back against the arm of the chair. He suddenly felt hot all over, felt the fire in his cheeks and the sweat pouring down his back. One of the shadows on the edge of his vision was burning, crumpling to the ground in a heap of smoke and ash. He tried not to let tears surface in his eyes, but it was difficult. Everything was too difficult.
He opened his eyes to find Tyler crouched on his knees next to the armchair, his hand resting on Josh's warm arm, his gaze a mixture of alarm and fear. Their eyes met for a minute, silent words passed between them: a tormented argument. It was unbearable. It was the most painful thing that had happened to Josh all day, all week, all month.
"I'm going to call an ambulance."
"No, don't. Please, please. I mean it, Ty. It's just a virus," Josh was close to begging, and he would if he had to. There was no way he was going to the hospital, with its white walls and bored nurses and hallways that were always quiet, too quiet. There was no way he was going to let them keep him here, thinking they were saving him when they were actually doing the opposite.
"I have to. You look awful, man. And your hand - just look at it. It's still bleeding."
"Don't you fucking dare call them, Tyler," he almost screamed it, the sound tearing up his throat, surprising them both. The obscenity of it bounced between them, echoing in the silence that followed. His friend stared at him with eyes that were too big for his face, his mouth parted in shock. A sternness made its way into his gaze; he was finally beginning to understand.
"Why?"
"What?" Josh muttered, feeling his stomach churn and lurch.
"Why don't you want me to call them?"
"It'll be a waste of their time. I'm...," he tried to sit up and felt his eyes roll slightly into the back of his head as a surge of vomit rose in his throat. He leaned over the chair and threw up onto the wooden flooring, just missing Tyler, who placed a comforting hand on Josh's shoulder.
"Josh! Fuck, Josh are you alright?"
"Can't breathe properly," his lips felt numb and it was hard to talk, hard to think. His whole body felt like it had already been six feet under for years, an ancient decaying mess.
"Right, okay. Just breathe with me, come on," Tyler demanded, placing a cool hand on either side of Josh's face, taking slow and measured breaths that were easy to keep up with. Josh opened his eyes when he began to breathe a little easier - the pain in his chest had loosened ever so slightly, and his hands weren't shaking anymore. He didn't know if the considered that to be a good or a bad thing, but when he caught sight of his vomit on the floor, he felt his whole world come to a crashing halt. He'd thrown up the pills, he'd thrown up his only way out. The ringing in his head was back. The room was watching him again. The eye of the universe glared at him accusingly. It was angry.
"No, no, no, no," he felt warm tears spill over his eyes before he could stop them as he stared at the sick, unable to comprehend that he'd have to do it all again if he wanted to be free, if he wanted to escape.
"Josh?"
"No, no, no. I can't believe it," he cried. His throat ached, along with his knuckles and his stomach and his chest.
"What's wrong?"
"I fucked it up. It didn't work," Josh almost spat. He stood up suddenly, and the living room tipped and wavered around him. He heard his friend stand up next to him, but he didn't look at him. He was too busy staring at the couch, at the TV, at the dark red walls. They looked right back at him, they did. They felt far away again, like they were behind a thin sheet of glass and he was on the other side of it, on the outside of it, always on the outside.
He looked at Tyler. Took in his fluffy hair and warm cheeks and full lips, his tanned skin and his bright smile. Josh could almost feel his heartbeat, could almost taste the way Tyler carried the weight of everything with such ease. He was right there, standing right next to him, like he always had been.
"If my blood was on these walls, you wouldn't be able to tell," he said conversationally, and he didn't recognize the sound of his own voice. His friend looked at him and pursed his lips, studying him intently. Again, there was no judgement in his gaze, but there was a flicker of caution.
"What d'you mean?"
"Not like the walls upstairs, see. They're white, so you'd see the blood, you know?"
"Yeah. I guess you're right. Now tell me what happened, Josh."
"I messed it up. I was sick," he muttered, in a tone of voice that suggested that that explained everything. He felt his neck twitch and the leaden ball of anxiety in his stomach almost double in size. He hated talking about it, it just made it worse. It just blurred the lines between reality and unreality even more until it was indistinguishable, until he was sure that wherever he was, he couldn't trust it.
"What did you mess up?"
Josh turned away and folded his arms across his chest, knowing he's said too much, knowing he'd done too much. Knowing that he was too much and that he always would be. That was part of the problem. He tugged at the ends of his hair. His knuckles were still throbbing.
"Don't be mad."
More shadows flitted around, up and down, crossing the barrier between here and there. Everywhere. Always everywhere.
"Why would I be? What did you do, man?"
"Pills. I took...Pills," he whispered. Actually saying it felt odd, it made it seem real for the first time. Not even questionably real, but definitely real. He felt a hand on his arm and Tyler turned him around firmly so that they were facing each other. He couldn't look at him, couldn't handle seeing what he'd done to one of the only people that cared about him. Because above all, he knew that he was being selfish and stupid and dumb but he didn't care. He needed to leave. The world was never made for him, that much was clear.
"You were trying to kill yourself?" Tyler's voice was weak, reduced to a quiet trickle that seemed to fill the room even more than when Josh had almost yelled. Another shadow darted across his peripheral vision, nodding and laughing. He barely flinched, too focused on the way Tyler had said 'kill yourself ' to even care. It set something off inside of him, sent alarm bells ringing in the back of his head.
"No. Don't say that. I don't like hearing you say that."
"Then what were you trying to do, Josh?"
"I was just trying to make it stop."
"Make what stop?
"Everything. It hurts all of the time, Ty. It fucking hurts," he sighed, feeling a lump form in his throat. That was the only way he could explain it, because if he started talking about shadows and voices and walls of glass, he would sound crazy, and he wasn't crazy. He wasn't. He found the courage to look up at Tyler and felt his heart wrench when he saw that he was crying silently, his face shining with tears in the low light.
"Don't. Don't cry, okay?" he continued when he couldn't stand the silence any longer, his voice verging on the edge of desperation. Tyler pinched the bridge of his nose, wiping away the tears with his fingers. His eyes were trained to the floor, and Josh felt his heart give a nervous stutter.
"I just want to help you. I want you to be okay."
"I was trying to be okay. I was trying to be happy, to - to find peace."
"I know, I know. I get it, Josh. I get you."
"They're always watching me, you know? It never stops, and I never get any rest. I never get to feel okay when I'm awake, don't you get that?" he continued, unable to stop now that he'd started. He tried to keep the note of bitterness, but it didn't work. He was an open book.
"Come here," Tyler said quietly, holding out his arms. Josh stumbled forwards, resting his pulsing head on his friend's shoulder. He closed his eyes and Tyler rubbed his back slowly, softly. It felt nice. The world fell away from them for a while, the nausea and the ringing and the waiting ceased to exist in the embrace. It was just them. It was just Tyler, with his beautiful mind and his soft words and his kind eyes.
"You should have told me. You should have called me," he whispered into Josh's ear. His tone sounded peculiar, harsh around the edges but soft in the middle. He'd never heard him sound like that before.
"I'm sorry."
"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived when I did? How did you expect me to go on without you?"
Josh pulled away, biting at one of his nails. He hated himself. He hated the person he had to pretend to be, and the person that everybody thought he was.
"I'm sorry, Ty. I really am."
He pressed the palm of his good hand into his injured knuckles, and let his eyes slip shut as the pain washed over him. That felt right, that felt okay.
"Don't do that."
He pressed harder, trying to block everything out. He still wished he was upstairs on the bathroom floor.
"Fucking stop it, Josh," Tyler grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away gently. His whole stance was a warning.
"I can't stop. That's the problem. That's what I was trying to do, I was trying to stop."
"Listen to me. I'm going to help you, okay? I'm going to help you get through this," his friend said quietly, and he sounded so sincere that it made Josh want to believe him. For the first time it made him want to believe that getting better was a possibility, but he didn't know if he could. He was a fuck up, and he didn't know how not to be one. He was born with failure embedded into his genetic code.
"You can't. This is just the way that I am. You know. A fuck up."
"Josh."
"What? It's true."
"It's not. You're not well. You're stressed, and you need to see someone, and that's okay. It's okay to need help, Josh," he kept his voice low, a soothing rumble that made it seem like he was really telling the truth.
And then he did something else - he smiled. He actually smiled at him, right at Josh as if it cost him nothing. And it was blinding in the most wonderful way. A simple gesture that was so beautiful that it made all of the sunsets in the world seem underwhelming. And best of all: it was real, it was genuine. It shattered the glass between himself and reality, between the light and the dark, between here and there.
He pulled Tyler into another hug, almost crushing him with how tight it was. His head was spinning, and he wanted to laugh because it felt so good to hold somebody, to feel the warmth of someone so present and alive and magnificent in his arms. Hugging him - it just felt so easy.
"Thank you. Thank you so much."
"Don't even mention it."
"Tyler?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
Josh smiled, and it made his face feel odd. Light. And the shadows were still there, looking at him, glowing with deceit and maliciousness.
But they didn't matter, they didn't scare him any more. Because they weren't real, and he knew it.