AUTHOR'S NOTE: Go to see the last Harry Potter movie? Too mainstream. So, I'm going to post another story! Look! More Sebs! Because Tom needs someone to talk to who isn't himself or his dog. Honestly, I can only write about him talking to himself for so long without taking a break. Don't know who Sebs is? Check out my story Over the Rainbow. That'll clear things up. These are in no particular order except for the last one which is intentionally the last one because I'm crafty like that.

Visit #15:

He's watching me very closely today with that damn single eye of his. I do my best not to flinch, but it's hard. It's like only having one eye just concentrates all his damn feelings as he stares at me. A goddamn glare beam even when he's not glaring. It doesn't help that his gaze had always been on the more disturbing side.

Tom has that look on his face that tells me he knows exactly what I'm thinking. Like I'm one of those dense books he loves reading so much with its words all typed up on the front for everyone to see. Reading my thoughts like a story. It's unsettling. More so than his seemingly unwavering focus on me. He smiles that toothy, sharp toothed, grin of his, clearly noticing my discomfort. I don't like it. The smile he's got I mean. It carries with it an air of insanity that I'd hoped had passed from him.

"Sebs," he says, finally addressing me. "It's only an eye." His tone is flat as if this is the most normal topic of conversation, and I can almost hear a note of amusement in it. Thinking back on our recent talks I realize this is the most normal thing we've talked about in a while.

"It kind of freaks me out. Just one eye," I reply hesitantly. I feel guilty for saying it. Pointing out a flaw. Tom has a lot of those, but I try to keep them to myself now. I don't want him to be upset.

"I know," Tom shrugs seeming not at all bothered by my sentiment. I don't have a response. We sit in silence for the rest of my visit.

Visit #4:

Tom still isn't talking much. He's staring out the window or at least trying to see around the bars. I want to say he doing it longingly, but I can't even fool myself. His face is vacant. He doesn't look like he gives a rat's ass about what's going on outside. What's it a view of anyway? A parking lot I think. A big, black, emotionless slab of tar. That must bother him something terrible. At least I want to believe it does.

I reach out to touch his shoulder. He doesn't move or even flinch, and I pull my hand away before I even get within an inch, dropping it once it's at my side. He doesn't want to be touched. I don't know how I know, but I just do. I monologue to him about how work is going. I look out the window too as if expecting there to be more out there than there is. There isn't anything new other than a few cars going and coming. After a seemingly infinite amount of time Tom tells me goodbye without looking at me. I nod and head back home with more questions than I do answers.

Visit #14:

There's a wastebasket against the wall. It's an ugly off-white color like practically everything in this place. Every so often a ball of paper flies through the air and misses it but just barely. Often coming up too short. Tom is trying to adjust to his lack of depth perception and appears to be failing at it, but he doesn't look like he's going to give up any time soon. Tom's always been the determined sort.

It's like trying to watch a wounded animal desperately try to run away from some all-powerful predator about to eat it alive. Stumbling, tripping over itself, getting no closer to safety. It upsets me, and I tell him to quit wasting trees. Perhaps it will make him stop. It doesn't. Tom is smarter than that.

He turns to me, rips a piece of paper from the notepad on his lap (I think it's supposed to be for journaling his thoughts or something "therapeutic" like that. Tom hasn't written a single word in it), and crumples it up in his hand slowly, deliberately.

"These trees are already dead. Beyond saving." I frown because he's right. Still watching me he tosses the paper ball. It makes it into the basket. I mentally tally points. He's winning.

Visit #11:

Tom's hair is getting scruffier. Not the usual somewhat neat (it had always stuck up funnily for no apparent reason. It used to bother me something terrible), short, style I'm used to seeing on his head. He hasn't gotten it cut since that night, and it sticks up differently than it used to. I'm tempted to ask him if I can fix it, but I know he doesn't care. Tom does not care about his appearance. Not anymore. Who is he trying to impress? No one. I ask him why he doesn't at least shave. He tells me they don't allow him to handle anything sharp and that they'd have to do it for him. Tom says he let them do it for him for a little while, but now that he's talking again he tells them to fuck off. He's not a child. He can do it himself. He grins, seeming rather proud of himself, and I laugh, but I'm not sure why.

Visit #8:

Most of the patients are eating a snack the nurses gave out in a little huddled group in the common area. Tom sits with me off to the side. Nibbling awkwardly at the food like he's in the "bad corner" being punished for something. I think it's graham crackers, but I can't really see it. Still, I don't want to hover over him. I feel like it would bother him. He's bothered enough. Finally, he shoves something in my face, right in front of my nose. Yeah, definitely a graham cracker or at least half of one. He waggles it in front of me and is telling me to take it. Not verbally though since the other half of them graham cracker is held between his teeth like he's saving it until I have my share.

I ask him what the hell he's doing sounding more annoyed than I intended to. This offends him, and he retracts his arm, but he's still staring…glaring at me now. I should have accepted his charity.

Visit #13:

Tom's sitting on his bed. Legs crossed like when we were kids sitting on those tackily colored rugs in our classrooms. His stomach had been bothering him, and he seemed lower than he had been in a while. It's late, but the staff decided there wouldn't be any harm in letting me stay for a while after normal visiting time as long as I let the night guy know when I left.

"I can't sleep anymore…" Tom sighs as he stretches his hands flat down upon the mattress. I have a hard time believing that it, the mattress, can be in any way comfortable, and I've never heard Tom complain, but I've never brought it up just in case.

"What do you mean? I've seen you sleep."

"Ok…I can sleep, but I don't want to. I'm scared." He sounds so much like a child that it makes me want to assure him that there's nothing to be afraid of, but I know he's beyond wanting to be patronized in such a way. Then again…maybe it'd be a good distraction.

"Of what? Not boogeymen I hope. I don't want to have to go looking under your bed for a monster that doesn't even exist." I laugh as I do my best to make a joke. Make him laugh. Tom doesn't smile, but actually frowns. His face had been fairly stoic up until that point.

"That's where you're wrong. There are boogeymen. There are monsters that come out at night and terrorize people." I give him a confused look and he continues. "I'm the monster hiding under my own bed. I'm the bad man the parents warn their children about. I'm the monster, Sebs. It's me. That's the scariest thing I've ever known."

Tom's eye looks shinier as a light from outside hits it as he turns his head. He looks about ready to cry, and it makes my stomach drop. Tom reclines until he's lying down completely, his head resting on the pillow so that he's staring up at the ceiling.

"Sebs…could you do me a favor?"

"Of course."

"Could you wait here until I fall asleep?" As if the idea of Tom being like a child wasn't in front of my mind already he just had to ask that. He seems so small. So vulnerable.

"Yeah, sure."

Tom smiles, but it fades as he relaxes. I stand there, and finally I think Tom's asleep. Still, I don't want to leave yet. I'd seen Tom asleep before, but this is the most at ease I've seen him in a long time. It makes me happy for a second, but then I remember what he'd said earlier. I wish there was just one thing he could be happy about. I wish I could leave him feeling confident that he's going to be okay.

Visit #26:

He looks sick. Like something's gotten into his system and he can't get over it. He hasn't looked at me the entire time, and it worries me because it reminds me of when he first arrived. Silent as the grave.

"Is something bugging you?" Tom looks up at me. I almost wish he hadn't because he looks so defeated.

"I didn't want her you know. Well, I did…she was pretty, but I mean…that's not what I wanted. It didn't have to be her." I stare at him for a moment before I make the connection. He's talking about her. Seeming to notice my recognition Tom continues. "I wanted what she could give me. I wanted her to care about me. I wanted someone. I thought she could make me better. You know what? It made me feel worse. Once the high of having her there faded I felt worse. I wasn't any less lonely. I convinced myself otherwise. I'm really persuasive."

Tom's started to fidget something terrible. Like he thinks something is going to jump out and get him. I honestly feel like he's going backwards. After all this time. I desperately hope this moment will pass.

"I just didn't want to be lonely anymore…but it's not enough. It's never enough." Tom looks down at his feet. I don't have anything worth saying. After a minute he looks up again. "And I'm still lonely."

Visit #20:

"Why'd you leave?" I've always wanted to ask. I haven't before. I don't really know why I waited until now. Tom looks at me, looking confused, head tilting slightly in cliché canine fashion. I repeat myself. "Why'd you leave?"

"Leave where?" he asks letting his mouth hang open slightly in case he "magically" figures out what it is I want from him. I roll my eyes without meaning to.

"California. Why'd you leave California?"

"People leave for all kinds of reasons, Sebs." He's giving me that artificial "knowing" look, and it irks me.

"You're avoiding the question," I reply sharply, and Tom's expression becomes suddenly serious.

"Avoiding the question? You think I'm avoiding the question. You expect me to have some big story? Some sort of fantastic reason for leaving?" He sounds offended. I want to stop him, but he's got that preachy momentum going for him. I'm hesitant to get any more in its path than I already am. "You want me to have some sort of motivation that makes all this worth it? Like I can say, 'Well, at least I came to New York. This would have been so much worse in California'? So that I can feel somewhat justified and right in my choices? No, Sebs…I don't need that. You're the one who does. You need me to have some kind of perfect reason so you can at least have some kind of explanation. Stop projecting onto me. It's annoying."

I feel myself press my lips together defensively knowing that he has a good point. God, the man who needs to be on medication for delusions made a good point. I guess I should have asked him before.

Visit #5:

Tom appears to have gotten something on his shirt. I don't know what it is, but it looks like something is spilled on him. I think one of the other patients must have done it. Tom was never quite clumsy enough to spill stuff on himself. Then again, the lack of depth perception probably isn't exactly conducive to a perfect grasp on where things go and such finer tuned movements. Still, I don't ask. It wouldn't make a difference anyway.

One of the caretakers is telling him he has to take off his shirt so they can give him a clean one to wear while they clean his other one. Tom looks like he's caught between a rock and a hard place. He doesn't want to feel the awkward dampness I'm sure, but at the same time I know he probably doesn't want to take off his shirt. I think he'd feel exposed. Well, more exposed than this place already makes him feel. Still, after a little more convincing Tom reluctantly removes his shirt and hands it to the nurse. Before he has time to put on his new one I see why he was so hesitant to take off his shirt. His back still has ugly bruises on it after all this time and an awkward looking scar on his right shoulder blade. I wince. They look like they must hurt, but when Tom turns around I put a smile back on my face. He doesn't look like he's in the mood for pity.

Visit #12:

I ask Tom how he's doing. It seemed like a simple question. I hope it will have a nice simple answer. Tom focuses on me, and I feel stomach drop into my feet as I realize that no question could really have that simple of an answer. Not for Tom anyway. He takes a deep breath in through his nose; he's preparing for something, and releases the breath out through his nose as well, but sharply. It sounds something like a snort. Like something you'd hear from a wild animal before it charges. Before it cuts you to ribbons with its teeth. I brace myself for an impact that will never come.

"I'm in a mental hospital," he says without so much as a hint of emotion. I look up and his face matches his tone. Deadpan. A cool, even, surface. I want to be worried, but it's hard to be when Tom doesn't seem to be even the slightest bit moved.

Visit #16:

"I'm not crazy," Tom says laying on his back and staring at the ceiling. I think he's looking for shapes in it. Patterns. I'm busy thinking of how uncomfortable the bed looks, and don't respond immediately. I open my mouth, finally, to respond, but he's not finished speaking yet. "I mean…I was. Crazy I mean. It'd be crazy in and of itself to believe I wasn't crazy. I was crazy and all that. Just…not now."

"I want to believe you so much," I say through a sudden yawn. This place is exhausting. It leaves me drained and I haven't even done anything, but sit and chat absent-mindedly. I don't know how Tom stands it. Tom remains silent, still staring up at the ceiling. I want to believe that he's thinking.

"Yeah, I'd like to believe myself too, but I guess I can't do that anymore."

Visit #7:

"My name is Thomas. I wear blue pajamas. I don't like it here, so let's go to the Bahamas."

That's either really cute or really sad. It's kind of hard to make that distinction in a place like this. I wonder if it means anything.

Visit #21:

He seems angrier today, with his hands gripping the seat of the chair and his teeth look like their bared. They even look sharp for some god-forsaken reason. His posture is defensive, and the look in his eye is one of malice and a cocktail of other unpleasant emotions. His chest heaves as he breathes deeply but somehow silently. This is a massive step in the wrong direction. I ask him what's on his mind that's bothering him so much. This is a terrible idea, and I regret having tried to pry into his mind as he unleashes a torrent of bottled up fury upon me.

Visit #2:

"Happy Birthday Tom". That's what it says on the cupcake I brought him. I thought it might be something nice for him in a time like this. Something to lighten the mood if only a little. Perhaps get him to speak, respond, anything. It's a pretty weak attempt on my part I'll admit. A cupcake really can't mend over something like this. Tom neither speaks nor moves the entire time I'm there. He doesn't even acknowledge my presence even though I'm standing right in front of him. I'm tempted to yell at him. Vent my frustrations out on him and ask him why he's doing this, why he did that, but how can I? Thomas is my friend I guess. Actually, that's not true. Tom is my friend. You don't kick your friends when they're down. Especially not when they're so low. Especially not when they're so broken.

Visit #19:

"Have I ever told you about when I was a kid?"

"I don't think so…"

"You want to know something?"

"Sure."

"There was an assignment once. We were told to draw our families. I didn't. I drew the family I wanted to have. You know…as an adult. Wife, kids, dog in the yard, white picket fence, the works. Isn't that funny?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want that anymore. I think it's funny. I wanted something so normal. I can't have normal, Sebs. It's never going to be anything, but a stupid drawing done by a stupid little kid with dreams not meant for him."

"You don't know that. That picture is still possible."

"I have two eyes in the picture."

"You know what I mean."

"I don't think I do."

Visit #9:

"Where are you, Tom?" I ask. He looks back at me with that damn single eye of his and seems to ponder my question for a few seconds.

"Where?" he parrots back at me as he stomps his foot on the ground, and it makes a loud snap-slam-crack sound as it makes contact. I jump at the sudden noise. "Mental hospital, Sebs. You should know that." I feel stupid for having asked. I feel ashamed and just plain bad. Did I really think Tom was that far gone? However, Tom is not done with me yet. He very rarely is.

"Where," he repeats, though this time it isn't a question or doesn't sound like one, and he taps his forehead a few times with the index finger of his left hand. I notice this little gesture. It's odd. Tom is a righty. "Far away from here," he continues, moving his finger from his forehead and pointing off to the double doors that lead out of this particular wing.

Well, at least he acknowledges it, and I guess that could be considered progress by some.

Visit # 25:

"They've been showing us nature shows."

"What about?"

"A lot of things, but there was one that said the point of every living creature is to have 'viable offspring'. You know, to carry on their genes and such."

"Ok."

"No, not ok. I don't want to do that."

"Well, neither do I."

"Would you let me finish?"

"Sorry."

"I don't want to fulfill my purpose. I don't want to pass on this." Tom gestures vaguely to himself. "There's something wrong with me. I don't want to give that to someone else. The world shouldn't have more people like me."

"Ah, c'mon, Tom. Don't say that."

"No." He's deadly serious now. Deadly. I wish I'd thought of a different word. "Tom ends here." I start to say something, but I think I see Tom bare his teeth, and I don't push the issue farther.

Visit #17:

"The doctors don't tell me anything I don't already know."

"Maybe you should tell them that."

"I do. They don't care because with their fancy plaques and diplomas on their walls they think they're smarter than I am. They think they know my mind better than I do. Ivy Leagues and PhDs. How perfect is that? I thought I'd at least get away from people looking down on me."

"That's going to happen wherever you go. That's just life."

"Yeah, well…it shouldn't be."

Visit #24:

I arrive a little earlier than usual today. I hear Tom before I even see him. When I get farther in I see him, and what I see makes me draw in a sharp breath. He's standing in front of one of the nurses who is looking like a deer in headlights as Tom throws words at her, his face contorted in rage I have only seen once or twice before and never at this volume.

"I fucking get it already. I'm a fuck up. A loser. A psycho murderer who can't possibly be lower than the people I thought were fucked up when I at least had MY DELUSIONS. Shit! You think I don't realize this? You fucking need to tell me again that I'm beyond saving. That I've already fucking lost my shit and that any damn thing I do has no fucking point because I'm just a STUPID INSANE PIECE OF SHIT IN THIS SYSTEM? Funny thing, I ALREADY know! So shut the fuck up about it. I know I'm a horrible person. I don't need people to tell me every goddamn day!"

I finally manage to remove myself from my stupor and walk over to Tom, standing between him and the poor nurse who quickly scurries off. I think she might be crying.

"What the hell was that all about?" I ask sounding flustered. I wish I could have sounded calmer, but luckily Tom's still riled up enough to not notice. It's still bugs me though. I'm supposed to be the composed one here. Tom shakes his head and doesn't give me a direct answer.

"I just...I don't want to know anymore, ok? There's so much…there's so much shit I know now. I don't want to know it. At least not for one day. One fucking day. Can you grant me that one little fraction of peace of mind?"

Visit #23:

Tom is having one of his good days. He's been fairly chatty, and his temper seems even enough. However, suddenly his face shifts to melancholy as he looks down at the floor. He reaches his hand down as if there was something down there for him to touch, but when he hits nothing but air he pulls his hand back.

"Forget something?" I ask.

"I miss him." It takes me a few seconds to figure out what he's talking about. It's been so long, and he hadn't said anything before so I hadn't brought it up. Tom continues as if noticing the recognition on my face. "I miss my dog. I want my dog back." He sounds so desperate and unhappy that it just about breaks my heart. Only a few moments ago he was going on happily about something I can't even remember anymore. I'm too tightly in the grip of Tom, and right now he wants to talk about his dog.

"You could get another dog," I offer hoping to be helpful.

"No," he snaps, temper finally revealing itself. "I don't want a dog. I want my dog." I know trying to say something else now won't help, so I keep my mouth shut as Tom carries on the conversation in his head without me. I can see him settle down a bit, and he leans against the wall. "But that's not happening, and I know it." I want to offer some kind of comfort, but I know it won't work. Tom looks up at me, but he doesn't seem angry anymore. Just sad.

Visit #10:

"Tom." I pick up my head. I wasn't the one to say that. I look over and he's looking at me. "Tom," he repeats. "That's my name isn't it? It's Tom. No one here's called me Tom in a while. It's always Thomas when they talk to me or 'the patient' when they don't think I'm listening." The corners of his mouth are downturned slightly in a half frown, but he doesn't sound too upset.

"Tom," I say sounding deliberate. He perks up at the sound of it. A small smile comes onto his face but fades as he shakes his head.

"No, not like that." He doesn't bother explaining to me what he means by this, and I let the incident slide.

Visit #18:

Tom is in his room napping. That's what the nurses and the attendings or whatever they are tell me anyway. I know better than them though. A kind of "insider" information really. Tom doesn't nap. He stews in his weariness. I start to open the door to his room, but there's a voice before I have it open much more than a crack.

"Hello, Sebs," Tom greets me sounding casual and relaxed. He's lying on his side and is facing the opposite wall, back to me. I finish walking in and ask him how he knew it was me. I can almost sense him smiling. "You don't walk like a doctor. I know how you sound." I nod and say I'm just here for a quick visit since he's resting. Tom shrugs, and I stand in the doorway until I'm uncomfortable. I start to back away. Tom rolls over even though I was sure I hadn't made a sound. He's got the traces of a smile on his face. He looks almost victorious.

"Bye," I whisper before leaving. Damn. He is good.

Visit #22:

I haven't visited in a bit. I've been busy recently, but I gave Tom a call. He seemed okay, but I figured it wouldn't be bad to visit as soon as I could. As soon as I arrive he takes notice, sitting up straighter.

"I missed you. I was lonely when you weren't here."

"I imagine," I reply sounding casual.

"No, I mean lonely." Oh, god. He's got that look. "Before you called I got lonely again. Like how I felt before. Good thing you called. I guess I'm paranoid, but for a moment there I felt like you'd abandoned me. Silly me. I know."

He's smiling, but I make a mental note never to miss a visit without telling him ahead of time again.

Visit #6:

"You want to hear something funny?" Tom doesn't wait for my response. "I haven't gotten anywhere. All this time and I'm nowhere new. I've just changed hellholes. All I have to do is stare at walls and occasionally answer questions. Jump through the hoops and try to act like a normal person. You know what? People still think I'm weird. Even the guy who eats his own shit thinks I'm weird. The parking garage was a fucking hole. A hole that I knew, but a hole regardless. So is this hospital. It's just as much a fucking hellhole. It just has better lighting and I don't get paid to be here. Isn't that hilarious?" Tom laughs. It's not his soft, nervous, laugh either. It's louder. Somewhere in between sarcastic and genuine like held back manic. Tinged with agitation and fake ease. I think he wants me to laugh too, but I can't bring myself to do it. Tom finishes laughing and stares at me, his eye going blank, but I can tell that behind it his mind is still buzzing. Still thinking. Still analyzing. "I'm sorry."

Visit #3:

Tom is standing next to me with his arms crossed defensively over his chest. He's been standing like that the entire visit. It's the most I've seen him support himself since he's been here. Granted I've only seen him in this place twice before, but the doctors seemed startled when he stood up as I entered his room. It's like he's getting back to his old self or at least the illusion of it. I'm hopeful, but I try not to get my hopes up too much. Tom hasn't spoken a single word since them Incident or so I'm told. For all I know they could be lying and they tell him not to talk to me, but I know that's ridiculous. I can't help but be nervous. Still, I feel it's real, and I don't see any reason for him to end the silence now.

I tell him I have to go now. He turns to face me. He's responding. Almost four weeks later, but he's responding. He hasn't even said anything, but I have to resist the urge to leap for joy. Tom looks at me, and I try to read his face, but it's like trying to translate a secret code without the decoder. Still, Tom has that look he's always had. Vacant, but in a way where you can tell that there's something going on inside his head. He could be devious or perfectly innocent, but his face won't give you any clues. He moves toward me a little stiffly, and I shift backwards feeling a bit startled by the sudden movement.

Before I know it I feel a sudden force against me, and I'm pulled up close to Tom. I can feel his form against mine. His head is bent so that his chin rests lightly on my shoulder, almost like he's afraid I'll break.

He's hugging me. I can hardly believe it. He's never done such a thing before. It's strange. Unfamiliar. It lasts longer than I expect, and I want to move away, but I'm honestly terrified of what would happen if I did. There's a noise. It's not me. It must have been Tom. More surprises. He hasn't made a sound all this time.

"Thank you…" His voice is low. Weak and hoarse from previous abuse and recent disuse. I feel my jaw drop slightly, but I'm quick to shut it as Tom releases me from his grip. Only now do I realize how tightly he had been clinging to me.

"I'm your friend," I say. It's all I can think to say.

"I know," Tom responds, his face still lacking in emotion, but I can hear the strain in his voice. "Wanted to let you know that I know."

I nod, my face blank until I reach my car, well the car my sister let me borrow. Only when I get to the parking lot do I realize that I must have walked there. Did I say something else? Had Tom? It's all a blur, and I rub my forehead and try to remember, but there's a feeling in my gut that distracts me. I decide not to worry about it too much, and unlock the door, but I pause as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I move closer to get a better look. I'm smiling.