Existing in a train wreck.
Chapter one: Enter Axel (Read: Disaster)
By: The Lotus Garden

My Name is Axel , a year ago I was a freshmen here at the renowned Kingdom University and wouldn't you guess it, in all the creativity my young drug abused brain could muster I was a fucking Philosophy major, Fresh off the farm from a neighbouring town where hypocrisy and homophobia feeds the crops better than the stagnant cow manure they combine into it every fucking year. Trying to explain to the hicks that I'd prefer a city with so much smog I can feel the inhaled cancer in the same way you do cigarettes was about as poignant as trying to explain to them that their precious catholic church was corrupt, and far more 'evil' than their perceived Satan. Just to educate you all a tad: the hype about fresh country air? Its bull shit. there's dead animals on the side of the road, deer carcasses gutted from hunters to lazy to properly dispose of them and fields fertilized with cow shit, Leaving your nose begging to jump off your face and run away in a very Michael Jackson-esque manner.
Of course, growing up in a town like that, you get all these hopes and dreams, you get the entirely idiotic Idea in your head that the only thing holding you back from showing the world your grand potential is the town limits and the citizens with about as much mental capacity as a gold fish. With this in mind, I managed to scholarship my way into the all to pretentious Kingdom U.
My reality check came in the form of a few thousand student's with the same basic idea as me, and let me tell you, realizing that you're not special, that you're not some unique snowflake, but you'll melt all the same? Yeah, it's a bigger bitch than my mother's acrylic nails across my face.

Kingdom U had the exterior image of a perfectly crafted Notre Dame knock off, it's only when you've entered the crammed storage room of a dorm that you realize it's not much better than a community college, with one single bed on either side the room, one desk (They assume everyone gets along dandy and everyone passed the 'sharing' segment of preschool) two dressers with four drawers.
Four fucking drawers, and another (shared) closet.
Now, this may not seem too bad, but like I said, I was from a farm town, the initial week was culture shock. Pure, unadulterated culture shock.

So here I was, first week of the new semester standing in the middle of my dorm with a half eaten pie in one hand, a fork in the other, shoving my face like I was one of those starved African kids because holy mary mother of fuck it's some good pie. When all of the sudden my roommate(read:Obnoxious) comes flying through the door mouth gaping, eyes wide and chest heaving.
Enter: Demyx, Music Major, dirty blonde, gayer than the gayest guy to ever get his legs waxed.
I suppose you could call this…air head my one of my best friends. Best friends in the awkward we-know-nothing-about-each others-pasts-but-drag-one-another-to-every-party sort of way.
For all his stupidity I'd like to clarify that Demyx is incredibly misinterpreted he's honestly not as 'dumb' as people think him to be, to his credit, he is incredibly observant, and is actually one of the smarter people I've met in my life, it's just he doesn't care.
What I mean by this, is that he is laid back to a fault, he doesn't use his brain unless he deems it important, like helping someone (Demyx give's out charity like none other. Last year he tried to convince me to let a homeless man sleep in our dorm. Needless to say I said no, and he spent a week giving me the silent treatment laced with the most hilarious glare- glares don't really go with Demyx, which is probably why when he does glare, it's unbelievably disquieting and uncomfortable).

So, There is me, in the middle of the room, mouth open in half-bite of heavenly pie, and Demyx panting like he just ran a marathon, hands fluttering, mouth opening and closing like a fish until he finally spits out "Party at Yuffie's, there's a new kid…he's Zexion's new roommate"

Now, the amount of exaggeration on the single name 'Zexion' may make you wonder; so let me clarify.
Zexion (Read: Resident prodigal genius) Has never had a roommate, rumor is (and now I'm not one much for buying rumors, but if you met the guy…) Zexion was once assigned a roommate, like the rest of us back in freshman year, but apparently He marched his ass right down to administration and somehow, with out ever raising his voice (Zexion never raises his voice, and yet manages to be more intimidating that chuck Norris) had the office attendant in tears, and voila, no roommate for Zexion.
Also, Demyx has the biggest fag-bag crush on Zexion that ever was a fag-bag crush.

Needless to say, Pie was forgotten on the desk, as I pulled on my Doc martin's and pleather jacket (I'm a total carnivore, but I will never wear an animal)

Yuffie was an entity all her own, she owned a town house which, for lack of better words could be called "Party Central". Childish in a way that put five year olds to shame, and so sweet saccharine was jealous, Yuffie was truly one of a kind- or so you would think, until you met her younger brother Sora, I swear her parents fed the children crushed ridilin as sugar in coffee- atleast twelve times a day.
I see no other explanation for the perpetual chipper nature of those two, Not that I'm complaining, it seemed all my friends were like that- Demyx more subtly, it was a welcome change to my general doom and gloom.

Anyways, Walking into Yuffie's place was always a somehow surreal experience, Opening the door was enough to give you a contact high from the clouds of pot and cigarette smoke, the living area was better stocked with paraphernalia than any head shop I'd ever seen. Yuffie's was a haven for many, with only her living there, she had two spare bedrooms and plenty of couches she would thoughtlessly let anyone crash on. In these walls one could find themselves, although realistically you were probably more likely to lose yourself.
And that was why I came, to lose myself that is. People always saw me with my shit-eating grin or cocky smirk, it was a complex, whenever I was in a social situation my body went on auto-pilot my thoughts got far away and I simply existed as the obnoxious red headed idiot who liked to light things on fire and get fucked out of his skull with any inebriant handy.
Well, why let the crowed down?

I left Demyx with a pat on the back aware of how his eyes were already scanning the room for one Zexion, who if in the vicinity would be sitting on the couch, anorexic body taking tokes to put the biggest, stupidest potheads to shame.
I always found that intriguing, Sure me and Zexion weren't close, but observing him was a hobby of mine for a good month last year. The resident genius was also the biggest fucking stoner I'd ever met. It was perplexing, and seemed somehow contradictory. Anyways, Sure as shit Zexion was there on the couch book in one hand bong in the other.

Satisfied with the knowledge that I could set myself on fire and run around screaming profanity's and I still wouldn't regain Demyx's attention I strutted to the kitchen with all the pride of a lion to take shots like alcoholism was my profession and I was here giving a seminar, I made friendly with the natives, danced with a few girls, grin so big I almost thought I'd tear my face in two.
Someone pulled me into the bathroom where tidy white lines sat on the sink vanity, a straw and razorblade neatly placed at the side, too me, it was art.
three rails, a couple joints and fuck knows how many drinks later I was still grinning, still dancing, still laughing.

Two hours later found me on the couch, sandwiching a blushing Demyx between Zexion, Demyx quieter than I'd ever seen him, probably due to embarrassment and the whole 'savouring the moment of brief physical contact with his not-so-loving-lover-boy, I myself so high out of my fucking tree I almost thought I was a tree. If someone was to ask me why I was giggling, I don't think I'd be able to tell them why, just as much because I couldn't produce a coherent sentence as much as because I had no fucking Idea.
the entire world was just so fucking hilarious, it was hilarious because it was tragic.

One would wonder why I put myself in these situations, and even more would say that the drugs and alcohol was the main problem. But that's total bullshit, it's my fucking right to self medicate, and I do it a damn lot better than the doctor's that did me in for ever have.
It's not that I got depressed when I got high, it's not that when I drank these feelings bubbled up like lava inside of me, no, it was the opposite actually, it was always like this, like a beast in a corroded cage slamming it's body against the iron bars of my sanity while passerby's just watched pointed and laughed because the cage was manmade, of course the cage wouldn't break. But it did. On a daily basis that beast with blood and drool dripping from its jowls like sap from a fucking pine tree, congealed and sticky and disgusting, that beast would break through and sink its teeth into anything it could find tearing my insides apart like a cheap slut in a shark film and sometimes I liked it. Sometimes I revelled in the sick thoughts and gut wrenching emotional upheaval because I was sick. I was a sick fucking masochist and that's how I found myself painting pictures on my inner thighs in the bathroom, lights flickering and god dammit why has no one fixed that fucking light yet?

Three o'clock in the morning, class in five hours and I'm sitting here carving myself up with an industrial razor blade on the toilet letting the blood drip in thick globs into the porcelain prince that has at some time between my thirteenth birthday and now become my greatest confident. From bulimia to bloodloss the sewage system has seen my worst and with my roommate completely oblivious in the main room sleeping and probably dreaming of the sound of fucking music I once again, like every other night, realize just how alone I really am.

But it's not the drugs that do this to me, it's the running out of drugs, it's the being sober for too long and being alone my entire life and the resentment towards my parents for having me that drives me to this, my shaking hands dropping the piece of metal into the bowl where it makes the softest clink.
I contemplate pulling it out, but the sight of my now-bloodstained-once-stomach-contents puts me off of the idea, So I flush- twice for good measures, no need to make Demyx disgusted in the morning- and turn the shower nozzle, stepping under the too-hot spray and silently praying my skin will just bubble and melt off. it doesn't, but it won't stop me from dreaming.

I can't specify when it started, because I can't remember- ironic, I can't remember when I stopped being able to remember. I assume it was around puberty, my repressed memories always resurfaced oddly, but day to day life was a blur, day's bled into each other like blood in the trenches mixing with the mud and disease, I couldn't remember for the life of me most of my life.
I think it was a self defense mechanism.

One thing I do remember, if only vaguely is one day in august when I was eighteen.
I had just weeks before had my medication switched, I remember how my guardian always put one days worth in the daucet on the kitchen counter, every day faithfully I would swallow my pills. But on that specific day there was a few extra's, So I took them, all of them, along with a cocktail of random pills I had stolen from god knows where, I took them, and The next thing I remember I was in the backyard attempting to stab my leg with a stick, whilst rambling maniacally to the 911 operator.
I remember it being entirely surreal, me sitting in the drive way as the ambulance backed into the drive, I didn't move, I didn't know what I was supposed to do, it didn't feel real, and I somehow couldn't grasp it. I remember that I didn't think they'd come. I remember being shocked, and somehow appalled when they did show up.

I remember sitting in the back of the ambulance, belted in, chest heaving, breath's fast and quick – an anxiety attack.

"Stop that, you're fine" he was annoyed, the man in the back with me, I remember I wanted to gouge his fucking eyes out, because in his eyes I was just another spoiled brat screaming for attention.
It's always been like that, from the feinting spells in school, to the slashes across my wrist- everyone thought I wanted attention, even my depraved mother with her acrylic nails and saccharine smile as she introduced me to her friends- in long shirts, even in the blistering heat because she didn't want everyone to see.
God forbid Jennifer's son was a fuck up.
God forbid Jennifer's son was a sick, perverse head case.

"This is my son, Axel, You've met him before haven't you?"
"Oh man, the last time I saw you, you were just a squirt, your hair hasn't changed much has it? Quite the mane you've got there!"
I think at that point, I wad wondered if my mother had slept with him. I'd always been doubtlessly sure that my mother was that type- the type to use her kids to attract men. I was sure, because I remember countless nights sitting on a nameless man's couch, watching whatever entirely-inappropriate-for-whatever-my-age movie my mother had turned on to keep me from disrupting her as she did god knows what with that man in another room.
that was my childhood, and yet it took me eighteen years to hate her completely.

Demyx and I had taken to affectionately calling our dorm 'The Purgatory' we even had a hand made sign, designed by moi, hanging outside the door in place of the regulatory dry erase bored. The staff had a bit of a bitch fit about it at first of course, but after having it out with me well- they shut up.

Anyways, our purgatory although having all the regulation furniture was a mess of- on Dem's half band posters and a few framed autographs, and all of his instruments (from guitar too a keyboard, it's amazing we can move at all really) and on my side? Art. My art, Demyx once asked me why I wasn't an art major, and for some reason, that I still cannot understand I replied without hesitation "Art is a philosophy all it's own" and that was that. I'd wondered if I'd read it somewhere, but if I had, Hell If I could remember, and I figure, A quote like that I must be in the right major.

anyways, My art really wasn't anything special, But Demyx enjoyed it- enough to insist I take his half of the regulation desk drawers to keep my art supplies.
that's another thing about or dorm, I'm pretty sure we are the only fucker's in the school to have a coffee machine on the desk.
Demyx had actually bought it for me, after the first week of freshman year after realizing that before no less than two cups I could not function as even a sub-sentient being, I ran into walls, tripped over my feet- it was messy.

Now, everyday, there was a pot-o-joe brewed on the desk waiting for me as soon as I woke up. That my friends, is what a best friend does- brew's your ass coffee so you can get out of bed without climbing out of the fifth story building window and free falling into a sea of pavement and pretentious students.

When I awoke the next morning I was sure my arm was dislocated.
"Axel You fat lard wake up"
Demyx was hollering at me, tugging my arm out of it's socket.
"Fuck I'm up!"
I sat up and held out my hand, almost immediately my triple sugar coffee was placed; steaming and wonderful- into my hand, shrugging off demyx's pouty-glare and huff, I smiled my oh-so-real read: sarcastic shit eating glare at my roommate/best friend/fag bag.

"What time is it" I sipped on my coffee, cursing when it burned my tongue and throat.
"Quarter to eight! We need to go!"
that we did, and so we did. Despite being separate majors we both shared the same morning class.

The problem with people is that they grow, I thought to myself in class, absently doodling on an empty page in my notebook. I thought, that's why relationships are doomed to fall apart, you meet someone, and who they are then, who they are to you, it changes. Them as a person may not change (I'm a strong believer that people cannot change) but the things they want do.
I remember a girl in Highschool named Yuna, she was head over heels with this guy in grade nine- His name was Timmy- no, Tidus, that was it. His name was Tidus. He was all sunshine, a real nice guy, he wasn't very smart, but he was noble, I remember that much. Yuna had heterochromia, one eye was green, the other blue, I personally found it beautiful, but humans are worse than vultures. We see something we don't like or something that doesn't fit into societies definition of normal, and we do out damnest to destroy it.

One day, a bunch of jocks (read: oafs) Cornered Yuna on the quad, The details of what happened I couldn't tell you, my recount is just that of highschool rumors. But, I suppose basically what happened is that Tidus stepped in, stood up for Yuna when no one else was. I suppose, a fight broke out because I remember seeing one of the guys notorious for 'bullying' with a broken nose, and Tidus was out of school for a week- suspended.

I guess while he was suspended Yuna went and visited him, to thank him or what have you, because when they came back to school the next Monday they were dating.
They were happy as can be for two years, Until Tidus was found out to be a blitzball prodigy.

Tidus went from wanting to be a lawyer, (In his head I think he saw himself as being more of a batman than a lawyer) to a professional blitzball player.
He stopped studying law, and started practicing in all his free time.
for a while Yuna went and cheered him on, but even me who barely knew them could tell, they started sitting farther apart, Yuna just didn't smile the way she used to.

two weeks later they broke up.
and I think it was because Tidus grew, changed his mind, and was no longer the person Yuna had known him as, that she had wanted him to be. They didn't coexist anymore. It was like the pangea theory, the world, if pushed back together, probably just wouldn't fit as well as it used to, there would be cracks, and holes and it just wouldn't fit.

I think that's also, why I never looked for a relationship, because inevitably, people break up and grow apart, it just seemed pointless.

Weekdays on campus could be considered one of the most utterly mediocre happenings to ever well, happen, Which is probably why I breathed a heavy sigh of relief when Friday night showed me back to Yuffie's not so humble abode bodies writhing, grinding, and by my sixth drink I was one of them.

I thought nothing of the multiple bodies that switched partners like we were doing the fucking dosey-doe, I thought nothing of it, even as a girl-Sellie? Sally? Selphie. Took my wrists and lead me up the stairs to one of the spare bedrooms.
I thought only of how her name reminded me of Sulfur as she pulled my shirt over my head, grinning and giggling.
I thought of nothing as she crawled on top of me, thumbs hooked into her panties as she swayed her hips, dragging them down slowly off her slightly tanned, blemish-free thighs, thought even less as they were around her ankles, and less still as she crawled on top of me.
I vaguely wondered if she was too drunk to notice the lacerations on my own body, but it was too hard to think with a sulfur-tongue down your throat. I think it was supposed to be an intimate social nicety to close your eyes when someone was performing such actions with you, but I forgot.
Even when she was on top of me, my dick deep in her I could only stare at the lights on the ceiling letting off a low glow, a dull glow. Disinterest, disinterest and apathy even with a girl riding me like she was trying to make first place at a rodeo, disinterest and apathy at the obnoxious noises coming out of her parted lips, head thrown back in what must have been mock-ecstasy.

Eventually this got old. Eventually I wondered what I was doing, so I jerked my hips and let out my best groan.
It was fake. Everything was fake, but she crawled off and I rapidly disposed of the condom so she couldn't tell that I was somehow a sexually inept youth.

She looked at me, this girl like sulfur looked at me dead in the eyes, and with a face that held no emotion, and a voice so completely fucking normal that it took me a moment to process what she had said, she asked me, like it was the most normal fucking thing in the world

"Was it good?" Was it good..?
Was it good? No. no, it was almost fucking painful, but I nodded, and as an afterthought tacked on
"Yeah, Yeah, it was good." I wondered if my voice sounded as dead to her as it did to me.