Erotomania
AN: Have some Candy. I somehow don't 'feel' this story, but I can't figure out why it would be bad. It IS an oneshot, but perhaps not of the Empathy-kind.
Still, I'd say disorders make for great stories. Let me know if you, or any of your other personalities, would agree. Any of you are more than welcome to review.
Our scene is an empty room. A teen's bedroom, with a single, dusted window that scatters the sunrays to candlelight. It's in a state of neglect: A blanket of dust covers the shelves and nightstand, and the leather seating of the desk chair was ripped to shreds, bleeding its cotton stuffing.
It's deserted.
No, the room is used. There's several empty bags of chips scattered throughout, and energy drink cans lay stacked on the desk. Here and there, a cheesy poofs has been crushed into the carpet.
Yes, the room is used. But, the disturbing part, is what the room is used for. You see, when you'd walk in here, you would be unsettled, because in no way would you see an ordinary child's bedroom. There's no model cars displayed across the shelves; no band posters hanging along the walls. Still, not a single patch of the teal wallpaper is left bare. Every bit of the wall, the desk, and even the door, has been draped over.
What with?
Pictures, mostly. Hundreds of them. Placed over each other in layers, because there wasn't the space to accommodate them all.
In the older ones, buried in the deeper layers, she wore her purple beret tilted slightly. About ten years old, there were pictures of her surrounded by a clique of friends, either laughing, or making faces at the camera. There were pictures of her and a guy in brown-and-blue, whom she would lovingly stare at.
Most of the pictures had been damaged, however. Each time, the owner of the room had cut from the pictures all eyes but hers. Her friends were blinded, and the boy with the blue hat was too robbed off his sight. Crudely, as if done by a rusty pair of scissors, or nothing but sharp nails.
The newer layers were made up by the same girl, older now, whose beret was a sparkling white. There were pictures of her friends in these layers, too. Still the same group, eyeless, they were goofing to the lens with her. Her smiling, flawless face was misplaced, almost eerie, among these figures. Like a story meant to spook small children during the nights.
There were pictures of her and a new boy. One that was clad in orange, wrapping a pair of arms around her gentle shoulders. In almost every one of them the boy stood between her and the camera. On every photograph they were touching, her laughing in his embrace. But even when they were kissing, he shielded her from sight with the back of his parka.
It's like he knew.
But even he wasn't safe. His image, too, was cut along his eyeballs. Hers was the only gaze that cast into the room. Pictures of her alone, sitting on her bed, taken from outside the window. Even one taken from the bushes, of her sunbathing in the garden, topless.
There were article cutouts, too. Tons of them, most of them originating from a school newspaper. Their headlines always differed; spanning from 'Affairs on the equator' to 'Zest of the Panda Bear'. But the subscript, it was always the same.
'By Wendy Testaburger'
Like the pictures, the articles, too, were tampered with. With blood-red ink sentences had been underlined, or crossed out. Single words and letters were circled, connected with others by a scarlet line. It was a literal entropy; organized chaos. Patterns of logic only understood by the brains of mad scientists.
What is their intent?
The hangings fluttered as the door swung open. A stretched, ocean-blue hat moved into the room. Below it, a boy that made the earth tremble in his step, clutching in his ham-fist yet more items. Mumbling to himself, he laid them out on the desk. A wrapper from a diet candybar, along with another newspaper.
From the drawer, he took the red pen and tore the newspaper to shreds, salvaging only a single page. His face heated up as he studied it, and a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. Grumbling, he read the article, then re-read it, pinching at it with the sharpie.
Finally, he laughed. It started as a low-pitch snicker, but soon evolved to a maniacal thundering in his stomach. Patting himself, he took from the drawer another paper, which looked like a huge, drawn-out list, on which one item was emphasized above any other.
She kissed me in fourth grade!!!
After adding another point, he pinned both the article and the wrapper to the wall, then reached for his drawer again. From it he took a picture, this one being framed, and cradled it close. He planted his lips on the glass, ans sat down on his bed with it. He rocked himself, murmuring a single phrase over and over.
"Any day now."
It is unsettling that this room went unnoticed for this long. A boy, neglected by his mother, cast out by his friends, left with only his thoughts. Oh yes, at school they were well aware of the extend of Eric Cartman's twisted mind, but none of them cared to learn the deep roots of his behavior. They were happy to just get away from him. Somewhere along the way, Eric opted for solitude, and the world complied.
But he isn't alone..
In his world, Cartman has a deep, requited bond with Wendy. They secretly steal glanced of each other at school, and send each other covert messages, like the characters in great romance epics. Neither had taken their desire beyond an admirer's level yet, but Eric knows that the time is nearly right. Any day now, he will confess his love to her, and they will live happily ever after.
Now you know.
Unrequited love is more dangerous than any other form. The brain, never allowed to have its true desire, will only ever strengthen the hormones that trigger the feelings of being in love. Left untreated, the patient will slowly descend into a world the mind forges for them, where the wanted object is thought to return that undying love.
