It's a warm, white walled office,
Not what was expected after just killing himself,
Jonathan thought death was an eternal sleep.
...
He was sent down to the filing room,
More formerly known as,
The hall of crippling phobias,
With simple instructions,
Alphabetize it all.
...
Box of files in hand he stands on a stool,
Reaching the mid level cabinets,
A is Arachnophobia,
Fear of spiders,
Which is way before Panphobia
Fear of everything.
...
The box never empties,
It should have long ago,
He's currently at Trypophobia,
Fear of tightly clustered holes or circular patterns.
...
It's just a short break for coffee,
That stays forever hellishly hot.
It's Hell so he should expect nothing less.
...
Somehow Jonathan gulps it down anyway,
Wincing with every aching sip.
...
There's a voice behind him,
A familiar one at that,
"Filing duty huh? I thought Mephistopheles was just joking."
...
His cheeks pinken at the sound,
Yet the blush is easily hidden with a good dose of apathy,
And a quick remark on how hot it is.
He still has a crush on the unbearable demon,
Yet he's too stubborn to acknowledge it.
...
Turning,
Jonathan faces him.
Eyes glance between Sock and his coffee,
"Oh! Hey you look different. It's cool."
New wings adorn his back,
And nubbly horns peek from under his hat.
...
"Thanks, Mephistopheles says they come as a part of my promotion!"
They chat a minute,
But talk Is a forbidden luxury with an eternity of work to do,
"I'd better get back." He remarks.
"Well see ya!" Sock responds,
Chipper as usual.
...
Something weighs him down,
He notices it as he picks up his box of files,
His limbs are a little heavier.
...
Its after a bit he figures it out,
He's invisibly chained to the file box.
Nobody else sees,
A silent, monotonous suffering,
Complete with phobia files.
...
The file box is bottomless,
It's never empty,
But nobody purposely puts the files in.
It's an eternal mystery,
Just like other things.
...
Like his crush on Sock,
Which is a world of hard to grasp feelings,
He tries to push away.
But Sock's fluffy hair does something to him,
And honestly he thinks,
He looks cuter with horns.
...
In Hell he doesn't need to sleep,
Just file,
But filing leaves time for him to think.
He was always good at thinking while doing,
Doing whatever really.
...
By the time he's got done with a few more,
And put Mnemophobia,
Fear of memories,
Over by the m's,
And xenophobia,
Fear of foreign things,
By the x's,
And grabbed a ladder to reach the very top files,
It feels like a day could have passed.
...
But what does that matter here,
In a place,
Running without clocks.
...
Grabbing a file from the box,
He notices it's a repeat,
Anthrophobia again.
Guess there's more info on that then,
There is no clue though what that phobia is.
...
So he opens the file a bit as he walks down to the A's,
Near the end of the long hall.
The box under one arm,
And the open file in his free hand,
He begins reading.
...
Anthrophobia,
Fear of people,
This fear can cause anxiety and make it hard to have friends or connections with others.
...
He pauses mid stride,
His life before Hell had little in the way of friends.
...
He always hated the feeling that people wouldn't be like him,
Hated the pressing thought,
That someone who wanted to be his friend,
Would make him plastic and fake,
And indoctrinate him into some clique,
And honestly wouldn't care about him.
...
Everyone always treated him,
Like some kind of lonely freak anyway,
That was always talking to himself,
Well really talking to Sock,
But if nobody saw Sock,
It looked more like the later.
...
So he took comfort in distance,
Leaving behind,
The anxiety of knowing,
To others,
He wasn't normal.
...
Leaving behind,
The horrible feeling,
That nobody cared about him,
And that he would be forever lonely.
So he never got too close to anyone,
Staying away from forming friends,
Not like he'd needed them.
...
Somehow it was better that way,
To shelve all these feelings,
And be left with Sock,
His demonic solace,
An exception to his permanent loneliness,
An exception gone dark,
Which is why he's here.
…
In this moment,
He tries to tamp down everything,
Scoop up his feelings and push them away.
...
Yet there's still the gnawing feeling,
That nobody cared,
That nobody cried,
And he never meant anything to anyone,
After he left for hell.
...
He thought hell was how he would leave all those worries and pressure behind,
But as he's reading the file,
There's a shame that arises,
It leaves his footsteps heavier,
And makes it harder to breath,
With the panic of confrontation,
Suddenly nipping at his heels.
...
It's break time again,
And he pours more coffee.
The quick gulp,
Of burning caffeine,
Sliding down his throat,
And a Tongue scalded till numb,
Feels oddly better than the heady rush of thoughts.
...
He takes a seat on the ratty break room couch,
And looks up mid sip,
As someone else sits down next to him,
It's Sock again.
...
A gentle hand lays on his shoulder,
"You ok?"
It takes a bit not to spill his guts and break down,
"I'm fine."
But somehow Sock knows,
There's more than the usual apathy,
Lingering in his voice.
...
"You don't look fine."
Sock knows his vices,
Chugging coffee is a new one.
...
Pensively he he stares into his mug,
A glassy brown reflection,
It stares back from the surface of his coffee,
Large eye bags,
And a tired face,
Etched with the reminder of a broken soul.
...
It's weird hearing Socks comfort,
Rather than his cloyingly chipper attitude,
So when his silence is met with a hug on Socks behalf,
The surprise makes him smile a bit,
Unlike his usually impassive nature.
...
There's a familiarity that creeps in,
Long swaths of time filing this and that,
And then coffee breaks with Sock afterwards.
...
He tries not to peek at the files,
Lest he be sucked into another coffee chugging downwards spiral,
To ease more panicked hurting.
But their like a hellish Pandora's box,
Inescapably tempting.
...
He doesn't want to admit,
But Sock's his friend now.
Friend,
The word is bitter and hard to take in,
Jonathan's not used to those.
...
Claustrophobia,
Fear of tight spaces he reads.
It's as if the hall of filing cabinets is closing in,
The walls feel so close,
Like he could reach out and touch,
The cobwebs in the corners.
...
He feels cramped in the narrow walkway,
The rooms tightness is suffocating,
There's a pressure in his chest,
Like he cant breath,
Its a feeling he knows too well.
"File it goddammit!"
Jonathan mutters.
...
The tightness is familiar.
Visions of birdsong and wind capture him,
He's back by that tree,
The one a little ways away,
From the road leading out of town.
...
He's back holding that rope,
As it slips over skin.
Its that tightness again welling in his throat,
Like the tightness currently in his chest.
...
The scenery is a lovely cloud pocked blue sky,
And nearby a bird caws overhead,
He sees it all from the tree branch he sits on,
Before he isn't sitting.
...
Dangling above flower spattered soft grass,
Held by a thread,
Taking a final look at the world through dying eyes,
He escaped,
The slice of the world he had lived in.
...
He opens his eyes and sinks against the cabinets,
Pulling his knees in,
He lays his arms across his knees,
And settles his head in the cavity between his legs and chest.
...
It's almost his duty,
To remember his past,
Relive the ending,
And suffer again,
Death puts no distance between the bad memories and now.
...
"So this is my hell, huh?
To remember my shit show of a life?!"
Agitated he says it aloud.
He says it to no one,
And to everyone,
"It fucking sucks!
IT FUCKING SUCKS!
It fucking sucks."
...
His words cascade,
Through an agitated timbre,
To a roar,
To a meek and resigned cry,
With his voice cracking along the edges.
...
It's with every sob he knows he's been broken down,
Tears grace his cheeks and trickle down his neck,
Carefully he wipes at them.
...
His hands graze the scar on his neck,
It's a rough, pinkish, bruised ring below his chin,
Right in the area of his throat,
Where he had let his choices,
Suck away his breath.
...
The mark,
It's not going anywhere.
...
Every sin has scars,
Just like Sock has his spooky hole.
His sin?
Suicide.
...
There's a desperate urge to drown everything in coffee.
Burn his mouth raw with the heat of the liquid,
Forget his sorrow in the adrenaline of gulping down caffeine.
...
There's also an urge for Socks comfort.
He wants to hug Sock like theres no tomorrow,
Feel his wings wrap around him like a blanket,
And what if he kissed him?
What if?
Maybe then he'd feel better.
...
Instead of meeting Sock in their shared free time,
This time Sock meets him,
He holds two mugs of coffee,
"Hey!"
...
Jonathan turns his head,
"Oh hey Sock."
He climbs down the tall ladder,
Past odd phobias,
In files he's yet to sort,
Past empty cabinets,
Waiting to be filled with a monotony of cream colored folders.
...
They sit together propped against tall filing cabinets,
Sipping at coffee and making small talk.
Sock knows how he likes his coffee,
Black, bitter, and numbingly hot,
And the cup he made him,
It's perfect.
...
An odd question arises.
"Do you think I'm your friend?"
It's that bitter word again,
But something about Sock saying it,
Changes his whole view,
"Yeah...why?"
"Just wondering."
...
"Is there anything you ever miss about being human?"
Its silent for a moment,
But Jonathan answers quietly,
"Sleep. I hate feeling tired without being able to rest. I just want to escape sometimes and sleep."
...
It's the hushed tone of his voice that tells Sock everything,
And so he hugs him.
And somehow it's Sock that ends up crying,
Because he knows that sort of want,
For some way to cope,
And shut the world out,
Way too well.
...
He knows of wanting matted fur stained red,
And blood under his nails,
He knows of a blade,
He wanted to stab into flesh,
He knows of wanting dead things,
And a hand to play in their demise.
..
He had once wanted to shut out the wold by doing these things,
He had once yearned to have some sort of vice by accomplishing his desires.
He wanted the vice,
To keep himself aloof,
And disconnected from his troubles.
So he knows Jonathans familiar pain,
Of wanting to find some way to cope.
...
For Jonathan
It hurts,
Seeing Sock this way.
It hurts to see,
Clouded green eyes,
Devoid of their usual glow.
If there was a phobia,
Of seeing Sock cry,
Jonathan would have it.
...
And there's this anxiety,
Welling in his chest,
So he kisses him.
...
There's no reasoning for it,
And Socks a little shocked,
But somehow he relents.
Sock's tears don't really stop,
But with Jonathan there,
Its a little easier to digest his sadness.
...
Sock tastes like soft lips and coffee,
And a burning demonic warmth,
Mixed with stray tears,
That trickle towards his mouth.
...
Jonathan just holds Sock,
Just lets Socks tears spill onto him.
...
The entirety of the kiss,
Is a beautiful mess.
...
There's some questions afterward,
"And you've liked me for how long?"
"Quite a while now. Probably since I first met you."
...
There's a scar on Jonathans wrist,
It's old and a little faded,
But it's visible now,
As his hoodie sleeve slips down his arm.
Sock eyes it with curiosity.
...
He's a little forward with his questioning,
But Jonathan isn't surprised,
Because he's come to terms with his actions,
And how those actions make him feel,
Even if the feelings sting.
...
"Sometimes...mentally your just... not all there. I wasn't all there, so I thought a blade could fix me. I was stupid to think it would do anything."
Tentatively Sock reaches out,
He traces along the edge of the jagged scar with a finger,
Feeling the raised bits like braille,
And trying to understand what its like,
Where discolored skin knit the scar together.
...
Sock doesn't ask though about the mark on his neck,
That one,
He already knows,
Because it's all in his file.
...
He hung himself,
Like his life was nothing more,
Than a jacket to be hung up and put away.
...
Carefully Jonathan tangles his fingers among Sock's,
Holding his hand firmly,
He sighs and looks at Sock flashing a tired, knowing smile,
But a smile nonetheless,
Something he rarely does with his stoic nature.
...
"If you're tired, close your eyes."
Sock instructs,
"It's not sleep, but it takes the edge off of the tiredness."
...
Before Sock leaves for his demon job,
And more phobias are to be sorted,
There's still a little time,
Before they go their separate ways again.
...
So they do.
Eyes close on the both of them,
And it relieves the edge,
Of a sleep hungry soul.