"Why did you leave him alone though? I though you…we discussed it! And how c-" The conversation broke off abruptly as Vince sauntered into the kitchen, looking unusually relaxed. Naboo and Howard assumed guilty expressions. Vince calmly began to make some coffee, black as usual. He's wearing his usual jeans and t-shirt, although long sleeved which is something of a rarity, although to be fair, it is winter.
"So…how are you?" Howard asks. Stupid question. He doesn't expect an answer, and is surprised when there is one. Naboo takes this as his queue to exit, and after picking up a newly wrapped present.
"I'm good. I'm gonna go and get some sleep. I was up till late last night watching The Moomins." He smiles genuinely. At least, it looks genuine. Picking up the coffee and an apple from the counter, he heads upstairs. Howard waits until he hears the bedroom door click, then relaxes and sets about preparing vegetables for the next days' festivities.
Vince pauses for a while until he hears definite activity from downstairs, meaning he won't be disturbed. He goes into his own room briefly, only to collect the bit of glass from the underside of the small dressing table, before opening the loft hatch and climbing up the slim rope ladder, and into the dark atmosphere above.
Flicking on the light, he surveyed it with a sense of dim satisfaction. Nobody knew he came up here. Although the loft hatch opened up on the landing, it was actually situated over Naboo's room, and he half expected the shaman's senses to pick him up and the plan would be foiled, but so far, all was safe.
The attic itself was very small, and was littered with many old dusty boxes. Some of them had not been opened since they moved in some three years ago. One corner however, was pristine, and had a thick duvet on the floor. There was a box of tissues on a ledge, as well as various photos pinned into the rafters. He sets his things down on a clean piece of the tissue, not wanting them to get dirty.
Something tells him he needn't rush today, although he doesn't want to spend more than half an hour up there. It's his place, and nobody must find out about it, ever.
Vince nibbles the apple delicately, soothing considerably, and drinking in the scenes depicted on the photographs.
There is one of him in school, surrounded by his friends, doing a Beatles tribute act for a junior talent contest, but it is faded and crumbling around the edges. One of the house before is was decorated – a mess of William Morris wall paper and mouldy plaster, then, finally, an ancient snapshot of what appears to be an Indian wedding. A very beautiful woman wearing a sari is accompanied by a traditionally dressed groom. Vince often entertains the idea he looks a little like Naboo. Having finished his meal he sits back against the small cushion behind him, and almost feels happy. But it isn't good happy…it's warped and twisted and dark, but it feels incredible whilst it lasts.
His next move is quite sudden, and almost trance like, but then again he hasn't felt lucid in quite a while.
Picking the glass up, he nudges the sleeve aside, and slices it across the inside of his arm. The blood wells up in the neat cut line, before overflowing and pooling down and dripping onto the duvet. He should have put some of the tissues down or something. Stupid. He cuts again twice more. The pain is incredible, yet is a blissful distraction. He wipes the worst of the blood from his arm and pulls down the sleeve, ignoring the stinging throb of the recent wounds. He's been crying without knowing it. He resents realising this, rolls up the quilt, turns off the light and heads to his room.
It sounds like Bollo and Howard are talking in the kitchen. They sound happy enough. How can they be so happy when he feels so fucking alone?
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