Near
Near has never been obsessively orderly.
He likes puzzles and is drawn towards patterns.
On the occasion he has arranged his room, the puzzles pieces that had been put back on their boxes, the books arranged on the bookshelf, his clothing on their drawers, had been dragged down and littered on the carpeted floor upon his waking.
He investigates, eliminates all possibilities.
He is so sure no one outside his room is doing this, night after night, and none other provides him with guidance.
He must deal with it on his own.
Not one to give up, he arranges a mean of communication.
He readies for bed, arranges the mess made the night before but the puzzle pieces, those he arranges in an attempt of a two way conversation. Ask and you shall be answered.
I know you are there.
He frowns, unsure, maybe there's mold on the walls or on the carpet making him irrational, paranoid, plus he is itching all over. Physiological, definitely.
But he no longer feels alone in his room.
He tries to sleep, it becomes an impossible task, too much unfocused energy. He accepts for the first time one of the special teas he sees the difficult children drinking every night.
The drug hits him hard, he is drowsy and almost asleep before he even uncovers the bed. He wakes up 10 hours later in a blink, looking for the pieces and finding his vision not working as he prefers, he tries to rub the blurry edges off his eyes and shivers at the message before him written in white out puzzle pieces.
You're not.
Clear as the one he is sure he left last night.
He considers changing rooms but, as little as he knows of paranormal, and he is very wary to classify it as such, it might follow him. He has no means to state otherwise.
He reads all day, cold hard proven facts, the other kids call him names, that he is knowledge hungry, but all he knows for now is that he wants to be assured, grounded, latching on the hard sciences for that and not even a second spare for haunting on his mind.
He leaves another message at night, so far, it has proven non harmful, is what he says to himself but even him, for the first time, sounds unsure, by now he feels short of patience for this nonsense.
He forgoes the tea this time, too distracting on its own, shuts his eyes, shuts his mind and sleeps with a stiff back.
The response makes him feel trapped, the walls too far from him and stretching even wider.
Maybe it goes like this for all Wammy's kids; they succeed and disappear, but they never leave.
We're the same.