Chapter I. Medal & Gun
The golden casings borrowed the light of the room, shimmering on the surface of the scarlet wine. It was like the reflection of the moon on a sea of red.
The room was engulfed in an eerie silence, broken only by the soft rhythm of Jafar's mouse as he scrolled through his YouTube comment sessions. The walls that once echoed with laughter and chatter now seemed hollow, stripped of the vibrant presence of that man.
Hades was his mentor, his peer, and his whole new world. It was he who introduced Jafar to the career of Youtuber, and reached the 1M subscribers milestone respectively. Now that he had left Jafar without a word nor a warning, only a post of the announcement of his retirement, he had created a void for Jafar that seemed impossible to fill.
Jafar stood up and took his goblet of wine, stepping toward his bedroom. His gaze lingered on the bed that once belonged to Hades, now cold and barren, despite the plushies mountain on the top of the bed. It taunted him, a constant reminder of the sudden departure. Hades had been more than a dormmate; he had been a guiding light, a beacon of inspiration. The jealousy that had once simmered beneath Jafar's admiration had transformed into a gnawing ache, bitter than a slip of sour wine.
He then headed back to his studio; the light of his laptop was still on. The golden play buttons of YouTube Creator Award adorned the wall, shining proudly as the mockery of Jafar's profound memories. His trembling hand reached out to touch the surface of his golden button, it was his pride and his second life.
But it was Hades' play button that mattered more. It was their shared trophy, now abandoned by Hades on the night that he left everything behind. Each day, Jafar meticulously polished the golden surface, as if by doing so, he could somehow summon Hades back into his life. The ritual had become a bittersweet solace, a way for Jafar to cling to the fading memories of their friendship.
Yet, no amount of polish, plushies, or alcohol could mend the ache within Jafar's soul. The plushies surrounded Jafar, but their comforting presence only made the emptiness louder. With each sip of alcohol, Jafar sought solace, drowning his sorrows in a desperate attempt to forget the pain.
In the depths of his despair, Jafar yearned for an explanation, for closure, for the chance to rebuild what they had once cherished. Until then, he would continue to shine his and Hades' golden play buttons, for it was the only thing that could make him stay strong in the void Hades had created.
In that void, Jafar could only hear his voice within, repeating "why" and there was no one answering.
Until one day, a new dormmate moved in. Jafar's landlady had told him beforehand that the man was a middle-aged ex-soldier named Frollo.
On that day, the grim man brought his packages into the dorm. Frollo had thinning white hair and a pair of black eyes, which looked like a pair of black holes. His eyes fell upon the gleaming buttons, and then he cast an indifferent glance at Jafar and spoke with an air of detachment:
"Are you Hades, I suppose?"
The words pierced through Jafar's heart.
"I am Jafar, YOU IDIOT," Jafar snapped, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt while correcting Frollo.
Unperturbed by Jafar's outburst, Frollo simply replied, devoid of any joy or anger, "...Jafar. Hello." His stoic demeanour only served to magnify Jafar's emotional turmoil, as if his pain was inconsequential in the eyes of this enigmatic stranger.
They then entered Jafar's bedroom, and the plushies that lay strewn across Frollo's bed entered their eyesight. Jafar's heart sank further, his shame intensifying at the thought of the sheer fact that he forgot to hide his mountain of plushies.
"What? You haven't seen any plushies in your entire miserable life?" Jafar's voice cracked. He realized the absurdity of his actions, the childishness that had taken hold of him in his darkest moments.
Frollo remained silent, his gaze steady, as if unaffected by Jafar's yelling. The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, the weight of their unspoken emotions filling the space between them. It was then that Frollo, with a hint of understanding in his eyes, broke the silence.
"...Are you truly that lonely?" Frollo's question cut through Jafar's defences, as Jafar had used his public persona like armour.
But the armour was like paper against Frollo's brutal and honest words.
Frollo was an obscurely silent man.
Frollo spent most of his free time engrossed in the Bible. The worn book remained a constant presence, nestled within the pocket of his shirt. Occasionally, Jafar would steal glances at Frollo, intrigued by the man shining his collection of guns. After removing the mountain of plushies on Frollo's bed, now he had replaced them with a wall of firearms. The scenery stirred Jafar's imagination, and sometimes Jafar half-jokingly thought to himself: "Was Frollo a serial killer?"
The meals Frollo sometimes prepared, though mediocre in comparison to Hades' culinary expertise, were a welcome break from Jafar's reliance on instant noodles after Hades' unwarned departure. The taste of Hades' steaks and roasted chicken still lingered in Jafar's memories, but Frollo's golden omelets served with scarlet wines were the best Jafar could have now.
Frollo's silence during Jafar's recording and streaming sessions provided a strange sense of comfort. Jafar assumed Frollo just didn't want to interrupt his work. Yet, Jafar couldn't help but long for the banter and playful camaraderie he had shared with Hades. The absence of snarky comments and lighthearted conversations left a void that no amount of Frollo's solemn nods could fill.
Frollo was like a walking confession booth, if a confession booth offered some omelets.
One day, Frollo suggested Jafar go to a rage room in their local area.
"A rage room is a private space where you could smash as many things as you like. You could pretend you were smashing others' heads into shreds but without the legal consequence." Frollo said.
Frollo's choice of words carried a concerning undertone, but there was a strange allure to the idea-probably it was just because of how Frollo worded the thing so obscure and concerning, it was tempting to Jafar.
"A rage room, huh?" Jafar mused, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile. "Smashing things without legal consequences? Maybe that's just what I need."
Frollo rented the rage room after Jafar agreed to his suggestion.
As Jafar stepped into the dimly lit room, his heart raced with trepidation. The walls were adorned with shelves loaded with glass bottles, ceramic pots, fine china, and other household objects that awaited a storm of destruction. Jafar approached a shelf, his eyes fixed on a glass bottle, and on the surface of the bottle, a broken man full of loneliness stared at him back.
Jafar turned his back and took a glare at a cross-armed Frollo. Before he asked any questions, Frollo just nodded and said:
"I assure you I do not care about any mess you have made here as I've seen worse. I would not spit out a word of what I've seen here."
Frollo's words were all Jafar needed like a grenade had lost its safety clip. Then all Jafar could hear was the storming noise he made.
With each swing of his arm, the room became more and more alike to what was inside of Jafar's mentality-destroyed, hollow, and a total mess. His voice reverberated through the room, carrying the echoes of his pain. The sound of glass shattering and wood splintering mingled with his cries as if the room itself absorbed the intensity of his emotions.
"Hades! Just why?"
With each strike, Jafar's emotions grew more untangled, like sober from a whole night of drinking. The room bore witness to his pain and his longing, offering a haven for his tumultuous heart.
As the last remnants of shattered objects littered the floor, Jafar stood in the center of the chaos, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his face showered in his tears. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with newfound clarity. The ruined had embraced him, as he could now recognize what a part of him looked like.
Frollo, observing from a distance, spoke softly with his baritone voice:
"Let's go to a nearby bar, it's a bit late."