A round, edged button on old radio had been stuck. Only by stronger pressure and index finger braise, with luck, could it be started. There were only three channels. On a first channel, shriek harmonica played. Second channel, first North American radio station, CNR radio, rumbled, and every now and then a comunistic monotone man's voice could be heard. On the third channel, classical music soared with fervor. It was a less known Rachmaninoff's piece, Caprice Bióhemien Op.12. A white finger, with short, cutted nail, pressured broken chalk red button, endlessly. Everything on this radio was making some noice, from crunching and rustling to grated prolonged buzzing, yet still somehow all of these, to a normal person, displeasing sounds made more ear-pleasing sounds then the radio stations themselves.
Near was sitting on the floor, right next to the green satin sofa, jumping between radio stations. Some would say, he did it to irk the walls, but the reality is that he is just masochistic. Over and over again, the channels changed abruptly—just as a word was finishing, a melody started, or a chord was struck, Near would keep switching stations, creating a chaotic cacophony of meaningless, loud, and unbearable noises. His gentle, round face, would remain static, and a sharp stare focused on the old dim meter. Until a few years ago, he would sit quietly on the floor in soft, silky nightgowns and pajamas, arranging cards or constructing towers and palaces with Lego blocks. The soft, harmonious clicking of plastic cubes fitting precisely together could be heard. After finishing his construction, he would carefully move the structure to the side and begin a similar endeavor. Now, however, if he get hold of the Lego blocks, he would gather them into a box, lift it up, and suddenly spill them all over the floor. The resulting thunderous crash would reverberate throughout the room, lingering like smoke after an explosion. Even after the initial impact subsided, a buzzing sound would persisted all around him.
Someone walk inside the room. A man. Stands by the door. Near lift his head towards the door, carefully. His hand still on edged chalk red button, like fingers on guitar strings. The man approaches with quick step. He had a subtle heel on his shoes, what rhythmically (compared to Near's chaotic 'music') tapped on the floor. He ripped old radio out of Near's hands, leaving pale boy to shrink, like a cub when it is separated from its mother, and wrap his fingers around a lock of his hair.
As soon as the object passed into another's hands, the screeching ceased, replaced by a relieving silence. However, Near's ears continued to ring. The man didn't linger; he hadn't found what he sought. He pivoted in a half-circle and departed, his footsteps' melody lingering in his wake. The door closed gracefully behind him.
That's how Near was left alone in empty room with sofa and the doors. Both hands hold onto satin soft surfaces, his short nails lightly scratching the fabric. Rolling onto his stomach, he positioned his legs to one side and lowered his head, rubbing the textile above him with his hands. Despite stretching as far as he could, his hands were too short to reach the top.
God, it's hot, and his skin itches so bad. If only he could remove everything off himself, the flesh and the bones, only for atoms to remain scattered all over the floor like pearls. At this moment, even the walls were furious on him and the gig, that's why they were crushing him from all sides. It was a terrible sight, but he had to keep his eyes open, because if he closed them, he would be lost where he shouldn't be. Where he mustn't want to be.
A blond-haired man knelt over him, his hands wrapped around his pale neck. He gripped it so tightly that his face turned blue. It wasn't red, it mustn't be red. Near knows, he shouldn't open his eyes, meet eye to eye with his wraith, but if he keeps them closed, he'll keep delaying the end. Night hag, he thought. It is a dark, faceless being with only one intention, to frighten him. But he is not afraid of him. It must be true.
Near gathered himself, holding these strong, intimidating hands. He dropped his feet onto his hips, attempting to push him away. The demon bent over him, tightening his grip with increasing force. Near gritted his teeth, biting his tongue. He mustn't utter a single sound, whether meaningful or meaningless. But it was too late. He was overpowered. He mustn't let this happen...He turned his head to the side and exhaling his last breath.
Then he widened his pupils beneath his eyelids, expanding his chest. His lungs and vocal cords strained with effort. Oh no, he didn't want this. But he must do it. He was forced. Not because he wants it, nor because it should be done, but because the wraith wants it to happen. He lay defeated, 'dead' on the floor, but his body writhned and twitched, as he was squeaking like a weak prey. His skin glistened with sweat, and curls deformed into a silky mess, like cotton candy. His lips parted, tongue pressing against his teeth. If he was so unwell, why was he spreading his legs? What a fool he was, a fool unworthy even of drawing breath. It frightened him but somehow consolately delighted him. Make this stop, Mello.
When a man dies, his eyes do not open easily. His soul departs to another realm while his body remains motionless on the floor. He no longer perceives the awful buzzing in his ears, the weight of stagnant air in the room, or the oppressive presence of the white walls pressing against his back. He doesn't even hear the sound that used to elicit his strongest reactions—the creaking of the doors in front of him.
"What are you doing Near?!" Mello said in an agitated, life full voice a meter away from the wide open door.
"Nothing. What would I do?"