vitreous / hs. (DISCONTINUED)

i'm just waiting for you

V I T R E O U S - F O U R
atlas







IT was lunch again, and I sat in the same spot as yesterday, between Ines and the boy who had yelled last time. There was a small empty spot beside me, large enough to fit the body of the brittle boy I had been waiting for.


I found it quite hard to come up with a name for him, for I had done quite a bit of thinking. I thought for hours on end, curled up underneath the blanket of my bed.


Ines thought I had been going insane, or that I was becoming an insomniac. I saw it coming, she had said. I didn't necessarily like her, or her attitude for that matter.


It took me all night, but I had finally found a name for the brittle boy. All I was waiting for was for him to come sit and let me announce it.


The boy beside me stood up, pointing at the door once again as he had done yesterday. "Bones!" He yelled, and the whole room roared again.


I watched the brittle boy walk in behind a few people; he looked rather shaken up. The bags under his eyes were larger, and the dark circles that accompanied them were much darker.


He wore a petrified expression on his hollow face, blankly walking over to my spot, and seating himself beside me.


"Are you alright?" I asked him.


He didn't speak, he only stared wide-eyed at the table, his long, slender fingers tangled between each other.


"Boy," I said, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. He blinked once, and took his bottom lip between his teeth. "Is everything okay?"


He breathed in shakily through his nose, and turned his head only a fraction towards me. "N-No," he mumbled. "It's not okay. Everything is not okay."


"What's happened?" I asked him, worried he might burst into a fit of some sort. He was shaking tremendously.


He turned my way, looking me straight in the eyes. "He's dead." He whispered. "Dead."


I froze. "Who's dead?"


"My roommate," he said. "D-Dead."


I leaned forwards a little, "How is he dead?"


"K-Killed himself," he muttered, picking at his lips with his fingers. He seemed like a frightened four year old; fragile and vulnerable. "Kept b-banging his h-head on the wall until h-he died."


My mouth formed an o shape, and I backed away. I nudged the tray of food away from me with my elbow, and rested my arms on the table top.


"Do the psychiatrists know about th-"


"Of course they do," he interrupted me. "They're the ones who t-took him away."


I nodded my head softly, and he continued.


"He was super suicidal, and-and schizophrenic. He kept telling me he was going to do it, and he kept giving me a-a date. Today's date. I n-never understood, Atlas. I didn't know."


He pressed his thumb and his index finger to the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. I hesitantly put my hand on his back, but he didn't pull away.


"It's alright," I told him, trying my best to console him. "It isn't your fault."


"Atlas, you don't get it." He said, looking up at me. "I watched him slam his head against the wall, and I did nothing."


"There was nothing you could've done." I was a liar.


"H-He's dead now." He repeated. "Dead."


"We all die, eventually." I said.


He laughed, it was a dry, sad laugh. "He didn't have to die today. I could've kept him alive, and maybe he would've gotten better. But like always, I messed up. I fucking messed up again and it cost him his life."


"You're still alive," I told him, rubbing his back with my thumb. I could feel his bones through his thin layer of skin. "keep it that way. His fate was different than yours, and you can't live the rest of your life thinking about what if's instead of doing."


He nodded his head, slowly but surely processing my words inside his head. Just like yesterday the woman came and told him to take his pills, apologizing as well for the death of Quinn, his roommate, he pretended to take his pills, spit them out, and pushed his food away from him.


I dumped the coloured pills into the palm of my hand, and instead of putting them in my pocket, I remembered what I had noticed yesterday, and stuffed them in my socks. As unsanitary as it was, it was going to work.


"So," the boy said, breaking the shared silence between us. "Have you got a name for me?"


I nodded my head. "Arrow."


"Arrow?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow. I nodded my head again.


"Your real name is Harry, which is short for Harold. In the name Harold, is the word Aro, which can also be pronounced as arrow. Arrow signifies moving forwards, which is also a sign of progress. You're in a mental hospital, so you must be making some kind of progress whether its good or bad."


He pursed his lips. "Alright,"


"Arrow can also mean being straight, thin, and swift. I figured it suited you."


He chuckled, his thin lips pulling into a fine smile. He crossed his arms over his chest and crinkled his nose a little bit.


"Arrow," he repeated. "I love it."












harry is now arrow, do not get confused.

if u don't like the name i don't care i adore it


nat, i told u i was sleeping but i felt a pang of inspiration so i wrote a chapter ok don't get mad