Breakdown (Ianthony)

From the front porch, I hear the turn of a doorknob. The gentle creak of the wood as it swings forwards on its hinges. It gently closes, as though it were a secret, which is kind of true, I guess. He makes no sound in the hallway during his journey to his room, and, as he passes my door, I think back to simpler times. Times when we would bicker over which pokémon was the most powerful, his answer always being Magikarp. Times when we could laugh with no strings attached, no hovering cloud of confusion and misery constantly hovering above our heads. The present is also simple in a sick way. He doesn't smile. I don't smile.

We both don't smile.

Is there any peculiar reason? Well, I'll be damned if I can answer that question. No, this stage in life was insidious. Small, not harmful in the beginning. Note: in the beginning.

I'm jerked from my thoughts with the sound of Ian's door shutting. Then, spring mattress creaking in protest, I sit up in the darkness of my own room and rub my eyes, as though the dark is just an impediment in my vision. I curl my legs inwards and hug my knees against my body. At this point, I can hear similar mattress noises coming from Ian's room as he climbs into his bed for the night. In the morning, I'll probably find that he forgot to take his shoes off. Again. I won't say anything, though. God, that would make this whole situation even worse.

He's drinking. A lot. Back when we cared, I began to taste Jack Daniel's on his lips as we kissed. I would cock an eyebrow, and he would just shrug. I never brought up the question. I never really worried, because I began seeing his pocket knife sticking out of his jacket pocket.

How very naïve of me.

Am I losing my mind? That would make more sense than anything else this miserable mind of mine can conjure. Nowadays, my mind thinks in colors to compensate for the fact that he has no color left. He's... He's broken. The problem is, I have no idea exactly what broke him. He's like that toy that everyone had as a kid that wouldn't work, no matter how hard your dad tried to fix it.

Fix it.

Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.

Fix... Fix him.

I need to fix him.

I listened for any sign of Ian being awake.

Silence.

With catlike silence, I slipped off of my bed and tip-toed my way out my bedroom door. Gently twisting the knob so my door's shutting noise would be muffled, I crept to Ian's door. In a similar fashion to earlier, I opened and shut his door behind me with almost uninterrupted silence. Then, I turned to stand over Ian's sleeping form.

He was lying face down, neck-high under the covers. I reached out a cautious hand to peel the blankets back, revealing him to be in the same clothes as he wore earlier today. Blue jeans, brown leather jacket (hiding a stained white tee shirt), messy hair. Same old story. I could see the steady rise and fall of his back, signifying his intake of oxygen. The stale scent of whiskey and shots infiltrated the air, causing me to slightly gag.

I stared at him for another minute or two.

Why?

Ian, why?

Ian, you piece of shit, why?

He shuddered, suddenly flipping over and sitting up.

"What the 'ell are ya doin' 'ere?" he gestured to his room, slurring drunkly. He pushed the covers off his legs, and began rubbing his eyes. Then, hearing no immediate response, he grinned wickedly and put an arm around my shoulders. I batted it away, sensing this was just the beginning of whatever horrible plan he had for me.

I had never shown my true discomfort to Ian, but drunk people honestly terrified me. Even happy drunks. The thing about alcohol was that it could take someone who you know and love and turn them into someone they're not. Ever cared to watch "The Shining"? The thought that some kid's own father would attempt murder on him... It kills me.

Before something traumatic could happen, I smashed my lips against Ian's, hoping it would distract him long enough so that I could get the knife out of his pocket. I could taste the alcohol, and I felt the sudden urge to brush my teeth. He was smiling against my lips, and it made me sick. I snatched the knife out of his pocket and pulled away from the monster I used to love, flicking the blade open. The color literally seemed to drain from his face, grin melting into a look of horror. Then, I let something take control of me; some urge that I felt I had no place resisting. Ian, pushing himself away from me and pressing himself against his headboard, began whimpering in fear. I must have looked utterly horrifying.

I felt powerful, with that knife in my hand.

The urge to control, to cut, to kill was growing stronger by the second. With the reflexes of a snake, I pinned one of Ian's hands against his headboard and straddled the rest of his body, leaving one arm to flail around and punch at my flesh. I growled with the primal bloodlust of an animal and dragged the knife over the skin of the resisting limb, leaving a line of brilliant crimson. I scanned his face with the realization that he had been silent throughout the entire ordeal. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he dully stated, "Why."

My look must have been one of confusion, because he continued, "Why'd ya come in my room ta kill me?"

Why.

Why, Anthony?

Why do you wanna kill me, Anthony?

My grip tightened on Ian until suddenly, I released. The knife fell from my hand and stabbed into his sheets. I remained on top of him and just stared into his eyes. Eyes that used to be blue, and had turned a stone-grey. Then, slowly, timidly, I leaned in to kiss his Jack Daniels lips.