Ctrl + Alt + Dalt (BxB)

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"And you're the one to blame."

"What are you talking about? I've never killed anyone—"

"Oh, of course not!" he exclaims, rolling his eyes as he shakes his head. "But, you might as well have been there to tie the noose around her neck for her," he spits. My guts churn and the warmth in my face drains away—I feel so terrible about myself that I'm literally feeling absolutely sick to my stomach—and I deserve it for everything I've done—I deserve worse than the pain ripping through my body and making its way into the very core of my being. I'm speechless—I had no idea that's what happened to the poor girl. It's tragic—she didn't deserve that—she didn't even deserve what I did to her. The urge to vomit rises up from the churning in my guts, but I manage to suppress it—but only just, barely. As the urge threatens to return, I launch myself out of my seat, running past Base and exiting his theater as he yells after me, "that's right—now you see it! Now you know! You're just as big of a monster as Brogan is!"

I thrust myself down the hall and into one of his bathrooms—the nearest one from the theater—the pale green of the walls making me feel even more sick until I find myself head first in the toilet, retching, puking, expelling the vile deeds of my past self. As I vomit, yellow turns into pink, pink turns into streaks of red, polluting the previously clean, white porcelain and the previously clear waters that reflect the monster within—and I don't know what's worse—the pain ripping into my stomach, or the pain of now knowing that I am responsible for someone's death—someone's suicide—I caused it—a life, extinguished—her life—gone—just like that—and what's worse is that I know what it is that I'd said, specifically, that got her bullied, saying that, 'she looked exactly like she could be Miss Piggy's long-lost, fat bastard of a son from an affair with a troll, so she should be called Moss Poggy', and everyone called her that nickname from then on, even some of the teachers used it. I'm the reason. I forced her to move away. I forced her to do the very same thing that I, myself, had to do previously—and it makes me even more sick to think that what I said may have been the last thing plaguing her—that I was the one she blamed before she took her own life. I feel an unexpected, comforting hand on my shoulder—I didn't expect Base to come to my side.

"I really am a monster aren't I?" I ask, staring into the toilet bowl as if it were the fabled mirror on the wall, caked and covered with my previously wretched ways.

"Yeah, or, at least, you were. Even I can see it's plain as hell you've changed. The old you wouldn't have batted an eyelid—wouldn't have been bothered about hearing someone killing themself because of something you said or did. You would have taken it in stride. You would have said—" Base suddenly stops himself—but I know what he wants to say—I know that he wants to hold back from saying something terrible in the exact, terrible way that my old, terrible self would say. Perhaps he wants to hold it back because he wants to protect me from having to hear just how cold I used to be—perhaps as if to shield the vulnerable, new me from an unfair blow coming from the treacherous, old me.

"Say it," I demand, plainly. I glance over to Base as he pats me on the back, nodding his head with an expression that perhaps says, 'fine, but you asked for it'. "Say what I would've said."

"Perfect! The fat pig slaughtered itself!" He looks down at the black, slate tile floor between us. "And the crowd erupts, laughing and cheering you on."

Within the void of solemn contemplation, I picture the whole thing—standing next to Brogan and Base, hanging out in a crowd composed of nothing but the most popular people, nonchalantly shrugging as I hear the fact that I caused her to kill herself, and having the nerve to brush it off with yet another hurtfully cruel statement. He nailed it right on the head—not only would I have made light of her death—as if that weren't enough already—nope—I would've made sure to include the body shaming that was the reason why she was bullied—and to stick my cold, final nail into her tragically real coffin as it were, I would've surely dehumanized her as well—denied her humanity—denied her of what she deserved—denied her from being seen as a real, living person who deserved to be happy, living in peace—instead of resting in it, because of me—I deserve worse than the pain that I'm in right now—I deserve to suffer.

"I really am a monster." I shudder, coughing as the acid burns my throat. It's as if my insides have been lit on fire—how fitting really—it's as if the villagers within my stomach have set the monster ablaze in the attempt to escape—perhaps the villagers in the analogy represent my conscience, long imprisoned and forgotten. I wince, holding the rim of the toilet with one hand and the side of my ribs with the other—I deserve it all for what I've done.

"Were—you were a monster," Base stresses, reassuringly. I'm glad that he's here—surprised that he is—but I'm also glad that I was right about him as someone I can count on to show that he's still here for me in some way or another—even if not publicly. And there's the rub. Supportive, but only in private. It feels wrong. The duality of it makes it feel duplicitous. I stand up to face him, wiping the taste of acid from my lips.

"Are we still friends?" I ask, my ears hearing the hesitation clearly within my own voice.

"Can we be?" His question carries obvious hesitation of his own as well as highlights the complications that arise from my question—can we be friends only in private and not in public? Can we be friends without the cost of him losing his membership within the popular group? Do either of us still want to be friends, really? His expression narrows into perhaps something sinister. Mostly to himself, but obviously for me to hear as well, he mutters, "or am I just being used again? I'm such an idiot—"

"Used? I'm not using you—what do you mean?" I ask, bewildered and wounded and offended.

"This is it for you isn't it? You don't care about me—you never did. You just wanted to use me—just like you always have. I'm your attempt to crawl and claw your way back in—I'm just your little golden ticket, aren't I?" He turns away from me, backing away and towards the frame of doorway.

"You think that I'm putting on a show? Being fake? Really?" I motion toward the toilet filled with my proof. "Is that fake?"

"No, of course not, but still—"

"Still what? You think that I'm some sort of master of acting—whose so good at faking everything that I can make myself sick? My emotions are genuine—my pain is real—and your toilet is the proof."

"Yeah, it's proof that you did feel sick—and, yes, it was clearly caused by what I'd said about the girl—and, yes, I won't deny that your emotions were genuine—but, maybe, throwing up wasn't part of the plan—maybe that part was just incidental—nothing says that you didn't show up here with the prior intent and the premeditated plan to use and manipulate me."

"I came here because we're friends—or at least, we were—I came here to know if we still are—if we can still be friends. That's all—"

"You expect me to believe that?"

"It's the truth—I've just come out—I need to know who's going to stick by me—"

"Yeah, whether your gay or straight doesn't matter—I can't trust the idea that you don't have an alternate agenda—I can't put my blind trust in the promise that you aren't just using me—I can't trust a master of manipulation—friendships are supposed to be built on trust, right? Well, how can we be friends, if I can't trust you?"

"So, this it, then? You're saying were done? We can't even be friends?" I ask, searching in the darkness of his eyes, seeing his answer before it can even leave his lips.

"Yeah, I guess I am—there's no way around it." He stares at me, perhaps waiting for me to say something else, but I know it's futile and I don't have anything else to offer that could possibly convince him otherwise. I turn toward the toilet, flushing down the evidence of the resurgence of my conscience, hoping that the monster disappears down into the abyss forever, before seeing myself out—in silence.

The pain only worsens as it combines and mixes with that seemingly contradictory emptiness of loneliness. Base quietly closes his front door behind me, closing the doors to our friendship forever. Within the dark and silent corner of my mind, the tiny and broken effigy of myself whispers, 'goodbye, Base.'