One more night

A soft tapping, intermittent strikes on the desk with his fingers. 9:22. One hand on the mouse, one hand on the desk. Both eyes on the screen. He scrolls down slowly, taking in every word on the page, soaking the spirit of the community. Sometimes he imagines he's watching over a crowded room, a party, hearing little bits of speech and opinion floating into his earpiece.

Sitting on the stairs, listening to his friends laughing. Somebody walks past, their arms full of bottles and he shrinks away. She doesn't see him, the shadows cover him up nicely, keeping him safe.

9:23. Almost. He opens a thread, watching the friendly discussion descend into argument; first political, then bitterly angry. Fractured. It's no matter to him, he's used to this, the arguments over every little detail. As if they were trying to figure out something perfect but could only circle it with angry snarls, like dogs fighting over a bone. He realises he's stopped tapping, so shifts position, letting his left hand sit underneath his chin, relaxing into the evening. He clicks away from his browser and goes through his pictures, organising his folders, housekeeping. A few, overused images with cheesy slogans, he deletes. A few make him exhale slightly with his nose and tilt the sides of his mouth upwards. It's hard to laugh out loud at the same picture you were laughing at the day before. Or was it two days? It doesn't really matter. 9:24. That has to be long enough. He sits up and pulls his chair in a little, gliding over hardwood into the sanctity of his desk. He cocks his a head for a moment, listening. Nobody on the stairs. TV still on downstairs. He opens his desk drawer and fishes around for a moment, before pulling out a short plastic cylinder, which he pulls apart, revealing circular rows of pointed teeth. Besides the teeth, his little friend is empty, so he goes back into his drawer, pulling out a train ticket, his scissors and a little white piece of paper, followed by a tiny plastic bag. He cocks his head once more, is still for a moment, then gets to work.

"What was it like?"

"Dude I can't even remember, I was so drunk already."

"That sounds fun."

"I could bring you, next time. Do you think you'd...?"

The boy thought for a moment while his friend watched him.

"Yeah, probably. I mean, I've never really been against it or anything, I've just never been offered."

"Well next time one of us has a thing, I'll ask if you can come. You can meet some of my other friends, they'd like you."

"Yeah, that'd be cool. Thanks man."

9:28. The boy is surprised at how fast he can do it now, it's almost second nature to him. He places the finished product next to the keyboard and checks Facebook. Nothing there. No new threads either, or even emails. He tries to think of something else to pass the time. He'd already done some work for school earlier in the day and it felt too late to be settling into any work. A few more idle seconds tick by before he stands up and grabs his coat from the floor, then jams on his hat. Safe and warm. He opens his bedroom door and creeps, ever so lightly, across the landing.

9:31. He's standing on a flat roof, looking up at the moon. He once had a friend that he could sit and watch the moon with. They said it was the most beautiful thing in the world. Now it serves as a silent angel in the sky, watching him and judging his obsessions. He likes to think that he doesn't have a choice, that this has been put on him by fate. Life is hard sometimes, and doesn't make sense. It can make people do stupid things. He turns and swings the bathroom window shut behind him, cutting him off from the rest of the house. Ignoring the alluring pull of the moon, as well as the silver glowing outline of the trees behind his home, he leans against the wall. The birds tweet helplessly against the night and the flame leaps from between his fingers, sealing his fate for the night.

9:43. Back in his room and the lights are low. His hat and coat are back on the floor and he's sat at his desk. But now he's different. He feels like he should be less stressed, or even relaxed, but for some reason his fingers still strike the familiar wooden plateau of his desk with a steady rhythm. But at least he's not bored any more. He can vent his frustrations against a video game, or perhaps tour some other alluring corner of his computer. 9:44. His mouse glides thoughtfully across the screen, considering where to invest his time. Eventually, he ends up on the internet again, streaming something funny on television. He settles in for his night time entertainment.

11:34. He'll have to go out again soon. The end credits and quirky theme song dance around his room for a little while, but he cuts them short. His head is throbbing a little, so reaches for his desk drawer for the second time. A noise, like a clumsy child tapping a bell with a muted mallet, tells him he has a message. He pauses and looks up. A friend; they haven't spoken in a while.

Friend:

Hey

How're you?

He stares at it for a moment, caught in the glare. He puts down the grinder and types.

You:

Hey man, I'm good

How've you been?

Friend:

Oh good

I've been alright, bit stressed. You know, school and all.

You:

Yeah, that sucks :/

Friend:

Yeah, it's ok though. Few more weeks

A few moments go by, no messages are passed. He looked down and gets back to work, but hears another little ping of information.

Friend:

Dude, are you actually ok? We've been talking about you, the guys are worried

Autopilot. The words fly from his fingers without a moment's hesitation.

You:

Haha dude seriously, I'm fine

Don't worry about it

Friend:

You haven't been...?

You:

What?

Friend:

You know...

You:

No

Seriously, I'm fine. Just a little tired, that's all

Friend:

Well ok

You:

Actually, I think I might go to bed

Maybe talk tomorrow?

Friend:

Yeah ok, see you man :)

You:

Bye :)

Options; appear offline. The boy sits still for a moment, staring at the little icon next to his name. A picture of himself from before, smiling for the camera. He looks back down at his desk and, for just a moment, feels a splash of disgust. His head is still pounding; he lets his fingers get back to work.

Just one more night, he promises. Tomorrow, he muses, I'll tell them what's been going on, I'll throw this stuff away. Just one more night.