American Beauty, American Psycho

American Beauty

Alfred collapsed into bed, weary and worn from the events of the day. He'd never felt more depressed in his life; and that was saying something, considering he'd been to war. He groaned into his pillow, longing to see those sharp red eyes again. He steered himself away from the thought; Al wasn't lonely like Alfred thought he was, he was a liar. A cheat. A scandal. Alfred wanted nothing to do with that, no matter how attractive Allen was. Alfred wasn't shallow. He turned over in bed, filled with anger, betrayal, hurt, depression, and coldness. Feelings he'd never had to face all at once and by himself before. He grunted to himself, trying to think about America's Next Top Model, and went to sleep.
His lonely nightmare set in again. There he was, in that dark field, flowers dead, eagle gone. He didn't know how to escape this time; nobody would come for him, nobody could help. He cried out into the darkness, but not even an echo called back. He felt an emptiness inside that he'd never really let hurt him before, but now it hurt more than ever. It stung, it tugged at him; it wouldn't leave him alone. He wished and wished that Allen wanted him for him, but something was telling him otherwise. Allen was right in what he'd said when he introduced himself; a worst nightmare. Someone dangerous, that Alfred shouldn't be involved with. And Allen was right. Anger overtook Alfred in his nightmare; Allen's smitten act was just to rob him, it meant nothing. In his nightmare, he roared. A great, ferocious roar; he was wild, untamed. He smashed his hands into the ground and the world crumbled around him. He screamed so loud and so hard that the sky fell in upon itself. The world imploded around him, until there was nothing left except white, as if he was on a neverending sheet of unlined paper. It went on and on. Alfred's anger faded quickly, and he whimpered softly. He began to run, but the whiteness kept on going. It was always ahead of Alfred. His anger had gotten him nowhere...all has was...nothing.
Alfred shot up in bed and clutched his chest. He didn't feel angry anymore; he didn't feel a need to isolate himself. What good what it do? The angrier he got, the further the blank white space stretched ahead of him. He panted softly and whimpered out loud, not caring if a guard heard. He was finished with his anger. He'd find his way out of this the same way he found his way out of everything; with dumb, unplanned, goofy actions that made everyone snicker and strengthened his reputation to be the "class clown."