A Certain Sort Of Loneliness

Fish-Bowl

Bythe time the others get back his tears have dried and his voice hassteadied - he greets them kindly, albeit more withdrawn than usual.He can't help but feel guilty when he sees Lili now - the scalpel isback in his pocket now, delicately wrapped in a single tissue -courtesy of Lili - she seems...shaky.

Fora moment, he thinks her eyes seem a bit red, a little swollen.

Hecould be wrong.

(Hecould be right)

Perhapshis eyes are the same? Emil doubts anyone would notice either way,his eyes are unusual as they are, so it's unlikely a little swellingwould make a difference - right?

Therest of the afternoon goes by quickly - Emil feels hazy and histhoughts feel slow and thick, foggy and sludgy, as if he were stuckin quicksand. He's tired and his responses are even moretired-sounding than usual, lethargic and unmotivated. He can't evenbe bothered to become annoyed with Leon's constant quips andteasing.

"What'sup with you today Em's?" He asks casually, arm slinging aroundhis shoulders,

"Nothingreally," he says quietly, "Just tired." He doesn'tbother complaining as he usually would, or trying to push Leon's armoff - what was the point anyway? At the end of the day it was just aperson, touching him - and at this point Emil couldn't even reallyfeel it, the only reminder that it was there at all was a dull,tingling sensation.

Leonhums quietly, and Emil can tell he doesn't believe him, but he can'tbring himself to care (let alone do anything about it).

"Ifyou say so," Leon stretches before leaning on to the desk andresting his head in his hands, "You're not like...being veryconvincing though." He adds, grinning pointedly.

"I'mnot trying to be convincing." Emil frowns slightly, browsfurrowing. What reason does he have to convince people of hisfeelings? He's not the most expressive, that's for sure, butshouldn't him being hard to read be all the more reason to simplyaccept what he says?

Leonis confusing, Emil thinks – he can't tell if he's unusuallyperceptive, like Lili, or if he's just intrusive. He seems to have aninkling, at the very least, that Emil is hiding something,but whether he knew the full extent...?

Hedoubts it.

"I'mgonna go." He says simply, pulling the straps of his bag over hisshoulder and leaving.

Leavingagain, like always, unable to address the wordless feeling of numb inhis mind. Because it's easier, so much simpler to succumb to it alonewhen you cannot even begin to put your battles in to words.

Hecomes home to an empty house, filled to the brim with a silence thatEmil can't figure out, can't tell whether the stillness is comfortingor agitating.

Hedoesn't know.

Naggingat the back of his mind, yet faded and distant like the sound of adoor opening and closing again in the wind at midnight. Fish-bowlthoughts of life, how each day is worth nothing yet useless inaccumulation as well, all words falling apart and becoming sensationsthat Emil cannot possibly describe. Perhaps it is like music, liketurning music in to a picture and then in to words and then fiveother languages before a single sentence becomes cohesive.

Ithurts his head to try and explain, so he stops – there's no-one toexplain it to anyway, he's pushed them all away.

Yetstill the nagging feeling continues.

Andstill he stays in his fish-bowl, circling, circling – over and overtill he forgets he could ever remember.