He licked his dry lips, resting his tongue just behind the jagged teeth lining his jaw. A tinge of vermillion iron assuaged his taste buds letting him know that he must have scraped a bit of flesh here or there. Why did words suddenly fail him? All his life he'd been well read, despite his poor upbringing; his vocabulary could be called nothing less than extensive. What was the problem? He swallowed the budding lump in his throat once again in a futile attempt to ease the sudden waves of nausea overtaking him. The absolute incompetence shook his psyche as his skin pulsated hot and cold. Up and down had no meaning to him just as black and white had no contrast. The world around him was no more than an intangible blur hazing and warping around him. Sparks of light slipped into his inebriated meditation, ideas concerning his overall mental health and wellbeing. These, however, were consumed without any hope of return, into the growing black hole of his crazed focus. Opening his mouth proved nothing but to provide light wispy colours dancing in his field of vision before fading back into the incomprehensible world around him. Was this confusion?

To any outsider, the only answer given would be a slow, doughy blink and a drop of stark sweat running down his brow. His chapped, cracking lips pursing themselves as a shaking hand runs through the oily hair stuck to his forehead. To any outsider, trapped in that world of haze that he couldn't quite grasp, perhaps the only signs of sentience would be the occasional pupil dilation of his wide bloodshot eyes straining themselves to look deeper into the conscious of their owners. His omnipresent glower pulling the corners of his mouth taught into a straight line while his brows knit themselves together, furrowing as closely as they could manage. To any outsider, this was turmoil; but he himself knew, this was war.

A sigh, and he knew it was over. How long he'd been trying to escape stringing the idea together into a comprehensible sentence was a guess anyone could take. He himself didn't understand just when this happened or even how. Was it the self-imprisoned hell he'd put himself into? Locked away in a world of twelve and twelve alone, was that it? Was it merely happenstance? Simple arithmetic? Any fool could find the probability of concrete situations, but was it truly just the situation itself? As he shook the tangled, greasy hair from his face, he wondered why he was preventing the inevitable with asinine theories he knew weren't true. It wasn't standard algebra. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. It couldn't be that fucking easy. Numbers could be bent and burned and destroyed all together. This was no factor of numbers, even in the infinitesimal group of twelve.

When had the room gotten so hot? The phrase came effortlessly, suddenly drawing him from his intense and agonizing musings back to the corporeal world. Although mundane thoughts popping into his head often irritated him, he'd never been happier for the sudden intrusion. Perhaps it was a gift from his battered psyche; a sign saying "you've gone far enough for one sitting". Regardless of where the idea came from, he was grateful. It was no escape, and he wasn't about to let himself believe it was one, but rather a taste of relief, if only for a second. He pulled the damp black shirt from his torso and over his head, letting the fabric nestle into his hands. The air from the vents flowing into his sunken grey room gave only the slightest breeze, but it was enough to collect on his skin and cause a slight shiver up his spine. If only for a second… Collecting himself, he drew in a deep inhale. It was then he noticed the fragrance wafting through the vent. …perfume… and all at once, he was sucked back in.

Fists clenching around the fabric in his hands, he could do nothing but allow his mind to torture him in the cruelest of ways. Biting his already abused lower lip, the memories flooded his head, corrupting all senses. The accidental brushing up in the hallway, her bare hand grazing his, the rush and explosion of nerve endings burning in his fingers for minutes after. The ringing of her clear, confident voice echoing her outrageous plans in his head. The silent moments, erased in a flash, of unavoidable eye contact. The drifting of her perfume, crawling it's way past his olfactory senses down into the pit of his stomach lapping at the back of his tongue; something sensual, dangerous and oh so inviting. If he ever found the excuse, he'd slap her for wearing a perfume so fitting. The moment she leaned over the computer desk, into his face playing over and over again until finally- a cool sensation trickled its way down his chin. A quivering hand reached up, tapping hesitantly and bringing the colour up to meet his gaze. A bright stream of red flowed down his newly punctured lip, past his chin and down his throat. Yet again, an all too welcome distraction as he drew the sweat soaked shirt to his face, wiping himself clean.

Lifting his face to catch the breeze from the vent, the planets collided, spiraling the world into mass chaos. Suns exploded as space twisted and bent to accommodate the new forces. He had said it, in his mind, he had said it. The horrible undeniable truth he'd been corrupting for who knows how long, had just been said. He'd admitted it, and there was no taking it back. Frantic urgency overtook him. It was a slip up! He hadn't meant to do that! No. No. No! How could this extended crusade be proven fruitless in the course of half a second? Please, just let him take it back! No… this wasn't right… Ruddy tears brimmed at the corners of his constricted eyes. How could he have allowed himself to slip up so… so easily? He…he had failed.

This was not the man he was. Biting down on his injured lip, he roughly wiped his eyes of any evidence. There was no going back now, no more denial, no more bargaining, only acceptance. He'd never know now if his life was suddenly easier, or harder, but yet again, his mind orbited back to the ever present truth that it didn't matter. The decision was long lost. Time to own up, face it like an adult…. ..fuck.. He never heard from himself this far in the future. Not even the memos provided insight as to how far this would take him. Was he really that fucked in the head that he couldn't even give his past self a heads up? ... yes, yes he was. …..

He stood, at a crawling pace to face his dresser mirror, already cracked from another unsatisfied visitation. A gaunt face appeared before him, eyes sunken and red. Hair, matted down with oily grease that hung off his forehead like glue and skin slick with perspiration. Calloused fingers found their way to his lips, feeling the tough broken skin, trailing it gently. How had he gotten this way? The image before him was nothing short of pitiful, strained and maybe just a bit broken. How far had he really bent himself just to retain himself within his own psychosis of self denial?

And eerie calm swept over him. Something akin to the idea of building a tolerance. Had his nose grown so accustomed to the perfume that he could no longer smell it? His tired eyes shut themselves in submission of the overwhelming scent of perfume cascading around him…... At least he could throw that theory out the window. Maybe…. just perhaps….he was truly accepting it. He shook his head. No, no, no. True acceptance meant final failure, and although he knew he had lost the war, he could still build himself a new psychosis, a new world of denial and live there for as long as he possibly could. It wouldn't last forever, but nothing does. In fact, he…. he….he-

A loud knock rippled its way from his door to his eardrums. "Vantas! Get your ass out here, we're talking about new strategies."

He cleared his throat, making sure he still had a voice left to use. "I'll…be out in half an hour."

"Half an hour?! Hurry uuuuuuuup! We can't sit out there waiting all day for you to get your lazy ass in gear! Either get out here in 5 minutes or I'll make you."

"Oh fuck you!"

"5….minutes…." He heard her whip her hair around as she turned on her heel, heading back to the main room, perfume once again flooding under his door strangling his senses.

…..He reached down, picking up the discarded shirt, slipping it back on and all at once grimacing at the unsanitary sensation….. He would make a new world. An ephemeral escape from his irrational desires. A world where he was perfectly sane. A world where she didn't even exist. A world, where all the rooms were hot.