But happiness is defined as satisfaction, and satisfaction is comfort, contentment. Zexion knew neither of these things as they were meant to be. Comfort was so foreign, his association with the word meant a stranger’s indifference after a one night stand where he’d fucked his stresses to the deepest recess of his mind; lost until tomorrow when he’d wake up and be forced grip the toilet bowl alone with his tormented mind. He’d spill last night’s undigested high, yesterday’s nonexistent dinner, wondering in anguish why his body continually tried to force out what wasn’t even there. He’d gag on the bitterness, spitting the involuntary drool into the bowl when his body stopped trying to force his inner organs out through his mouth like a catharsis of the broken boy trapped beneath layers of denial and self-assured bullshit.
Comfort was not home to him. He was a stranger in his own home, surrounded by superficial objects that provided nothing more to him that basic human necessities. The walls were hollow and whispered with drafty winds carrying sounds of forlorn abandon, like a prelude to the reoccurring nightmare that’d plague his mind to poignant sleeplessness. His bed saw more hours of tossing and turning, hours of silent tears racing down flushed cheeks from tired, bloodshot eyes to sting his chapped lips with the bitterness of abandonment. He chose the path estranged from relationships above a shallow friendship, isolating himself in a desperation to protect his fragile armor. The transparency of his defenses frightened him enormously, and he pushed anybody who so much as left the fog of breath on the surface.
Contentment was a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The noxious smoke dancing around him, tainting the air above his head. White smoke blackened him from the inside out. White smoke replaced meals, white smoke replaced sleep. White, noxious smoke replaced panic with calm, replaced anger with anxiety, and anxiety with another cigarette to feel calm. Inhales and exhales were a labored task as the count of each square package lessened by the day until by tomorrow when he’d be forced to begin anew with a full set. It was like a corrupt deck of cards he shuffled with each drag; the outcome of the hand drawn based on the chance appearance of malignant cells in his lungs, or throat, or mouth.
His hands would sometimes roam his own skeletal figure, but not in touches of pleasure. Instead he’d self-examine through a series of prodding pokes, and subjective pinches. Examining his paper skin, frail looking, feeling like a strong wind could blow his outer covering to shreds. His hands, marred with transparent scars from rebellious teenage anger ignited by a short fuse, would cascade down his sides; the crease in his brows growing deeper with the feel of each protruding, offensive bone. His hips, the sharp points of his elbows, the clavicle, his obnoxious ribs all repulsed him; his reflection a trigger for self-hatred. With each meal ignored, each week’s food bill cost efficient, he thought what it’d be like to not ignore the wind hollowing through his empty stomach. Though not on purpose, his habits to decline meals and opt for nicotine and caffeine pulled on him like a weight, especially when he’d wake from a restless sleep to the sound of his stomach pitifully crying out for anything solid to sate it.
Generally, he watched from the discomfort of his bed with somber eyes meant to be a pristine ocean as the sun woke the world in a languid yawn. Hues of oranges, reds, pinks, and yellows threw shadows around, making the demons locked in the Alcatraz of his mind escape in a flurry of exhaustion too extreme to be considered fatigue. Too weary to fight, he’d close his eyes and only pray if his demise was to be struck upon him that it’d be a swift end.
He’d pull himself from the bed when the shadows passed, finding no comfort in sleeplessness, and lighting himself a cigarette before the hands on the clock indicated six a.m. was upon the world. The armor was polished, his self-hatred at a maximum level for exploitation as his false happiness poisoned him until he had one foot in the grave.
Physically speaking, a detoxification would do him wonders. Mentally speaking, Zexion needed a full catharsis of the mind before he’d even grasp a comprehensive understanding of stability.
Maybe then he would realize happiness isn’t poisonous.