The pills tasted dry and foul in his mouth. He spit them out as soon as he could, using the same speed and impulsiveness he used to popped them in with.


"I can't do this anymore," he said softly, speaking to no one in particular. The room started spinning, as if in response to his statement. He sat down --fell down--and silently debated whether or not to put the razor blade lying on the floor next to him to good use or not. It had, after all, been lying there for the past…week? Or was it a month? Much like everything else in his life, time seemed to have simply slipped away from him. The sound of clocks drove him insane. In fact, before even opening the rather expensive Christmas gift he had recently received from his father, he lit the damned thing on fire upon the sudden (and shocking) realization that it was ticking. Moderately.


He remained in this not-so-unusual state of self-analysis and existential wonderment for about the same amount of time it might take someone to realize that they had strayed from their original train of thought when his mind wandered all the way back to the question at hand. The smooth, silver object seemed to shine louder and louder until its presence was virtually unbearable.


Just as he was about to reach for the razor, it suddenly dawned on him that Alice was still in the room.


No doubt she was caught up in her own world, Chris thought to himself. But when he looked up, her eyes were directly on him. In him. The couple knew each other's thoughts. Felt each other's pain. They were, after all, bound by the very wheels of fate. And why, today, had she seemed so distant? So…synthetic? Or perhaps it was Christopher. He was the make-believe side of this outrageous fairy tale. Perhaps he didn't love her, and for whatever reason, the truth decided to sneak up on him here. Now.


Said something, she said something.


Or perhaps he was dreaming. Hallucinating again. Is it so wrong to consider the possibility that the girl never existed? That he had made her up all along? That this was all just one bad trip? The ceiling. It told him to mind the silver beauty on the floor.


Chris was beginning to feel nauseous again. The room started spinning faster and faster, dragging his poor, tired mind with it.


Around, again, around we go in circles.


Ideas and feelings collided with one another, forming disturbing images in his head; all so familiar and at the same time strange to him. It seemed like the harder he tried to slow down and make sense of things, the worse it got.


His shoulder, someone had touched his shoulder. The ceiling, maybe. Christopher grew sick with terror at this thought before convincing himself that it must have been Alice, who WAS real. Had to be…unless it was the razor blade. Had he picked it up somewhere between the crashing and slaughtering of logical thoughts and peaceful connections? Had it, perhaps, found its way to his shoulder? Why his shoulder? Did it matter? He thought not. But if it were---


STOP. These were crazy-thoughts. He was being ridiculous. There was nothing wrong with him, after all. He was just begging himself for the attention, and, sadly enough, this seemed to be the only way he could gain it. He had to stop this, and damned soon before it was too late. Before he dropped dead or was dragged away in a white van with his arms stuck to his goddamned sides again. Odd, bright flowers started blooming across the walls. Everything seemed to be gaining on him. He had to move faster before it all caught up to him…Again, that feeling of being perpetually chased lingered in the back of his sick, sad mind and grew stronger with each passing second. Like in dreams, where no matter how fast you run, the thing behind you always seems to catch up. The ceiling kept taunting him, telling the walls to keep moving, making sure he couldn’t breathe. Finally, blackness befell him.


“Chris. Chris. Chris.”


A voice. Small, delicate. Comforting.


A whisper in his ear.


How often had this happened to him? How much longer until he simply lost his mind? He was almost sure that last episode would have torn him to pieces. But, providentially, here he was. Still alive, still sane [as far as he could tell, at least…].


“seemingly, all it takes is the familiar voice of a lover to bring me back again…” he thought to himself.


“Chris, I’m right here. Right here.”


“I know, Alice,” he sighed to himself. Whether or not he had actually spoken these words seemed irrelevant to Christopher. Either way, he was sure she heard them. He was safe, and that’s all that mattered. Sleepily, he pulled the covers over their heads and reached out for his love. He embraced her tightly with all the affection his body could at this time afford, and smiled in response to the smell of her hair. Before Christopher could exchange a soft “I love you,” he drifted off, yet again. This time slightly more peacefully than the last.