trigger warning. descriptive detail of self-mutilation, mental illness and suicide.
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Pia tries his best to encourage the electric kettle to hurry up, but the seconds tick by like hours. Instead, the machine sings a hymn of taunt; taking all the time it desires to make Pia understand that he is technology's bitch and not the other way around. All Pia wants—no, needs—is a cup of tea that doesn't have the same temperature as a corpse. Unfortunately for him, it takes three to four minutes to achieve said temperature and he does not have that type of patience today.
It's nothing extravagant, it's tea—he's not even thirsty, it's habitual. [Some people like to pray before they eat, Pia likes to drink tea when he watches TV at night]. And at this point, he has nothing better to do other than to binge-watch tedious nineties sitcoms, all with the same laughing track chiming at each blunder like the hourly cuckoo of a clock.
He plops a teabag into a charcoal mug mindlessly, scattering the single teaspoon of sugar at the bottom like dust against the sides of the mug, almost like a asteroid crashing into the earth. Sugar spatters over the mug's insides, tacking to the sides like dew. He pushes himself up onto the counter, sitting back with his head against the cabinet.
The wind hollers outside, banging with clenched fists against the windowpanes, screeching like a slasher victim bleeding out. The windows are closed away from the apartment by thick, ceiling-to-floor black curtains, crusting against an entire wall of the living room like a scab. Somehow, the coldness seems to seep through the enclosure, exposing Pia to goosebumps.
He pries a glimpse of the television, angling his body peculiarly cyborg-like. He is far too afraid he might miss Monica and Chandler's secret relationship develop—something he's been monitoring closely like a nurse to an ICU patient.
Pia has had a lifelong fondness towards love [oh, woe is him], albeit his recent abuse of sexuality.
He loves the idea of giving everything he has to someone, even though what he has, is not even adequate enough for himself. He loves the idea of spending such an undetermined amount of time with someone that they can each be on their own mission in the same room where the silence is like orchestrated choruses. He loves the idea of embarking on spontaneous dates, pretending that the world means nothing more than an enlarged map and all they have to do, is paint their footprints over the paper.
Pia wants to stay up late and talk to the love of his life. He wants to hear childhood narratives of great tyranny and revolting victories. He wants to hear their worst fears, the sweet thoughts they cannot share because it keeps them up at night. Their 2 a.m. thoughts. He wants to ask the person questions, even if it meant the irksome questions like how was your day? or the what is your favorite color? version thereof.
