There was nobody there. Rargnes looked again while the others were discussing what had happened. He opened the fridge in the kitchen a few steps away from the group and only saw dishes they had eaten after the group had left, not those from before. He noticed that the knives they had taken were no longer there, but none of the others had disappeared. He grabbed one and stuck it into the ground, then hurried to join the group that was heading out the door.
"We're leaving without you or?"
"I'm coming!"
Rargnes watched the days pass in his mind, trying not to think about the party the group was having next to him. The smell of alcohol wafted up to him, alternating with the scent of vomit, while he heard the group shouting with joy and arguments.
He watched with detachment. He stared into a corner, which helped him not to be there. The thoughts repeating in his head in the all-powerful form of a voice were not meant to replace the human presence he neglected – because it wasn't profitable enough – but rather to intoxicate himself with the evil he tried not to reveal.
Hatred, at least, was something strong, important. It wasn't passive despair, slowly gnawing at his soul as he locked it away in control. He always made sure to change his white shirt and jeans by stealing from the supermarket – the same outfit every day for years. It saved time. It avoided thinking.
He turned to look at the party. Someone had blasted music that had already brought other groups over several times to ask them politely to shut it off or leave. But one drunk person thought the others were the problem. They were too serious, like him.
That's why he stayed alone, him and a few other members of the group who frequented the bar. Sitting, head low. Nothing had changed.
"But still," he thought, "it must be nice."
He wanted to shake his head but gave up. What's the point? If he couldn't control his body, how could he control his thoughts and emotions?
"Their party there, it's a waste of time for them. They won't gain anything from it. They don't understand that their death is imminent, they're mad. Even if it weren't, every second is lost. They'll wake up tomorrow, wasted, and it will be deserved. They couldn't manage their inner village."
The thought provoked empathy and shame in him. He looked at his phone and settled onto his mattress where he spent hours trying to fall asleep.
Upon waking, Rargnes got up with a headache. He stood up, looking from right to left before giving up rubbing his eyes – he had read that it was bad. He looked at the glass bottles lying on the ground, whole or in pieces, a strong smell of alcohol filling the men on the ground.
He saw his neighbor to the right move his mattress and looked a bit too long to avoid sparking a conversation.
"I didn't expect you to drink," the neighbor said, out of breath from pushing the mattress. "Next time I won't hear it."
"I don't think I drank..."
"Oh! You yelled all night! Alain, Alain! Who's Alain?"
"who?"
"I don't know, you were talking in your sleep."
He refrained from saying "who asked?"
"Well, I haven't drunk in months."
"You sounded drunk. It doesn't do that when you only talk in your sleep, does it?" He imitated with a hoarse voice, "Oh sir, I pay my taxes, mind your own business."
He felt the anger rising. He looked at him angrily. "Don't put words in my mouth."
The neighbor grumbled something then said, "I don't expect a junkie to understand."
"That's it," he thought with rage. This son of a bitch could give up on the idea of any help.
He got up, sliding his backpack filled with water and food onto his shoulders. His knife was tucked into the pocket of his thick coat, which – depending on his level of fatigue – could be quickly drawn. The situation was visibly weighing on everyone. Another group had had a dispute and one of them ended up with a pierced stomach. He agonized yesterday. The murderer had fled the same day, outside. That was one of the reasons they didn't go outside – the other being the monsters and the alcohol.
On his right, someone picked up a baseball bat and started smashing glass. Humans needed tension. They liked discord more than indifference, hence the love of debates, of being right despite bad faith.
They were all getting crazy. They need to be more like him, no, even better. Controlling every action that made him walk, the position of his feet, his stance towards others, the cadence, and the rhythm wasn't enough.
This place needed order to fight effectively.