Voices whisper to Paris in the front of the classroom. He ignores them as if they are background noise. Noises he hardly notices anymore.
Scream. Throw the papers. Laugh.
"Mister Fullmer, would you like to explain why you chose to draw Van Gogh's Starry Night? In incredible detail?" His art teacher inquires, her fascination with his hands and creativity leading her to pulling him up front, for the sixth time this semester.
He looks everywhere but the students' eyes in front of him. "I love the stars, I wanted to be an astronaut as a kid, but I was never smart enough to get into a class."
"Oh." Ms. Arleen looks somewhat taken aback. "Thank you, Mister Fullmer, you may go back to your seat."
The community college classroom feels a lot smaller than it already is. Paris shakes as he takes his seat to his left of the U shape of the desks. Ms. Arleen wanted Paris as close to her as possible to watch him create during the first week of the semester.
Coward. She likes you. Kill the boy next to you. We adore you. Flinch, flinch, flinch.
The voices constantly chatter in the back of his head. He squishes his headphones into his ears and turns up his music to drown out the crowd of people living in his head.
Ms. Arleen has someone else come up to the front. He explains his artwork with pride and in the blink of an eye, the class is out and Paris is on his way back to his dorm, a beanie over his head and coat to keep him warm during the cold fall chill.
Another blink and he's in the shower, hot water warming his aching hands from the drawing. He steps out and dries off with a towel, after wiping the mirror of steam. He grabs the scissors from the medicine cabinet. He spikes his hair and starts trimming away while the voices speak faster.
Cut your fingers! Stab your eye. Pull your fingernails. Shed your skin.
He cuts his fine black hair to his desired length and puts his head under the faucet to rinse off the remaining hairs.
Drown, drown, drown yourself. Drink and stay hydrated. What if you turned it all the way up?
Paris dresses and finds his way to the kitchen, where his roommate, Michael, is fixing himself a bowl of cereal for dinner.
"Grab me one too, please." Paris asks.
Michael puts a spoonful of Wheaties in his mouth while handing the bowl over his shoulder. He opens the drawer and grabs a spoon as well.
"Tough day?" He says around a mouthful of cereal.
Bowl on the counter and spoon to the side, the cereal goes in first, then the milk. Michael watches and furrows his brows.
"Arleen made me stand in front of the fucking class, again. She's like four years older than me and thinks that hitting on her students is fine. I'm not screwing a 28 year old woman for some extra credit. Even if there is a thrill of being caught by her husband, screw that."
Michael nods. "You are an attractive young man, I say this as your friend." He scoops more cereal.
"She knows I am not a social person and that I would rather draw for a single credit. I don't want to stand in front of a bunch of people who could care less about someone who copies another person's work. I couldn't think of anything last night, so I panicked and drew-painted. Shit. it was supposed to be a drawing, a sketch. I didn't sleep." Paris rubs his face with his hands.
"Ha! I'd say. You put our cocktail into your cereal instead of milk."
Paris pulls his hair and groans. "Stop putting our cocktail into half gallon milk cartons. How in the hell am I supposed to know the difference?"
Michael shrugs and takes another bite. "You also could probably see about getting a hair appointment, that's a rough cut dude."
Embarrassment pinks Paris's cheeks. "Fuck off man. I'm going to the store. I'll buy something for dinner."
Setting his bowl in the sink and grabbing his keys, Michael chuckles to himself quietly, "Better wear a hat."
Stab him. Hit him. Force the spoon down his throat. Take his food. Bash his face in!
Paris takes a deep breath before putting his coat on. It takes all of him not to slam the door on the way out as he's putting his beanie on.
The cold air hits him as he steps onto the campus sidewalk. He zips up his coat and puts his hands in his pockets. Something cold against his hand makes him twitch just a touch. He pulls out his flask and sighs in relief. "That's where it went." He unscrews the top and takes a sip. The burn of whiskey down his throat warms his chest. That's when it dawned on him. He hasn't eaten since this morning, unless it was last night. He can't keep track of the days with little to no sleep.
As he walks down the street, his body feels a little warmer with the whiskey burning his stomach. The sun barely peeks over the valley mountains, keeping the area bright enough to see the dorms around him start to light up with the dark.
The voices start to silence one after the next until it's a small buzz of chatter that he can't make out. Sighing with relief, Paris creates a steam cloud. He does it again and again until he arrives at the small grocery store just a few blocks from his dorm.
The doors open and he tucks his mouth behind the collar of his coat to hide the liquor smell. His pink nose pokes over the top.
Few people walk around in search of their late night shopping or food runs. Paris walks up and down the aisles with his hands in his pockets in search of something to eat.
A small high pitched noise rings in his head. The headache starts and Paris takes another quick gulp from his flask. The headache gets stronger, the liquor not dulling or causing the pain.
Wincing, Paris hunches forward and grabs his head. He glances up to an empty aisle. He walks to the bathroom as fast as he can without catching any strange looks. He opens the door and one of the three stalls is occupied. He takes the farthest one, nearly crawling as he leans farther forward. He locks the door and holds his head as if it were going to explode. His nose starts to bleed and nausea takes over the panic.
The voices peek through. Poisoned! Sick sick boy. Your brain is melting! You are sick.
Paris leans against the wall, breathing heavily. It has to be carbon monoxide poisoning, what else could it be?
Blood pools on the floor around him, a constant drip from his nose, his coat soaking up the most. The stream leaks to the center of the bathroom and down the drain. The man in the stall two over seems to have no reaction to the blood leaking down the drain next to his foot.
He reaches down with a Q-tip and pulls it back. Paris would be freaking out if he wasn't in so much pain.
"Lena, we found one." He says as if he's on the phone.
"What the fuck." Paris mumbles, the whiskey slurring his speech.
The man unlocks his stall door and knocks on Paris's. "Unlock the door. You are now going to be under the surveillance of Misty Walkman, owner and leader of The Blind Baronet."
Paris shakes his head and the pain seers through his head. "No!" He sobs through the blood and pain.
"Lena, I need a portal please."
Black and yellow smoke appear in front of him, a woman with a common face and non distinct features-other than the small beauty mark just below her left eye. She looks at him as if he were an item on the shelf, seeing right through him with her beautiful blue eyes.
A man appears behind her with the same features, a beauty mark under his right eye and the same Caribbean blue.
They wear masks to filter the air, the man holds an object that looks like a thick gray plastic cup. He flips a switch and the headache disappears just like that. The bloody nose slows to a drip.
Run. Run. Run. RUN.
"I can't." Paris mumbles, both hands on the floor just to keep his face off of the filthy tile.
The man leans forward and picks Paris up as if he weighed nothing.
"We're good." Lena says into her watch.
The world spins and turns black and yellow. He has a falling sensation before it all turns to black in the blink of an eye.