What's more frustrating than staring at this damn cursor, blinking—blink, blink—mocking me like it's got all the time in the world? Screw you, cursor. Do you know how easy it isn't to write when the voices in my head suddenly go quiet? These bitches whisper stories at me day and night, relentless, and now? Nothing. Silence.
Oh, right, introductions. Hi, I'm Ajax, but you can call me MT626. I'm 27, a novel addict, an overly enthusiastic gamer, and, well… a depressed, bald-headed idiot who might just be both autistic and a little crazy.
The door creaked open, and Tarik stepped in, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the low frame. At 190 centimeters, he had the kind of height that made ceilings and showerheads a constant hazard. His broad shoulders practically filled the doorway, and his shadow stretched across my chaos-filled room like some towering omen of judgment. His face, perpetually stuck in an expression of mild disapproval, scanned the scene before him.
"Dude, you seriously need to clean up," he said, his voice brimming with both concern and disbelief.
"Motherf— I told you not to turn on the damn light!" I yelled, squinting as the harsh overhead bulb flooded the room. I threw up a hand to shield my eyes, already irritated by the way it made the clutter look even worse. Bowls—mostly half-filled with soggy remnants of cereal—were scattered across every available surface. Empty cans teetered in precarious stacks like some post-apocalyptic art installation. The floor was a minefield of discarded clothes, notebooks, and cables, all tangled in a chaotic web that made walking a dangerous gamble.
Tarik raised an eyebrow, stepping carefully over a pile of socks as if they might explode on contact. "What the actual hell? Do you think you're Asmon—"
"HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED!" I cut him off, whipping around so fast I nearly knocked over a precariously balanced stack of books. "Don't you know the rules? The Great Rat King's name must never be spoken aloud!"
He froze, blinking at me like I'd grown a second head. "Ajax…" His mouth twitched, caught between a grimace and a smirk. He ran a hand through his short, neatly trimmed hair, the exasperation practically radiating off him. "You don't even watch streams."
"I know the rules, though," I shot back, jabbing a finger in his direction as if it proved my point.
Tarik exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like a parent dealing with a particularly unruly child. "Can you, for once, grow the hell up?" he asked, his voice tinged with weariness. "Your dad's worried about you."
He looked around the room again, his gaze lingering on the scattered remnants of my life—torn papers, snack wrappers, and a single sneaker sitting atop a pile of graphic novels. His frown deepened. "Honestly, I'm worried too. This place looks like a hurricane came through and decided to take a vacation here."
I snorted. "It's organized chaos, Tarik. I know exactly where everything is."
"Really?" He folded his arms and gestured to the carnage. "Where's your other shoe?"
I paused, glancing around. "...Somewhere under the bed, probably."
"Probably," he echoed, rubbing his temple like he was one sigh away from a migraine. "Ajax, get your shit together, man."
He glanced over at my screen, his face hardening. "You're drowning again," he said, his tone far from playful now.
"I'm not drowning," I muttered, my words defensive but not convincing. "I've been keeping busy."
Tarik's eyes narrowed slightly. "Keeping busy doing what?"
"Writing," I replied sharply. "I'm trying, all right? And I took my meds."
"I know," Tarik said, his voice steady, but his eyes held that same look—an unspoken worry, like he was trying to figure out how much of me was still floating and how much was underwater. "I'm just saying you need more than that."
The silence settled again, thick and familiar. I turned back to the screen, staring at the blinking cursor like it might blink out a revelation. "It's fine. I just… it comes and goes, you know how it is."
Tarik hesitated, his jaw tightening as if he wanted to argue, then let out a breath instead. "Since you started writing, I've got something for you," he said finally, walking to his room.
When he came back, he was holding a folded piece of old paper. The edges were worn, the texture almost brittle with age.
"Found that in some tomb?" I asked, half-joking, raising an eyebrow.
"Yup. Over a 5,000-year-old tomb, actually," Tarik replied with a smirk. "We uncovered tons of artifacts, but my asshole boss gave me these few pages as my 'bonus' for the discovery." He handed me three fragile sheets with a shrug, his expression softening.
I took the papers carefully, as if they might crumble in my hands. The faint scent of age and dust tickled my nose as I looked them over, their faded ink forming words and symbols I couldn't quite decipher.
"Thanks, bro," I said quietly, the words heavier than I'd intended.
Tarik left for his room, and I placed the papers on the table beside my computer. With a sigh, I shut it down and dragged myself to bed.
"Man, fuck my life," I muttered to myself, smirking faintly as I closed my eyes. One of my favorite things to imagine as I drift off is sinking underwater, deeper and deeper, the world above fading away.
In the stillness of the room, a fine layer of dust began to gather on the desk. It shifted, swirling into a small mound that briefly shaped itself into the form of a scarab beetle—Scarabaeus sacer. The tiny creature lifted off, hovering over my bed before dissolving into sand once more. The grains rushed toward my face, slipping into my nostrils as I inhaled deeply in my sleep.