(Featuring the talented guest artist ProbablyBird)

I cannot make you understand. Cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.

Tissues snored in a deep, calm slumber. Most times he slept, he wasn't aware his surroundings were just dreams. His dreams were weird, as most were unexplainable stories and events with no connection to one another, and then of course he'd wake up and forget them all instantly. Though there were key things he remembered.

On a few occasions, he dreamt he could fly. He'd need to take a running start, but once he took that first leap, he could shoot off into the sky. His favorite part of these dreams was always stretching his arms out and feeling the wind blow against them. He would shoot towards the clouds, crashing through them to create a white, puffy explosion. Sometimes, drops of rain that composed the clouds would splash onto him, and he delightfully showered in their touch. The only downside to flying dreams was that, of course, what comes up must come down. The feeling of falling in a dream was unpleasant, it made his stomach drop and feel light headed. Nine times out of ten, this would make him immediately awake, only to make a beeline for the nearest washroom to throw up. So, he would fly for as long as possible. Even when he was far too tired or bored to continue, he kept flying.

Some dreams, the more abstract, were not worth remembering. Once, he dreamt he had the voice of a great opera singer. Every word he spoke was eloquent and sung, and he received a standing ovation from a crowd for simply asking what time it was. Another time, he was a farmer, except instead of vegetables, his garden would grow severed legs, the feet sticking out of the ground when they were ready for harvest. He did not remember what he did with the appendages, though he thought if he did cook them up and eat them, it was better to not remember. Then, there was the dream he was in currently. He was walking down a winding hallway, seemingly never ending. The floor was carpeted, gray, and itchy. He was clutching something in his hands tightly, as tightly as if his life depended on it. There were doors along the hallway, painted in all the bright colors of the rainbow. Though, the longer he progressed down the hall, the more muted those colors became. Eventually, there were only white doors lining the hallway. He looked down, and in his hands he held a smaller box of tissues. One not sentient, but similarly colored to himself. At least, he thought he was holding it. He could feel as much, but couldn't quite see his own hands. He swore he could hear someone speaking from behind one of the doors, but they sounded underwater, almost muffed completely. He turned the small box over in his hands. He sneezed abruptly, painting the box in blue snot.

A momentary ceasefire from my own body.

He tore out a tissue from the little box, wiping his hands down. He hated dreams like this. Sometimes, he didn't cough or sneeze at all in his dreams. Those were a blessing. Sometimes, he could even breathe properly and consistently. To his displeasure, he sneezed several more times, all in quick succession, each painting the little box in different colors. In bright oranges, then blues, purples,  to the darkest reds. They were all dripping onto the ground repulsively, and so he kept tearing tissues out from the box. One after another, he tore again and again. Once he was clear, he realized the small box was now empty. He held the cardboard crate in his hands, more gently now. For some reason, he pitied it. He sneezed once more.

Tissues shot up from the couch, sneezing and coughing hysterically. He hacked and wheezed, for once covering his mouth to stop the mucus from ejecting all over the couch.

'WHAT IF YOU GET THEM SICK??! AS IF WE NEED ANYTHING ELSE TO WORRY ABOUT, YOU CAN'T EVEN BOTHER TO COVER YOUR MOUTH.'

He furrowed his brow, purposefully turning and sneezing all over the seats. He jumped off the couch, only to trip over himself, face planting on the floor. He shook his head, trying to fully wake up. His eyes were unfocused, they usually were when he awoke. Sometimes they were just like that too, temporary blindness was something he was very used to at this point. He crawled towards the couch once more, sitting beside, but not on it. The teal box took deep breaths, shutting his eyes once more. They'd just need another minute, then he'd be fine. That's how it always went. He would always be fine after a while.

He tried remembering his dream. Tissues could still feel the itchy, carpeted floor, though he was not fully sure what he'd be walking towards. He remembered having an end goal, but only the endless hallway came to mind. His eyes stung again. They'd done that a lot recently, mostly resulting in making his eyes watery. Worse still, some people would mistakenly think he was crying on purpose. He wanted to get back to his room, able to hide his shame and the disgruntled stares of his peers. He stood up once more, now sure his vision would return. It usually did after this long. He opened his eyes once more, gazing into the room.

He could see even less than when he had first opened his eyes. Tissues didn't panic. He sat down once more, moreso angry and impatient, having to wait even longer for it to blow over. He didn't want to be seen, but he'd rather wait it out here than risk tripping down the stairs. He would never admit he'd grown irrationally afraid of the steps, but he wasn't an idiot either. If he fell, broke an arm or a leg, he'd have to be helped around. He'd rather that fall kill him.

Tissues blinked a few more times. Still nothing. He begrudgingly stood up, waddling his way towards the stairs. He didn't care for his lack of sight, he'd just crawl up the steps, or something. He'd think of what to do when he could actually find them. Tissues shuffled around the floor, stumbling into a wall. He felt around it, moving along the side. It was only when he stubbed his foot on the edge of the step, he stopped in his path. He grumbled to himself, trying not to audibly complain. He reached a hand out towards the steps, waving them around in the empty space below him.

A foot came crashing down on his hand, making him scream out in shock and stumbling back onto the ground. He pulled his hand away, gripping it tightly in the other. He opened his eyes to shout at the perpetrator, but to his growing concern, everything was still blurry.

"OH-! So sorry!!! I didn't see you there-!!"

The voice called out. Tissues immediately recognized it.

"Dwon't touch me."

He hissed violently at the hotel manager. OJ giggled, skipping away from the teal box.

"I won't-! I'm in too good of a mood to bother!! Bye bye!" He abruptly left, leaving the tissue box dazed and confused.

What Tissues felt towards that man could not be described so simply in words. Hatred was too light a word, not that he ever used it lightly. To hate something, someone, with such a fervid intensity.

Hatred. Hatred at the unfairness, at the man, at himself. He was his own worst enemy, his biggest detractor. He really had a knack for ruining his own life, albeit not on purpose, but nonetheless it happened. It happened over and over again.

He still could not see.

Tissues moved his hands over his own eyes, only able to make out the blurry form of them. His breathing quickened ever so slightly. He prayed it would blow over any second. He'd rather suffer any symptom, anything that wasn't this. He already had so little of his own, little he could control, why could he not even have sight?

Just wait just wait it's alroight don't freak out.

He tried convincing himself. His eyes stung once more; so much so he pressed his hands into them, whining in pain. They'd never hurt that much, not until...

Tissues scrambled back for the stairs, crawling up them like some sort of quadruped creature. He prayed nobody was watching him at the moment, but he just shrugged off the concern. If anyone dared make a comment at him, he'd just hiss and swipe at them like a rabid creature, that would surely make them buzz off.

He reached the top of the steps, heaving and breathing hard. Still sightless, he crawled towards the side of the wall that was aligned in the room's doors. He pressed his head against them, trying to gauge who occupied which room. He crawled along the floor, still listening closely. The voices within were no help, as most contained nothing but silence or nearly inaudible breathing. This pattern only changed once he heard the unmistakable, melancholy noise of someone crying behind one of the doors. Not just crying, but the sound of someone in deep, unending misery. Those were the cries of someone who had no voice left to speak, and could somehow still produce the noise of one shedding tears. He could tell this person had been crying for a very long time, as their sharp breaths between sobs sounded painful and calculated.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I love you. I'm sorry.

He didn't want to keep listening, so he continued onward.

The next passing conversation he heard was far more helpful, a familiar voice met his ears. Something was off about it, for all the best reasons.

"I like the 35 millimeter camera, because it has a really nice shutter speed, and I think it's just really easy to use when you're trying to learn it for the first time."

"It looks old! Where'd you buy it?"

"...It was a gift."

"Oh! That's nice."

Tissues heard the faint shutter of a camera snapping a photo.

"How do I look?"

"...Great. It's a good picture."

There was a long pause.

"Do you wanna keep it?"

"A picture of myself?"

"...Yeah."

"Alright."

Tissues was growing bored of their banter and ran his hands along the door, trying to feel for the doorknob in his hands.

"Can I...Take a picture of you?"

"WHY?"

His response was abrupt and immediate, almost angry. Tissues stopped searching for the doorknob, and just sat by the door, listening closely.

"Sorry."

"It's alright-! I just- Well I wanted to see how you looked? I guess? Like- in a picture."

"Like?"

They both chuckled.

"Here, strike a pose."

"Mhm?"

Another snap shutter.

"There! You look -..."

"...Hm? Bad?"

"No, actually! You're very photogenic! It's a-"

Tissues heard the sound of shuffling steps, then one sharp gasp.

"What-?"

"Sorry- sorry I thought I stepped on something. It's sticky."

"Oh- oh, that's just- it's Tissues's side of the room."

The teal box grimaced, mentally preparing himself for whatever negative, irritated comments his roommate would make.

"...Right. Uh...D-don't you- you- he should clean that up-?"

"It's alright he always does eventually."

"Eventually...? That's...That's kind of gross."

"Don't say that. He's put up with a lot."

There was another long pause.

"I really, really owe him."

The tissue box smiled.

He stumbled a bit, falling cheek-first against the door. The room's two occupants looked up, instinctively going to open it. As they did, Tissues face-planted onto the ground in front of them.

"Tissues-?!"

Trophy whisper-shouted.

He reached out a hand to him, but the box just slapped it away, stumbling to his feet. Microphone and Trophy watched as he staggered through the room, bumping into things, hands still clasped over his eyes.

"Are..."

Mic started, eyeing the teal box.

"Are you okay...?"

"Oim FINE. I need a mirror."

He spat in a quick response.

Trophy briskly walked up to him, nudging him slightly in the direction of the standing mirror, leaning against an adjacent wall of the room. Tissues rubbed his eyes one last time, looking up at it. His eyesight had returned slightly, much to his delight. He breathed a sigh of relief, leaning his head back. The other two exchanged looks.

"What happened?"

Trophy whispered to him.

"Nothing. It's awll foine no-"

He stopped, looking even closer at his reflection. His body jolted in panic, eyes as wide as they could go. The co-founders of PMT stepped closer to him.

"Tissues?"

The aforementioned put a finger under his eye, stretching out the 'skin' beneath it, getting a closer look at his dilated eyes. The red, irritated orbs didn't sit well with him. He felt a wave of nausea coming on, along with a growing sense of dread. His blurry vision made the room spin, distorting colors and shapes, nothing appearing as it once did. Whether this was a symptom of the eye pains or just something new, he was not sure.

Just another problem he needed. Something else to poke and prod at him each and every day.

He'd learn to live with it.

Pickle avoided stepping in the puddles that formed in the divets of the sidewalk. The path into town only revealed itself after he threaded through a vast stretch of woods, a route he was more than familiar with. As he stepped past puddles, the streetlights kicked on, covering the wet ground in their radiance. Pickle had the smallest urge in the back of his mind, one that told him to run up to one of the lights, and swing around it in a circle, bellowing 'I'm singing in the rain, just singing in the rain...' He didn't, and opted to keep on the path.

The people he passed on this trek paid him no mind. Strangers that had their own journeys to attend do, destinations far more pressing. He was in no rush, but still wanted to complete the task as quickly as possible. Pickle paid no mind to them either, keeping his head fairly lowered as he went along. The streets were more densely populated now, and after a few more minutes he started seeing shops and stores pop up. His destination wouldn't be more than a few moments away, he could tell as much by the distinct smell of pretzels and cheese. Pip's Pretzels was right next to Sandal's Surf Shop, which was of course just left of Carrot and Pot's Floral Decor.

A small bell rang when he opened the door, the smell of assorted blooms hitting him in the face. The store was densely populated, and still the clerk at the front desk waved at him, much acquainted with him already.

"Helloooo, Cucumber! Welcome! Anything We can help you with today?"

The carrot greeted, practically beaming at him.

A far shorter employee, one he too was familiar with greeted him with much less gusto.

"Hello. Do you need any help today, sir?"

They said softly.

He approached the front, side-stepping several strangers along the way. Many 'sorry's' and 'excuse me's' were exchanged before he arrived at the front of the establishment.

"Well well well! You sure have a special somebody in your life, hm? So many flowers in the past few weeks! Tell me, tell me. Who is it?"

The lady behind the desk asked with much intrigue.

"I'm- sorry?"

Pickle asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.

"The special someone! Who are all these bouquets for?"

She asked once more.

"Ah, they're for a friend."

He whispered.

"Come again?"

"A friend. For a friend."

"Ohh! Well isn't that sweet of you? They're very, very lucky to have you. What are you looking for today, exactly?"

"Something...Um...Somehting with meaning?"

The clerk raised an eyebrow at him.

"What kinda meaning are you interested in..?"

"...An apology."

She smiled softly at him, turning around to inspect the barrels of wrapped florals.

"How big of an apology?"

"The biggest one you could think of."

She gracefully plucked a bouquet from the bunch, presenting it to him. The small blue and violet flowers poked out from the stems, overflowing the bouquet. Pickle cradled it in his arms.

"How much?"

"Hun, just take it."

"Excuse me..?"

"Take it! Make that apology mean something."

The clerk exclaimed, making several customers turn their heads towards them.​ The short employee stormed up to her, still speaking in a monotone voice.

"Carrot, we can't give those away for free."

"Pot! Opportunities like these only present themselves a few times in life! This man wants to give a heartfelt apology, and-"

She patted the bouquet in Pickle's arms.

"-Blue Hyacinths! Are the answer! They represent remorse, regret... No money can buy that! Go on, free spirit. Give your friend the apology they deserve!"

She passionately expressed.

Pickle just nodded along, not nearly enthusiastic enough to match her energy.

"I will."

He briskly turned around, not turning back to face them as he exited. The clerk waved at him the whole way.

"Tell me how it went! Oooh I'm just dying to know already!"

The employee glanced up at her.

"The next time he comes back he's paying for that."

Pickle clutched the flowers tightly in his hands all the way back home. They were a very precious cargo, more valuable than gold at that moment. He passed by the same lightposts he had on the way to the store, getting that same thought in the back of his head. Two, actually.

I didn't bring money to pay with anyways.

Singing in the rain, I'm singing in the rain...I'm happy again...

He put the flowers in one hand, running up to a lightpost. He put his other hand to it, running around it in a circular path.

"Siiiiiging in the rain, just siiiinging in the raiiiiin..."

He sang his heart out, only stopping when he noticed the stares of other people walking along the street. He calmly collected himself once more and trudged along the path.

Pickle stood above the crudely dug grave. He hung his head as a sign of respect, still clutching his cargo. He wasn't religious, thus had no prayers of the such to say, nor had he ever mourned a loss like this before. He improvised, going along with what he thought the best course of action would be. He laid the bouquet at the center of the circle of stones. Though, the more he looked at them, the more they looked like a misshapen oval.

Did someone move this?

He cringed, picturing some animal digging up her remains as a midnight snack. They should've buried her deeper. They should've laid her to rest in a far more respectable manner. But respect was something this place had forgotten, devoid of basic decency. He closed his eyes, head still lowered in respect.

"I wanted to apologize."

He whispered.

"I've done wrong by you."

His lip trembled. Pickle was astounded, not expecting to become emotional at this point. He was great at keeping those things to himself, be it for his sake or for others. Perhaps, because he was alone, he found himself more at ease, more inclined to be sincere. He continued speaking.

"When you...If you come back, I promise, I won't ignore you ever again. I won't ignore anyone, I'll be honest, I-"

He paused once more, looking up. His eyes scanned each window of the hotel, as if expecting someone to be looking down at him. His eyes looked up to the stars, his only audience. He felt overcome with emotion again, choosing to look at the windows once more.

"I'd do anything to see someone real again."

The crude reflections of people he loved were not the same. The empty eyes, the soulless stare, It was a farce he could see right through. He'd gotten good at spotting disingenuous intentions, and the hotel was crawling with lying cretins. At least, they could try and pretend they were happy. That they tolerated his presence.

SoooooowaaaaaaCreaaaaaammmmmmmm!!!

Pickle smacked the side of his head several times, trying to get the annoying mantra out of his head again. Like an earworm, or some annoying song, it just repeated endlessly in his brain whenever he would remember it. Beating his head with his fists didn't ever make it stop, but a headache was something he'd rather focus on.

"Sorry, sorry I got distracted."

He said, looking back down at the grave in shame.

Pickle felt a twinge of goosebumps, the cold chill of being watched. He spun around, glaring daggers into the darkness. His eyes were downcast once more. He shook his head, standing in silence for a very long time.

He wasn't even good for leaving a few parting words. Not even a single ounce of respect for the dead. He managed to make himself sick just thinking about it.

He flinched once more, as his feet shifted ever so slightly under the feeling of something odd. He crouched down, feeling the mess he'd just stepped in. Pickle put his hand up to his face, smelling it. By some miracle, he did not wretch, merely gagged and shook his hand violently, trying to rub it off himself. It was like a mix of rotten meat and salty water, but it was chunky, and stuck to his hand like an adhesive. He peered at the circle of stones much more closely. There was something there, lingering in a puddle just by one of the stones. The goop started stinging his hands, warming the affected hand, as if someone were holding it.

Feeling an acute sense of terror, he threw his hand into the grass, rubbing the substance off on it. He made a beeline for the hotel once more, fumbling and struggling to open the front door with only one hand. Once inside, he threw himself at the first piece of furniture he saw, landing face-first atop a bright orange couch.

He lay in uncomfortable silence once more.

Face still pressed against the couch, Pickle slid his hands over his face, screaming into them. The muffled sound was near a whisper, echoed only into the old cushions and his shrieking mind.

"What is wrong with yew?"

He muted himself almost immediately, staring up into the puffy, red eyes of a tissue box, who sat in an armchair adjacent to the couch. He was clutching a mug in his hands, and gingerly took a sip of whatever was in it. He raised an eyebrow at the distraught man.

"Oi can't see sheit, so youw'll have to tell me who you are."

He chuckled.

Pickle didn't find it amusing, and simply lowered his head once more. Tissues made a strange sound, a mix between a giggle and a cough.

Tissues looked rather comfortable, being wrapped up in an orange blanket, the very same kind that adorned every room in the hotel's beds. As if someone had wrapped him up in such a manner, pampered and snug as a bug. He was not bothered by this, and found himself surprisingly fine with the predicament. He'd let himself be aided just this once and only once.

"Yew want some?"

He asked, shifting the mug in his hands towards Pickle. The vegetable mumbled something under his breath, still face-first on the sofa.

"Wut?"

"I don't want anything you've drunk out of."

He responded with far more callousness than intended.

Tissues's face crumpled up in disgust, scoffing and turning away from him.

"Oim not contagious."

He scoffed.

"Sorry."

Pickle mumbled, still laying in the same position but not facing upright.

To his immense relief, Tissues's vision became clear slightly, the blurry and poorly colored blobs regaining meaning and shape. They always cleared up, everything always eventually blew over. This time just happened to catch him off guard, or so he tried to convince himself. As relief set in, so did embarrassment.

"So who wrapped you like a Christmas present?"

He asked, sitting up to face Tissues. The teal box turned away, gaze downturned.

"Nobody, I put moiself here."

He blatantly lied.

Tissues was unsure what was more humiliating, being seen stumbling and bumping into furniture while avoiding a complete meltdown, or being comforted and lulled back into a calm headspace by his roommate and their friend. They were very kind, and more understanding than he'd hoped. He did try to push them away initially, but his panic made him more susceptible to help. He'd hated it in the moment, but now he wasn't so sure. Being swaddled in a blanket and taken care of at his most vulnerable, it brought him memories of better times. Times of being tucked in, spoken sweetly to, as opposed to being a burden. Despite the shame, he wouldn't ignore how it made him feel in the moment. He would remember to repay the favor if the time ever called for it. He took another sip from the mug.

"Banana milkshake."

"Huh?"

"Take it. It's good."

"I don't want it."

"Oi bet yew do.

"I bet I don't."

They bantered back and forth.

Pickle was hunched over, sitting on the edge of the sofa without facing Tissues. He would occasionally cringe, as if someone was repeatedly poking him, despite no one being present beside him. He held his left hand with the other, periodically rubbing it against the couch. Tissues looked him up and down, shifting in his seat. He thought the other object slightly resembled a maggot, all lumpy and curled up. He was even dusted in dirt in several places, further linking this association.

"Yew look vaguely bug-like to me."

Tissues declared.

"What the hell does that even mean...?"

"Whatever yew think it means."

He glared into Tissues's red, irritated eyes.

Neither of them has a place to be, nor a plan to follow. Two people that just so happened to meet under similar circumstances now living under the same room. He'd never even so much as spoken to Tissues, but now he was sure he'd avoid doing so ever again in the future. His air of confidence, surrounded by other unsavory and frankly disgusting factors only just made Pickle realize how little he wanted to do with this man. But he didn't leave. That stupid smile on his face was mocking him. That stupid, stupid smile that was so like OJ, so like her. That condescending look of knowing something that he didn't. He concluded that maybe he should just let himself be that idiot. That idiot that allowed others to willingly use him for whatever scheme or end goal they desired. At least if he was in on it this time, it wouldn't hurt so much later on down the line.

"What do you want?"

He asked earnestly.

"Oi actually wanna know something."

"Mhm?"

"Why did yew leave flowers at the-"

Pickle cut him off by shushing him loudly, extending one finger to his own mouth.

"SHHHHUSH. Shhh."

"Why would it be a secret?"

Tissues pressed the topic, despite the obvious distress of the other man.

"It's not a secret."

"Then-?"

"It doesn't matter."

"If it doesn't matter, can yew tell me why?"

He kept his gaze downturned once more.

There was just no speaking to people like this, they wanted things their way no matter what he did or said. He was ready to accept the terms. Who did Tissues have to tell his secrets to anyways? He'd spill his guts about anything he asked. He would've done it regardless of whoever sat before him anyways, this was no different.

Sour. Sowaaaa....CREAM!

He smacked the side of his head against the armrest of the sofa, and once with his fist for good measure.

(OC crediting time 😎)

Axe belongs to: Michaels_trauma

Lemon Merengue belongs to: cloverleaflets

Gumball Machine belongs to: ProbablyBird