Author's Note: I was inspired by one my most beloved songs. 'Cubicles' by My Chemical Romance (a lovely thrashing song which the lyricist claims does not make sense and will never be played again). Yet I protest that MCR has never written a song that does not make perfect sense and 'Cubicles' is a very honest and conceivable one at that. Unrequited love and those awkward workplace crushes spring to my mind and so began this story.

Paperweight

It's the tearing sound of love notes,

Drowning out these gray-stained windows,

And the view outside is sterile,

But I'm only two cubes down.

I'll photocopy all the things that we could be,

If you took the time to notice me,

But you can't now,

I don't blame you,

And it's not your fault that no one ever does.

But you don't work here anymore,

It's just a vacant three by four,

And they might fill your place,

A temporary stand-in for your face,

This happens all the time,

And I can't help but think I'll die alone.

So I'll spend my time with strangers,

A condition and it's terminal,

In this water-cooler romance,

And it's coming to a close.

We could be in the park and dancing by a tree,

Kicking over blades we see,

Or a dark beach,

With a black view,

And pinpricks in the velvet catch our fall.

I know you don't work here anymore,

Sometimes I think I'll die alone,

Live and breath and die alone,

I think I'd like to die alone,

I think I'll love to die alone.

Just take me down,

I think I'd love to die alone.

-booklet lyrics to 'Cubicles' by My Chemical Romance

New York City, New York

New Yorkers have been long accustomed to the constant howl of traffic attempting to meet with its destination (and failing in the time allotted) and manage to sleep through its blare and the bustle of New York City. Inside the unofficial confines of the seething metropolis slithered long bodies of people making their hurried way to wherever (whenever and whatever) they sought. The noise was inevitable but was scarcely noted by those who had lived there some amount of time. It was all uncomfortable, competitive, and utterly intoxicating to dwell in the pregnant womb of this city whether one was a native or not. Donovan Grey was not a natural New Yorker and still battled the soft, carefully unemployed Texas drawl that insisted on rising at the most inopportune moments. Yet he had been here, in this filthy fabulous city, since packing his dreams into a suitcase and moving to the land of promising job openings four years ago. Those lofty aspirations had long gone on home to Plano but Donovan's heart had kept his body in New York City and his mind on something (anything) to do for money.

The alarm was rattling to life with the jarring, panicked wail of an animal caught between the iron teeth of a trap. Six o'clock. Four hours of sleep. He moaned deep in his throat and sought the conveniently over-sized button that would silence the irritating initial sounds of morning. It died in mid-screech as his deft fingers (honed quick and precise by thirteen years of guitar-playing and five of speed-typing) found their target and descended roughly. It really was a horrible alarm clock but he must endure its ugliness or risk sleeping through his rousing call. The dingy gray of ancient white washcloths was the only light in the room, aside from the demonic red glow of the clock's digital numbers. The pale watery glow came in through a scarcely-foot-wide window that squatted above a small sturdy dresser. It was a sparse but well loved room in an equally unimpressive three-room apartment, yielding only a small hoard of personal possessions and a large collection (hung from hooks that lined the right wall as there was no closet) of pristine suits intended for use at the office. Between lofty bills (considering that to find a place without roaches on his salary was costly), food, replacement guitar strings, and those damn 'professional' clothes the young man had very little finances to indulge himself with. Donovan was but a young, uneducated accountant who had been fortunate enough to charm his way into a passable office career.

Donovan rolled onto his back with another groan of frustration, highly displeased with this 'waking at ungodly hours' nonsense. It was not so imperative to their executives if the lowly employees arrived at nine, was it? Of course not... but they did so love to goad their underlings. He was not due to work until eight today yet the two hours in-between would be spent without pause. He must perform bodily maintenance (shaving, combing, eyebrow-shaping, and thorough moisturizing of his temperamental skin) before dressing, then make and eat breakfast, and walk the single mile to his dear little cubicle unhindered. It was a long process that required concentration and time. Therefore it was time to lever himself from the possessive clutch of his lumpy bed and seek his outfit from the six starched identical suits. He yawned with all the unabashed wideness of a lion and crawled (literally) from his blankets and across the chilly hardwood floor.

He wished longingly for a dog (which his mother had kept in droves back home) to liven his home rather than the still, standoffish haze of emptiness. The apartment was shrunken and rather ill-cared-for (the facets chipped with walls in a sullen shade of yellow once white) and Donovan was depressed to be alone inside its uninviting confines. He tried not to spend very much time inside it. It might have been worse, he reflected, if his job paid any less. At least he had yet to find solid evidence of a roach, though he could not say the same for the rodents. As he stood heavily and passed from one room to the next he yawned and stretched his spine like a cat, allowing his flexible back (which he was fortunate to have kept limber considering how much time he spent at a desk) to ripple and familiarize itself with being up and about. Scratching at his hip he crossed the kitchen/living room to the counter and jiggled the light switch. It flickered on, dimming once before springing to dazzling full life. The glare startled Donovan for a moment and he covered his offended retinas with tattooed fingers. Once his eyesight adjusted and ceased to complain he lowered his hand and reached for the refrigerator door, tugging it open with a dull suctioning sound. Inside sat various foodstuff items, including wilted celery and a thick block of tofu. He sought the large bottle of clean water and maneuvered it out. Filling the coffee pot he proceeded to inform Jacob (a hearty little plant that was the closest thing to a pet allowed in this sad place) that it was too early to be getting up, and that if he were a rock star he could sleep until unholy hours of day. Jacob did not, naturally, respond but Donovan was grateful for his listening.

As the coffee began to brew in the machine Donovan bid Jacob watch it for any signs of malfunction and turned to shuffle into the bathroom that made a closet look grandly sized. Inside sat a deeply discolored shower (no bath), a stained toilet, and a sink that had seen much better days. The medicine cabinet contained very little medicine and very much cosmetic product as Donovan was fond of looking nice and thought perhaps, someday, he might have need of eyeliner. He showered at night in hopes of sleeping in somewhat and thus needed only to shave and pretty himself. Stubble was his mortal enemy and he thought perhaps his family were unnaturally hairy Romanians, considering that he must shave thoroughly every morning or be frowned upon at work for being scruffy.

“It could be worse. I could have ringlets coming from my nostrils like Kurt Davison.” Donovan advised himself aloud, giggling at the horrifying yet amusing thought.

The shaving cream always felt slimy and cheap but was deliciously fragrant as it tickled his nose. Donovan did not particularly like this part of being male and decided that if he were a woman he would never wear foundation or concealer just to celebrate lack of facial hair. He managed to muddle through shaving (having never been particularly adept) without cutting himself in any visible area (the collar of his shirt would mask the one knick he suffered). The tiny blossom of blood was stifled with disinfectant and ball of toilet paper. With wrinkled nose he rinsed the foam and miniscule bits of dead cells down the drain with a silent prayer that he was not further polluting the city. The water swirled and settled a moment in a large puddle before gurgling (as if the pipes were also not morning-oriented) and draining altogether. One task down, three to go.

Fumbling between the many carefully labeled bottles the young man located the strong hair-gel and a fuzzy comb. After picking the old hairs from the teeth of the comb he poured the gel on in their place, working it into the spaces between and then running it very business-like through his cooperative dark hair. Twice more and that was finished, molded perfect and slick just as his boss preferred. Next Donovan scrutinized himself in the mirror for a moment, tweezers poised to extract and abolish any hair that had dared to sully the perfect thin arch of his eyebrows (waxed every two weeks and carefully maintained in-between). He had once, when he rode the high-horse of youthful romanticism into this city, been muscular and happy and adorned by tangled dark curls complimenting extensive body piercing. But long gone had been the colored ropes of wayward tangles, the devil-may-care stubble that peppered his blatantly childish face, and the jewelry that glittered in his skin like ingrained gemstones. He had since grown slender and pale and eerily flawless, though the map of tattoos that ran the length of his back remained concealed beneath his clothing. He often thought he might perhaps dislike himself for the short dark hair that tickled his brow and the nearly-closed gaps in his flesh where charms had once clung. But that was only often, not all the time, and he chose to pretend that he never had such thoughts.

Soon he had rubbed himself down with Aloe and Coco Butter Lotion and felt fresh, clean, and very much someone who was most definitely not Donovan Grey. If his old gang (even Jimmy, god bless him, had never bothered to visit when his band passed through New Jersey) saw him they would most likely declare him a sell-out to the former official Order Of The Teenage Hoodlums and have him stoned to death. Donovan knew he was suave and beautiful these days in a way which he had never been previously and yet it was no comfort at all. He would have preferred to be still thick, grungy, self-righteous Little Big Man, unjaded and untried. But he did not long dwell on bitterness (lest it consume him as it had some of his fellow employees) and moved from the bathroom to fit himself into that blasted suit.

When he returned to the kitchen the coffee was happy to oblige his mutterings about needing it and Donovan poured a healthy fourth-of-a-cup sugar into it before taking a calming swallow. The slight undertone of being burnt was shadowed by the syrupy sweetness of the sugar and he offered Jacob a sip. Jacob declined and Donovan drank the coffee alone in silence. The toaster always made odd buzzing noises when it was heating bread and the knobby bit tended toward sticking but it managed decent toast one Way or another. Donovan was put into a foul mood when he discovered that the only bread he had currently was the 80-calorie white type that was too small and filmy to be true bread. Still he knew his routine of the day and was determined to continue it. The toast was down and the peanut-butter retrieved from the lower cupboards (as Donovan had a quarrel with things being put up high and wanted to retain his dignity), and everything was as it should be. He wondered how many other personalities from his world of cubicles and business suits had a similar morning ritual and which ones were fortunate enough to have money or a family and perhaps even both. He also thought that he would gladly trade lives with any one of them.

Jersey City, New Jersey

Samael was tired. This he had decided the moment that he was accosted by a large projectile of the human kind, which proceeded to mercilessly shout at him to wake and dress for the day while lying directly over his exposed back. The creature of questionable heart was his brother, Raphael, whom had spent the last twenty-four years accentuating the fact that the human race was a Very Big Mistake. It was the younger man's self-proclaimed occupation to handle every unpleasant duty regarding his twin brother and make it as excruciating as possible. This included rousing Samael, who was an ill-tempered person on the best of mornings and entirely unresponsive at his worst.

Samael Basilio was an entirely different story from young Donovan (who was two years his junior and much higher in the working-class hierarchy) but almost in the same position of being very unhappy with his work. While Donovan had a large archive of common sense with which to motivate himself in the business world Samael had very little and was impulsive as you please. A photographer, camera technician, and Film School Graduate (with a Bachelor's Degree, no less) had been wrestled into a suitable career by unfortunate circumstances and had no desire whatsoever to endure what he called 'those scary box-thingies'. His father had recently divorced Samael's mother, you see, and that left the four (Samael, Raphael, their mother, and grandmother) to fend for themselves very abruptly. Raphael was no use at all because he lacked any sort of talent or imagination and Samael was the distant-eyed dreamer with far too many ideas for someone lacking an attention span; it left them in an uncharitable space. Isabelle, the middle-generation of the three familial rungs, was a Walgreens cashier and did not make nearly as much money as she ought to. For a time it was tight but manageable that Isabelle should scan items and her sons stock the shelves of a local Staples, but then the tragedy came and made it all much more difficult.

The Basilio family was devastated both emotionally and financially with the discovery of serious medical complications in their matriarch. Cosima Francesca Basilio was diagnosed with a cancer of the breast and her insurance canceled, leaving them with treatment bills and hospital fees that climbed steadily higher in number and cost. Thus they turned to Samael, who was a smart man despite being insufferably quirky and a bit touched in the head regarding certain things, for salvation. The two options ranged thus: get a well-paying steady job or allow your dearest relative to die. Samael chose to find himself respectable (uninteresting) work in the booming world of New York City. It was not an easy task considering that Samael was both abysmal at anything requiring technology and had as much decision-making savvy as a peanut but after several nervous breakdowns and numerous failed jobs he was taken in kindly by an Executive at Illumination Publications. The woman had gotten him a job in order to be given the privilege of looking at him every day, actually, but Samael had no knowledge of this.

His initial job was to make photocopies and deliver them to the proper authoritarian figures. In the last year or so Samael had been allowed to poke about in the Art Department (which had prompted him to propose marriage to his Employer, who was exceedingly disappointed to discover that this was merely Samael being Samael and should not be taken seriously) but was still the official photocopy-slave. It was surprising that he managed that occupation considering that he hated math with a resounding passion, but perhaps it was counter-balanced by the fact that he was terribly nosy and read everything that slid into his skinny fingers. Unlike Donovan, who was one among many of his fellow accountants, Samael was a treasured commodity in the office and could afford even less to be late.

“Won't go. They can make their own fucking photocopies.” Samael whimpered into his Rainbow Bright pillowcase.

Raphael snickered and pressed his nose into his brother's hair, inhaling the intense fruity scent and then exhaling loud enough to be proclaimed a blow. Samael grunted but did not otherwise react and the second-born Basilio twin began to plot as fast as his mousy mind could stand.

“Get up, get up! Mama's made pancakes and I promise to eat every one of them if you don't come downstairs!” Raphael exclaimed, attempting to provoke Samael's inner chipmunk-hoarding tendencies.

“Grandma will feed me.”

“No, she won't. She's gone to see Dr. Hoover and won't return until after you've gone to work. You'll be sent off to New Spork with nothing in your belly.”

Samael shuddered at the mere concept and succumbed to the whining of the stomach that cried out for pancakes. No wonder he was not an emaciated beanpole what with such an ungrateful digestive system.

“I haaaattteee you.” He wailed into the soft surface of the bedding, bucking beneath his brother's weight.

“No you don't, you love me. I may not love you but you still think I'm the best thing since Twinkies.” Raphael responded knowingly, rolling off his crestfallen sibling and directly onto the floor. “Ow.”

“Karma.” Samael squealed, one finger jabbing nearly into the right lens of Raphael's yellow plastic sunglasses.