The smoke wafted up to the ceiling, unseen except where a ray of light illuminated it. The smell of vanilla came from all around, a nice, smooth smell, it always made him think of cream. Not like those flowery scents his mother had always favored, those were far too sharp, felt like they'd cut your nose. They stung, but vanilla wasn't like that, it was soothing. Incense smoke invaded his lungs as he took a deep breath. What was to happen? He had no clue. Sharpness was not appreciated and the knife at his wrist was sharp. A knife was a mistake, it was too much pain, too sharp. Sharpness cut and hurt.

He was a coward. How could he not be? He left the vanilla filled room and replaced the knife in the kitchen. How could he be so cowardly? He went back to his bedroom, the vanilla room and laid down. He just wanted to sleep, to take flight on a vanilla scented cloud. Sleep and not wake up. To dream for the rest of his life. Dreaming was nice, sleeping was nice, in a dream everything was good, even the bad things. There was no fear, no sorrow, no emotion. And it was black, often, blackness but for the present. No memories, no idiocies to remember. No people. He slept.

It was school, again. He wasn't like other people. They walked by him in a stream of consciousness. Not his consciousness, their own, separate from him and connected to each other. He was alone. The classroom he entered was his English class. It was boring, English was too easy. He'd go to sleep, the teacher wouldn't notice, no one noticed him. He was invisible, after all, separate from their consciousness, they couldn't see him, often.

"Peter?" The teacher was talking to him? His consciousness must have changed for a moment; she saw him.

"What?"

"Did you do the reading?" Yes, he had. A boring story, wasn't it? He hardly remembered it. About someone killing someone and hearing the heart, was it?

"Yes. I read it."

"Can you tell us what it meant?"

"No." It didn't mean anything, did it. Don't kill someone or is it lie convincingly if you do? Don't go crazy?

The other kids giggled at his response. Who says 'no' to a teacher? Only the oddball, the one separate. The sleepy one, the one who dreams.

A smell of vanilla. Smoke no longer wafted to the ceiling. There was no more light beam to show the smoke that wasn't there. The incense was out and the sun wasn't. Who knew what time it was? Did he have to go to work? No, no work. Weekend. Can sleep, can dream.

He tried to sleep and couldn't. He wasn't sleepy enough. Maybe he could read instead? No, took too much work. Play a game, that would work. He didn't get up. How could he? He was too tired. Too tired, he closed his eyes, he didn't want to see the world. He wasn't sleepy, so he thought. The next best thing to dreaming.

His mom was home. She had lit the sharp candle. Lavender. Too sharp. His nose hurt, he wanted to sneeze, but couldn't. His mom was sharp, too sharp. Her consciousness was separated from the other's, but separate from his, too. She enjoyed her separation, she liked being alone, didn't she? It was lonely for him, comforting for her, huh?

A guy there. He was connected. He was no good for her. He wasn't sharp like her, he was rocky, gravelly, like everyone else. The invader had brought dinner. A bribe for his mom. It wouldn't work. He'd brought drinks, too. Maybe he'd get drunk, and when his mom made the man leave, the man would get in a crash and die. Maybe. Could hope, couldn't he? Otherwise he'd come back, because she'd want his company, and the food he brought.

Why? They had money for food. They didn't go hungry. She had friends, why'd she need his company? Not like they did anything, he knew that. He stayed in the same room to ensure they didn't do anything.

He hadn't died that night. It took another four Friday visits for that. It wasn't the alcohol then. Not completely, anyway. The road had iced over and he lost control. That was the report, anyway. Who knew what really happened? The road had been empty, hadn't it? His mom hadn't cried. She hadn't liked the man that much. He rejoiced.

The vanilla smell was leaving, dissipating. He still wasn't sleepy again, but he was so tired. Tylenol PM waited beside his bed. It would make him sleepy. Take two, call in the morning. No call, no doctor to call. Not long, and he'd start to get sleepy. Maybe he could sleep and dream again. Hopefully. Maybe. Maybe, he won't be separated or lonely for long.

Starting to be sleepy now. Could go to sleep, could dream. He grabbed the incense holder, the incense, the matches, and marched to the bathroom. A good room, a white room, smooth color, color of vanilla. He stripped, and laid his clothes in the hall, closed the door. Couldn't let anything disturb the whiteness. Light the incense, the smoke starts wafting, gray, dirtying the white, but not bad, not much; in the air. Get in the tub, start the water. Drift away to the smell of vanilla.

His mother was crying. His brother, older by three years, was dead. Dead in a foreign country, without his mother there to comfort him in his final hour. Without his mother there to be comforted by his kind final words. "Do not mourn for me. I love you."

Now, the last son she had left could no longer comfort her. The coffin was being lowered into the moist earth. He couldn't cry, his mother took his tears. She cried for both of them. A puddle of blackness, melting into the green.

He still couldn't cry. Another coffin being lowered. She'd lasted only long enough for him to graduate. That last year, she was nothing. A shell. She worked and ate by rote. What could she do? She had one last obligation to take care of, raise her last son. Then she was able to sleep and dream. He had no tears. He couldn't cry, he was defective. Separated. Vanilla can't cry for lavender, too separate. One sharp, one smooth.

Drifting on a cloud of watery vanilla. His last comfort; no one would cry for him.