He liked to lie down in his closet and stare up at the dark. There, he could pretend there was no ceiling, and that it was infinite. He would mutter poetry that no one had heard of, because the common stuff left a bad taste in his mouth. He'd scratch at his neck, arms, face, until he bled. He had tracks down his arms, and he liked to pretend someday he'd live life again.
I used to sit in the darkness with him, and he'd tell me all the things he'd accomplish, one day. A new one everyday, and while he spoke through the nights and saw monsters in the dark, sometimes I'd tune out his lies, and just listen to the sounds of his nails trip and rake over abused bloody flesh.
He was a wall of noise. He never stopped speaking. He spoke because when he was quiet, the fears crept in with us. When he ran out of words to say, or his voice no longer had the strength to go on, it was my turn to speak. To show his fears they were unwelcome. I told him of memories that he would never have, of truths he couldn't bring himself to say, let alone think. I told him of lives he couldn't lead and dreams he wouldn't fulfill. He didn't like it much when I spoke, so he tried his hardest to never break his own noise.
He told me one day, that he didn't want to talk, and that I should. So I did, and I told him of things he couldn't have and wouldn't do. He surprised me by laughing, and asked if I thought myself any better off. After all, I was in that closet, starring at black just as much as he. I hadn't slept in days, and I too, could see the monsters in the dark. I was the one, scratching my neck, arms, face bloody. Even my fingers bled from accidentally pricking then on my old used needles that lie on the floor.
What was I doing that made me better?
After all, the only other breathing was that of the flies that feasted on his flesh.