He hasn’t seen proper sleep or food for a very long time. Living abroad was not so romantic after all. After two years of daily ‘skunk’ smoking his self-esteem was non existing. Things that used to make him laugh before were scary and causing panic attacks. At this point, he didn’t realise that he might need help or that things could be different. He didn’t have enough time in between panic attacks to really look into the situation from aside.
All self-healing methods were failing one after another, his self-taught complexes were shaping his physical body into something resembling a spider. His attempts to do sports were quite admirable, late night jogging and walking through dead city night was his almost daily activity. However, stress and psychosis were taking back all the potential benefits of constant movement and fresh air.
His heart was broken. It is difficult to say if it was love, himself or something else. He was trying to mimic a real western lifestyle of going to coffee shops and trying to write. Something. Book, diary or essays. It seemed such a great thing until he reads it the next day. It was horrible. Hand shakingly horrible. Another couple of hours of jogging to soothe the stress.
That early evening he was sitting at home on the floor in his usual spot in the corner. He was not sure if he had already smoked some of his stash. It really didn’t matter anymore. He was writing something into his hard earned Macbook.
Fox was a cunt of the forest. I know that she cries when she’s alone in a cave. That’s unfortunate and sad, but that’s what you get if you treat everyone like that… It’s not even fox’s fault, her mother was a fox too and left her alone long long time ago… with an exquisite fur but no other skills thought. She knows how to smile and wiggle her nose, no one sees through her beautiful coat…
Not sure if it was a momentum of his scribbling or he was holding this back for a while but he said:
“You had things coming and you’ve wasted it all, your nose snorted coke and you drank it all. You wanted to be Paris but now you piss in the alleys. No dignity left, you go back to your cave and you say you want to change. But you still think like a fox… You dig yourself deeper. Maybe you have your own cause? You could be an artist but you’re an accessory in someone else’s hands and the price you pay says it all. You, unfortunate fox, are a tragic creature. If only you would really know that everyone else craves to be you!”
In all honesty, he said it as brave, loud and fluent as possible to his current physical and emotional state.
Few minutes passed, the mood in the room started to dampen, the air was stale and almost impossible to inhale. Shadows were taking over, he knew that a big one is coming…
“You poor little rabbit, do you really want to run away?”