“What laid beyond the night? That was what Tomaso wanted to know.”
Tomaso typed this out on his computer, then leaned all the way into the back of his chair.
He glanced at the clock on his computer screen and saw that it was already past midnight. The dim room, illuminated only by the light from his computer and TV, was littered with plastic bottles and empty snack wrappers. The bread he’d left sitting out half-eaten for days was starting to smell. On the table his computer was on were his antipsychotics and stacks of books, all neatly arranged. The only thing giving away Tomaso’s history here was the thick layer of dust that collected over the years, in spite of how orderly everything was.
In one corner of the six-mat tatami room was a dresser, upon which was a vase of St. John’s wort flowers. Tomaso had been watering them every day, but hadn’t since he became so engrossed in writing this story. Sometimes they would mockingly talk at length about all the mistakes Tomaso had made in his life up until this point, so he was personally relieved they were wilting.
Beside the dresser was a mound of work gear from a factory job he’d had a while back, like a jumpsuit and other safety equipment. Though Tomaso had no further use for them, he still wore the light-shielding glasses fairly often. As someone who hated sunlight, he wouldn’t be caught dead without them during the daytime.
Tomaso had isolated himself in his room maybe two years before, though he had no sense of time whatsoever at this point.
It all started when his close friend died in an accident.
In the beginning, he just found it tiresome to go out. With his mom waiting on him hand and foot, he eventually stopped setting foot outside at all. As long as he had internet, Tomaso never got bored. He was part a community where people talked about their favorite novels, a forum he posted on nearly every day. He had a lot of friends on the forums, where he went by the username “Tomaso. “ He’d forgotten his own name at this point. You only need one when someone’s there to read it, after all.
Tomaso found himself inspired to write his own novel. When he actually wrote something and posted it on the website, he received multiple comments. This brought him so much joy, from then on he threw himself into writing his novel. He was currently writing a fantasy story based on symptoms of his own schizophrenia. He found it fun to turn all the old memories scattered around his room into a novel, and above all, it was fulfilling. The idea that someone would read his story made his heart sing.
It’s almost time, Tomaso thought to himself. Every day at the exact same time, like clockwork—just after 2 AM—he had visitors.
The door to his room abruptly opened. A man who looked just like Tomaso, and his long-dead best friend entered the room. They visited every day and observed him.
Tomaso hurriedly brought his hands to his keyboard and typed with intense concentration, trying his best to document the situation for his novel. He was partly doing it so he could use it as material for his story, but truth be told, it was also partly a ritual to help drown out the fear.
“We’re here to pick you up,” said the man who looked just like Tomaso. Tomaso ignored him and continued typing out a paragraph.
“It seems like we’re too late,” Tomaso’s long-dead best friend chimed in.
Mocking him like this was their M.O. They must’ve been mocking him for how flustered and hurt he was by it.
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