Daniel is downstairs. Watching one of his Meg Ryan movies, I think. I don’t know. All I can hear are the muted voices through the floor. I’m upstairs, in my room, by myself. It’s called Depression, and I’ve been under it’s influence for the last couple of days. Not unusual for a bout of depression to hit me like this, but this time it hit hard. This time, the tears came too easily. I could win an Oscar for best Crying Scene. All I have to do is think of my life, living in this glorious mansion, the living, breathing pop star, having all this money but still no true happiness. I am always plagued with low self esteem, and feeling sorry for myself never gets old for me. On the outside, I may seem happy and content where I am, but truth is, I’m far from it. Daniel is my best mate, he should know all of this, but he doesn’t. He’s oblivious to my inner self torment. Damn you, Daniel. Are you so blind? You’re down there, I can hear your laughter, watching a movie and drooling over your blonde Meg Ryan. I’m up here, crying my eyes out into my pillow with "Two Beds And A Coffee Machine" playing on my stereo and hardly enough air left in my lungs between sobs to breathe. It’s turned up really loud, I can’t believe you don’t hear it. Can’t believe you don’t come to my rescue like you should. It’s been on repeat for the last couple of nights now, and come to think of it, you haven’t even checked up on me these past nights. Why are you never there anymore when I need you?

Blowing my nose on the silk sheets and wiping my eyes by the cuff of my pajamas, I check myself in the dresser mirror. Red, puffy eyes, blotchy complexion, and matted hair. Not pretty. I rinse my face, dry off with a towel, and tame my hair so that at least it looks presentable. Then I tip toe down the stairs and stop behind the wall that closes around the living room. There he is, Daniel, sitting with his feet propped up on the coffee table and popcorn in a bowl in the crook of his arm. His back is facing me, but I can tell he’s enjoying the movie. Smiling as the tv casts shadows about his face and the darkened room. Disgusting that he could be so happy when I’m so fucking sad. But I’m too tired and bruised inside out to be angry at him; I think I’m too tired to even raise my voice above a whisper. So instead, I tip toe into the kitchen and open the freezer. Ice cream is rumored to make you feel better, so I make myself a bowl. Tip toeing back behind the coach and Daniel, I stop momentarily. Meg Ryan is talking about her life on the screen, and I realize it’s not a movie but a biography sort of show. Daniel is thoughtfully munching on the buttered popcorn. I can’t believe he hasn’t heard me or sensed my presence yet, because by now I’ve started crying silently again. The tears are rolling down my cheeks, plastering my eyelashes shut because I’ve dampened them enough already for one night, and I’m still standing behind him, only a few feet away with the silver spoon shaking in my hand and chinking against the bowl of ice cream. I can hear the song looping back to the beginning upstairs on my stereo, and I still can’t believe that he can’t hear that because I sure as hell can. Does he ignore it purposely? Then my whole body is wracked with silent sobs, and I dash upstairs before I make a fool out of myself.

Truth is, I could never talk to Daniel about my troubles. I do, sometimes, but there are some things you can’t tell. Like how lonely I always feel, how utterly alone and lost. How I love him so much and not just like a brother, because if I told him that, I’d risk our friendship and I’d only end up lonelier and living on the streets. Maybe even dead. It’s pride and not wanting to be embarrassed and feeling so ashamed that holds me back. It’s the feeling that if I told him how fucked up my life is, how fucked my mind is, how damn depressing I can get, that it’d come out sounding selfish. I usually don’t put myself before others, but nowadays, I’m doing it more and more often. I’m sure I have it better than most, but I’m still not fucking happy. I try, but I can’t pretend anymore. I sound like a whiny little bastard, but hell if I care.

"To hell with it all." I mutter as I spoon another mouthful of ice cream and swallow. It goes straight to my brain. I wince, trying to enjoy the numbing sensation rather than trying to regain the feeling in my head again. It helps block out your train of thought. Soon the ice cream becomes runny. My salty tears have dripped into the bowl and mixed with it, diluting it. Great, just great. I can’t even enjoy ice cream. Sighing heavily and shakily as my sobs force their way out, I toss the bowl out the open window. It lands in the back yard on the cement porch with a loud ‘crack!’. Daniel should hear that and come running upstairs calling my name to see what happened. He doesn’t. Fucking hell, what the fuck do I have to do to get your attention? I bury my head into the pillow and cry some more. My pillow was originally a light cream color, but wet tears have drenched it, turning it into a tangerine orange color. I flip the pillow over and start crying on the new drier side.

How many times have I listened to my voice playing out on that song? It’s getting to the point where I’m sick of it, so I stop the CD and just enjoy the silence. Nights are so much more depressing and gloomy than even the cloudiest days. I slouch over to the window and the balmy summer breeze hits my face, drying my tears in sticky trails down my cheeks. My nose is stuffing up again so I wipe at it with my sleeve. Ah Brisbane, home sweet home. Then why does it feel so much colder and lonelier here than it did in New York? Because in New York, you were truly alone since Daniel was halfway across the world and the Earth’s great divide separated you so you couldn’t talk with him when you needed to, or be with him when you needed his company. It wasn’t like I could fly to Brisbane and then back to New York every week or so ‘coz that is just nuts. And now here in Brisbane, it feels worse because Daniel is actually here with you and in the same proximity so that you can talk to him and be with him if you wanted to, be watching the tele with him and having a popcorn fight, but you don’t. Why? Well because I’m stupid, that’s why. Instead I choose to sulk in my room, feeling sorry for myself because I’m so fucking alone. I cry and cry some more. Looking out and down through the window, I wonder how many pieces did the bowl break in when it made contact with the back porch. I wonder how many pieces I’d break in if it were me.

Yes, I know, I’ve said many times before that suicide is never the answer. Hell, "Crash and Burn" was about stopping suicide and communicating with someone before it was too late. Maybe I should practice what I preach. I look back over my shoulder to the hall and the stairs right by it. The door to my room has been open the whole time in hopes of amplifying the music more so that Daniel would finally take notice of it, but he hasn’t. If my best friend and the object of my desire doesn’t notice me anymore, especially in my time of need, what am I still breathing for? I live for love, and frankly right now, I’m not feeling any. I look back down at the ground and lean over the ledge of my window. It’s not that high, really. I bet it’d only last a second or two. Somehow though, I don’t make that fatal jump. I find myself leaning my body halfway out the window, but I can’t seem to get my legs through. And then I hear him call my name.

"Darren!"

Oh bloody hell, what does he want? He’s just begging to be hated, isn’t he? First he refuses to acknowledge my presence, and now he’s trying to stop me from doing the one solution I’ve come to that’ll end this depressing rut. Damn you, Daniel.

"Darren! Where ya’ at?" He calls again as I hear footsteps made dull by the clunk of his shoes on carpet as they travel up the stairs.

I take a shaky breath and force one leg out the window. I’ve got to jump before it’s too late. I don’t want to be dragged back into that room again, back into that life and my impending doom of self pity and the masquerades. I do not want to wear the mask anymore. It’s come to the point where I can’t even recognize myself in the mirror. Fame doesn’t change people, eh? Like hell it doesn’t.

"Darren!" He’s at the lip of the stairs now. When I turn my head around to look, I can see the top of his golden head.

Another leg out, and I’m sitting on the window frame on my arse, hands supporting myself on either side.

"Daz! What the hell are you doing?!" Too late, he’s found me out.

Cursing under my breath, I foolishly try to hurl myself physically off of the window. Like I said, too late. Daniel grabs me by the arms and pulls me back as I land flat on my back with my feet still sticking out of the window.

"Dazza, what’s wrong with you? What were you going to do? Jump?"

No shit Sherlock. "Oh no, I was just getting a bit of fresh air." I say and sarcasm drips from my words. By the stark moonlight, since I never turn on the lights in my room anymore, I can see Daniel’s eyes widen and then narrow, wincing.

"Why can’t you just leave me alone?" Ha, that should teach him.

"What?" He asks, his brows furrowing, "What do you mean? Darren, I’ve left you alone all day."

I laugh coldly, "Exactly. Thanks, by the way."

The meaning wasn’t lost on him. Smart, sharp Daniel.

He rushes in to make me feel better. "Oh Daz, I had no idea! I thought you just wanted some peace and quiet, some time to yourself. I didn’t know you were troubled. Please, talk to me. You know you can tell me anything."

"Oh, can I?" The position is making me uncomfortable, so I stand up and dust myself off, slipping out of the room and leaving him to stay or catch up, whatever he wants. He catches up and grabs my arm as I’m halfway down the stairs. I almost loose my footing but grab on to the railing on instinct. I curse myself for letting the perfect chance of a disastrous accident slip away.

Reeling on him with anger rising, I growl, "What?!"

Daniel flinches and pulls back a little, but he doesn’t let go of my arm. "Darren, please, tell me what has happened."

"Nothing has happened, Daniel."

"Darren?" He pleads and unconsciously feeds me that pouting lip and puppy dog eyes.

My fortress crumbles a little, but I refuse to give in so easily. I’ve suffered way too long for that.

"Dan, there’s nothing to tell."

"Stop lying through your teeth, Darren." He mutters and yanks me almost painfully back up the stairs to sit on my bed back in my darkened room. I’m grateful that he doesn’t turn on the lights because I know that he’d see my tear stained pillow and my now watery eyes. Shit, the tears are falling again.

"Dazza, you’re crying."

"No shit Sherlock." This time, I say it out loud. Ha.

Daniel wraps a comforting arm around my shoulder and starts stroking my short hair. My hair feels disgusting at the moment since I hadn’t taken a shower in days because of my unhealthy state of mind, and plus I greased it even more with tears. I hope he realizes this and takes his comforting hand elsewhere. Right now, my mind recoils from his touch. It’s insulted that he hasn’t paid me any attention in my time of need. My body however, wants his touch, all over.

"Shh…it’s all right Daz, cry it all out. I’m here." He stops stroking and takes my hand in his, then holds our hands up to his chest, "you feel this Daz? I’m here, flesh and bone, solid. Just talk to me."

Damn, I can feel my defenses crumbling. I can also feel his steady heartbeat, can smell his musky male scent. Too close, I’m going to loose my upper hand on the situation here. Reluctantly, I give in.

"Danny, I feel so alone."

"Not true, you have me."

"Do I really have you Daniel?" I ask and am not surprised to find that my voice is breaking. When he doesn't respond, I sigh, "No, I don’t."

"I’m your best friend Darren, you will always have me." He counters and pulls me close into a hug. It feels so good and it’s like home in his arms.

"But only as a friend, right Danny?" I mumble into the cotton of his shirt.

I can hear him sigh heavily as his arms loosen around me. Yeah, there it goes. I’ve lost him forever now. Just like I predicted would happen, and it was at the slightest hint too.

"What do you mean Dazza?" Dan asks, feigning surprise.

"You know bloody well what I mean. I love you Daniel, like a lover. And you don’t feel the same way about me." Christ, am I bawling now? At least I’m ruining his shirt, even though it’ll dry out in no time. Whatever little revenge I can get in on, I’m grateful for.

Back to stroking my hair again as I rest my head against his bony shoulder, he says, "I’m sorry, I don’t love you like that Darren. But I do love you. Remember that, and don’t ever do what I thought you were going to do again."

Why can’t you just say suicide? "Can’t promise you that."

"Yes you can." He insists.

I shake my head against his shoulder, "No, I can’t. But I’ll do my best."

He sighs and slowly stands up, "Get some sleep Daz, you’ll need it for the interviews tomorrow."

He changes gears so easily, I wonder if he’s even the least concerned about my well being in the course of the remaining night.

"Night then." I say and collapse back into the bed and my semi-dried pillow. It reeks, but I’ll have to wash it later. I hear his retreating footsteps down the stairs and then the sound on the tv turned up a notch. Great. Tomorrow, I’ll have to face another day of this life. Fucking great. Damn you, Daniel. I reach over for the stereo remote and click it on. "This Side of Me" starts playing. I turn it up loud enough so that it drowns out the noise from Daniel and the tele downstairs, and only vaguely do I notice myself drifting off into sleep.

01/6/01

by Krye