In The Depths

Loneliness is like a deep dark void, with nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. As much as I try, I just get deeper into the depths of loneliness, and into the depths of my soul. I just want to get out. I don't deserve this.


3. Calming Blue

For the past three weeks, I’ve been watching YouTube videos like a madman. I get home from work, YouTube time. It’s time for lunch, YouTube time. About to fall asleep but eyes still have enough power to open, guess what, YouTube time. Due to my research, I’ve noted that there are over 120,000,000 videos, and more in counting. I’ve made it my personal goal to watch as many as possible, well, as many enjoyable ones as possible. You won’t see me engrossed in a video about My Little Pony, rather than a video about the longest length a football has traveled. I surely won’t get to watch all the videos anyway, being I don’t have six hundred years to live, but if I did, I would definitely try.

Comments ruin the whole YouTube community, in my opinion. There can be a brilliant video, and then I scroll down, and BOOM! Bad grammar. BOOM! Rude remarks. BOOM! Advertisements. The worst, and most offensive of them all is the gay comment.

I don’t think people know what gay means. I’ve seen a comment on a video of somebody singing, and a comment was, and I quote, “That is so gay!” This bothers me because 1. The person singing was obviously a straight woman, being she was singing a song about a boy, and, 2. If the commenter was referring to gay, as in happiness, they were wrong, because the woman was singing a sad song. So what do they mean? I think they mean it as some sort of twisted insult, but in all reality, gayness is something to embrace. Any sexuality is something to embrace, because it’s who you are, and you shouldn’t be disappointed in whom you are, because it’s WHO YOU ARE.

That’s what I think about when I’m on YouTube.

After my hour of surfing videos about honey badgers and all their awesomeness, I go to work. Dressed in my dorky attire, a crimson shirt tucked into to black pants that always fall down, I arrive right on time. The cleaning today goes fast, because I’m thinking about Harry the whole time. Today each crumb resembles one of his stupid curls, and each stroke of my duster represents his long shoes, even though neither of those things have anything in common.

I’m waiting by the double doors, once again listening to the faint conversations of the actors. I hear things like: “You totally messed up your line!” and “We should do the next play drunk.” I pretend I’m in there with them, making a toast to how well we performed, and how well I did as the lead character, and how awesome everyone is, and how super amazing it is to have friends as good as them. Instead I wait here, in front of the unmoving double doors. I start to think Harry won’t show up.

I am wrong. Harry bursts through the double doors, wearing a strangely feminine heart top with the same black skinny jeans as yesterday. He whips his head around, curls swaying a bit, and gulps in some air. “Louis,” he smiles, his white teeth showing up against the dark light of the theater. “Louis I wanna show you something.”

“Okay,” I say with a hint of excitement in my tone. I’m surprised he’s so flushed and winded; yesterday he was calm and collected. “What is it?”

“Follow me,” he instructs, taking my wrist in his hand. His fingers are so long that they wrap around my whole wrist, covering part of my bird tattoo. We go up the stage steps, and make our way down the steps behind the curtains.

“Harry,” I snap, yanking my wrist back. “I’m not allowed back here. I’ll get in trouble.” He cocks his head, bangs falling in his eyes. He grabs at my wrist a second time, but I pull it back just in time.

“C’mon,” he whines, sounding like a complaining toddler. “Isn’t your shift over?”

“Well, yeah, I guess. I’m still not allowed back here.” He snatches my wrist and squeezes it so hard that my immediate reaction is to clamp my hand shut.

“It’s not like we’re telling anyone,” he smiles at me in the cheekiest way possible. “Let’s go.”

I don’t object because I know he’ll just push me on again. Soon we’re walking through the darkness, pushing past props and stepping over scattered papers. Harry stops, and I can barely see.

“Harry, where are we?” I question, looking around.

“Watch.” Harry bends down, pulling me down with him. I fall on my bum, muttering curse words under my breath. I hear the click of a key into a keyhole, followed by the creaking of a door opening. Light pours into the dark space, and I see a small room that I’ve never seen before.

“Come in.” Harry crawls in, and then I crawl in. Once inside, there is more room, allowing us to stand up. I cannot believe what I see. Well, actually I can because I know for a fact this is not a dream, but it is still extraordinarily awesome.

The small room is painted a tinted gold color, with many old novelties from the nineties just about everywhere. A large Pac-Man video game is mounted against one of the walls, making small beeping noises. In one corner lays a beanbag chair with Nintendo’s all over, and next to it are games like Super Mario and Pokémon. A poster of the cast of Full House is lazily set upon a wall, above an old orange radio. There are also posters of The Spice Girls, Friends, and Toy Story. It was like the nineties and my childhood had a baby named The Best Room of the History of Rooms.

“Oh my god,” I breath, running over to the Gameboys and Nintendo’s. Childhood memories flood through my brain as I hold an old Gameboy. I used to play these games every day as a kid, and holding one now makes me feel all mushy inside; the good kind of mushy. “How, what… what?!”

Harry comes up to me, laughing under his breath, and rests against the gold wall. He nods his head, his stupid curls swaying. “Pretty nice, yeah?”

“So nice!” I exclaim. I’m like a kid in a candy shop, running around and marveling at everything in sight. As I run to the Pac Man video game, I ask, “How long has this been here?”

“I don’t know. Gemma showed me it last month, I think. Yeah, last month. She said all the actors knew about it, and that they hung out here, and that it was a secret, and that she didn’t even know why she was telling her stupid little brother this in the first place.” He laughed all of a sudden, but then stopped, and continued speaking. “I think the actors that used to work here made this little joint, and never got rid of it. But now they’re too old-looking to be hot rods in Greece, so the young actors claimed it.” He flashes a smile at me. “The young actors and us.”

“Wicked,” I whisper, turning around and leaving Pac-Woman to get eaten by pixelated ghosts. “Now I have a good reason to show up to work without being miserable.”

“Do you not like your job?”

“Honestly, no.” I stick my hands in my pockets. “Would you like it if you had to work for four hours cleaning up the mess of other people, while being forced to listen to the people you envy jabber away, leaving you sad and lonely and wanting to be with them… but you can’t?”

“Woah, man.” Harry slicks back some of his hair, and walks over to me. I feel short again next to his tallness, and am forced to crane my head upward to get a proper glance at his green eyes. “I had no idea.”

“It pays for my home and food, though.” I pause. “Do you have a job?”

“Nah,” Harry licks his pink lips slowly, running his tongue over the bottom lip for an awkwardly long amount of time. I look down at my shoes, then at Harry’s shoes, and wonder why my feet are so small. “I still live with my family, so I don’t really have to pay off bills and stuff like that.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen. You?”

“Twenty one,” I answer. “Almost twenty two. My birthday is on Christmas Eve.”

“Wow,” Harry chuckles. He takes a seat on the bean bag chair, his long, skinny legs bent in front of him. “Must be nice to get presents and then get presents again.”

“Actually, my mum just gets me Christmas presents, because she ‘doesn’t have a money tree growing in the back yard, but if she did, she would buy me as many presents as she could’”. I laugh; remembering the time when she told me that, when I was in first grade and immediately started crying afterwards. I remember her face seeing so flustered and guilty, because she wanted to make her little boy happy but at the same time wanted to be able to have money.


“It’s okay.”

A few moments pass by, with the sound of the Pac-Man game beeping and playing music behind us. I think about how my bedroom used to look just like this, with posters of all the ridiculous cartoons, and football jerseys taped on the walls because we ran out of nails. In a way, I’m grateful for meeting Harry, because he triggered something inside me that I forgot was there, and it warms my heart.

My thoughts are interrupted as Harry blurts out, “What color are your eyes?”

“Um,” I hesitate, confused why he would ask that. “Blue.”

“Blue,” he whispers, turning around. He looks into my blue eyes, and I look into his green ones, and I wonder what our eyes colors would like combined. I guess a turquoise color, like the color of the lake as the sun hits it. He looks away. “Blue is my favorite color.”

I look down at my feet again. “Okay.”

“I like it because it’s so calming. It… I don’t know, this sounds cheesy, but when I’m stressed or something, I like to close my eyes and think of the color blue, because blue brings peace to me.” He sighs. “Blue is a nice color.”

“I never thought of it like that.” I look back up, eyes focused on nothing in particular. “I like red.”


“I don’t know,” I state. “I just like red.”

And then Harry and I talk for ten more minutes, and soon have to stop, because Gemma makes Harry leave again. I do get his phone number (YES!) and he gets mine, so that’s a win-win. I think I’ve finally made a friend, and God forbids he leaves.

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