The ending is a bit rushed, wasn't really sure where to end it but I think it turned out well. 1612 words of angst and minimal comfort at the end.
Garvin Short Story; Calendars
Garvin, age… Who knows? (20-ish)
Devery (friend?), age… He doesn’t ask. (22)
*~*~*~*
Garvin… Wasn’t sure what day it was. Which was fine. Good. Great. Fuck, it was the best it had been in a while. But he still knew what month it was, and his shitty ass patch job of a tombstone on his back was burning holes into his mind. And Levy was gone, doing some shit or whatever. The apartment, by all means, was empty. Garvin certainly didn’t count anyways.
-
He felt like shit. Which wasn’t supposed to be how this worked. So he felt around the ground with a hand, refusing to get up from his place on Mars’s couch, the cool of glass found his fingers and he picked whatever it was up. He couldn’t really read but he knew what it was well enough to work at getting it opened, at taking as large of a drink from it as possible. The spots in his vision cleared a little, nowhere near enough to make him really want to try to do anything.
-
He still felt terrible. So he took it upon himself to groan at his life, and took another drink. Glancing around, his eyes caught sight of the biggest reason for his problems. He couldn’t really read, but he knew. He knew.
-
On the wall opposite of his eyes, sat a calendar. Always had, probably always would. Which was normally fine. But the picture of a beach, with actual fucking people enjoying their lives and the big, bolded, fancy fucking letters taunting him. Making him want to rip out his eyes, tear open his skull, and forget. It taunted him. Laughing, mocking.
-
‘July’
-
He couldn’t really read, he couldn’t read much. But he knew that. He knew that word. He knew what it meant. Knew it as well as he knew he’d never get a tombstone other than the one patched onto his back. Knew it as well as he knew he’d never amount to anything. Knew it as well as he knew that no one would remember him, that no one cared, that it was impossible for someone to care. Knew it as well as he knew everything else he knew.
-
And the word taunted him. Reminding him of things he already knew, of things he didn’t need to be reminded of because he’d never forget anyways.
-
‘July’
-
He hated that fucking word. Hated it. Hated the people in the picture, hated how they got to enjoy
and he couldn’t. Hated how that word taunted and mocked and laughed and sneered. His skin crawled, he took a swig from the bottle in his hand still, trying to ignore how much they were shaking. He forced his eyes to look for something else, whatever else. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to look at that fucking word. He didn’t want to remember anything.
-
He closed his eyes, only succeeding in that fucking word invading his mind. Refusing to leave. Refusing to go away. Refusing to let him have any sort of piece. He wanted to tear out his eyes, claw his brain out, rip off his crawling skin and just disappear. Fade away, like he already knew he would when he inevitably died. Like he already knew he would the moment he took his last breath. Left to be a nameless corpse no one would give a shit about. Left to be forgotten and cast aside and nothing.
-
He took a blind drink from the bottle, as much as possible. As much as he could. Trying to figure out how to not care as much about this as he did. He was getting sick of his own mind taunting him with a word that only served to remind him of how no one ever wanted him, ever saw him, ever cared for him. And that no one ever would.
-
So he opened his eyes, immediately being met with the same word on the same calendar with those same people. He felt about ready to tear through his throat with the bubbling scream that he muffled by taking another drink, the bottle was practically empty. His hands shook and his eyes stung. He threw the bottle.
-
The resulting sound of breaking glass, some pieces staining the paper and some falling to the ground, wasn’t as satisfying as he wished it was. The stains on the paper from whatever had been left in the bottle was even less so. He stared forward, towards the absolute nothing he’d managed to do, fighting to stay angry compared to the empty feeling trying to build up.
-
In retaliation to the emptiness, he pushed himself up, trying to move, trying to do something. He ended up falling off the couch, hands flailing to catch himself off instinct. He felt something crush beneath him, heard the sound of glass breaking, and felt warmth spread at his hands, a dull sting from where glass had embedded. He mumbled a curse, pushing himself up and ignoring whatever it was that had broken, grabbing at another bottle on the ground as he stood. He swayed lightly in place for a moment, leaning against the table beside the couch, opening the bottle and dipping his head back to try and get the warmth to move from his hand to the pit of cold wherever his soul was supposed to be.
-
When he forced his eyes open, deciding not to wonder when they’d closed, eyes sweeping around the room. The apartment was a mess of bottles, of needles, of every which way to try and forget that this month existed. That he existed, which earned a half snort, since by all means- He didn’t. Regardless, the place was a shithole. Or it wasn’t as bad as he saw and it just looked that way because of how fucked his vision was. He didn’t give a shit. Not with that calendar still staring him down, taunting and mocking. Unaffected by the mess. The people in the picture unbothered, not noticing his bitter hatred as they enjoyed their day out on the beach. The word completely untouched, like some sick joke from the universe. He wanted to laugh, or scream, or cry. Or dig out his eyes and tear out his throat and pull out his hair and claw out his brain and scratch off his skin. Whatever the fuck helped. The word stared at him, laughed and sneered, mocked and taunted, he felt like shit.
-
July, July, July. He hated that fucking word. He found himself tearing the calendar from the wall before he even knew he was walking, ripping it to shreds with blood on his hands from whatever had broken when he caught himself falling off the couch and glass under his feet from the bottle he’d thrown and broke.
-
He stared at the ripped paper after, stared at the remnants of what he’d done. Distantly, the thought of how Levi would probably be upset crossed his mind. Not as distant was the bitter satisfaction, the thought that he didn’t care if Devy was upset or not, that he didn’t care if he got kicked out or not. Wouldn’t be the first time someone did. Wouldn’t be the first time he found himself on the streets. Wouldn’t be the first time. Besides, it’d be worth it, with the calendar no longer mocking him. He still felt like shit though and standing there, taking a swig from the bottle he still had at hand, he couldn’t figure out what to do other than step back. Step away and almost trip over his feet and the mess on the floor.
-
He barely noticed when the door to the apartment opened and Levy stepped in. His head shifting over, eyes sweeping and refusing to really focus on the other through the half dried, half wet feeling on his face. Was he crying? He cringed, a bloody hand not gripping the bottle coming up to scrub at the feeling. Sure enough, tears were coming from his eyes. When had he started crying?
-
“What the fuck, Garvin?”
-
His attention snapped back to Veve and his stark white hair. Garvin- Oh, right, he had a name. Not really though. A mirthless laugh bubbled up, the entire situation suddenly seeming a whole lot absurd. He sat down on the couch behind him, not really bothering to notice when the closest he had to a friend walked off. He took another swig from the bottle in one of his bloody hands, using his other to try and get rid of the half-dried, half-wet tears clinging to his face.
-
The dip next to him on the couch got his attention though, and he opened his eyes, looking over at who he could’ve sworn had just walked off. Dev stared at him, a rather bored expression on his face. And then he was holding out one of his hands. With a huff, he went to hand his icy friend the bottle, Ollie responded by grabbing his wrist instead.
-
“I’m going to assume the glass and paper on the floor is somehow connected to this. Don’t tell me, I don’t care for the story. Just let me wrap your hands up and then I’m getting my own bottle.”
-
He snorted out a chuckling laugh, words jumbled from just about everything, “Wha’? Ya too good fo’ ‘is one?”
-
Levi made a face, and took the bottle from him, putting it onto the floor and getting started on pulling out shards of glass and wrapping his bloody hands up with bandages. “You mean the one with your germs all over it? Definitely.”
Fall 
Night 
Fog Moon: 
