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Mark threw his backpack onto the bed with such force that it almost knocked over a stack of notebooks on the desk nearby. He flopped onto the mattress irritably, but it unexpectedly sagged and crashed to one side. The already wobbly bed leg finally gave way. Laughter echoed from behind the door—Monica was joking about teenagers again, trying to excuse her daughter’s behavior and keep her date entertained. "Maybe I really should just leave? Why the hell am I even putting up with this?"
Mark sat on the edge of the crooked bed, glaring at the warped mattress. He clenched his fists, feeling the anger bubbling up inside him.
"She’s already found someone for herself… and me?!" Gritting his teeth, Mark caught his reflection in the small round mirror on the desk by his computer. The delicate, soft face of Emma stared back at him, with gentle eyes and slightly plump lips. He studied himself for a few seconds, noticing a small pimple that had popped up unnoticed before. Then, suddenly, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned away sharply.
— Perfect. Just perfect. Now I’m noticing pimples like… — he sighed and rubbed his face, hoping it would help him calm down.
The anger grew stronger: at the reflection, at how familiar it had become to him. "God, I’m a grown man! How did I end up running around chasing magical mirrors, hoping one of them would bring me back?" Mark ran his fingers through his hair absentmindedly, trying to steady himself. The strands slipped lightly through his fingers, and he noticed how they seemed oddly static-charged. "Damn, I really should wash it. Otherwise, it’ll just get all frizzy again… frizzy?" He let out a loud groan and jumped up from the bed, horrified by his own thought.
"God, I’m already thinking like some girl! Frizzy! Frizzy, for crying out loud! Next thing you know, I’ll be sitting on the bed brushing my hair and dreaming about boys!" He glanced at his hands, half-expecting to see a pink hairbrush there. "No. That’s it. Enough! I need to stop this… obsessive behavior or whatever it’s called! I’m a man. I… Breathe in, breathe out, like we did in those stupid therapy meditations."
His thoughts and attempts to calm himself were interrupted by the smell of food—fried meat. It wafted through the air, teasing him, making his stomach twist painfully. "Damn it, they’re probably already stuffing their faces while I’m losing my mind here." He licked his lips and swallowed the flood of saliva that came unexpectedly, hating himself for it. "God, I’m starving… but going out there?"
The thought of seeing that polished guy sent another wave of anger through him. "I’ll just grab a piece of meat and come back. No talking. Just don’t look at that asshole she likes." He had nearly convinced himself when Monica’s loud, almost shrill laughter burst from the kitchen, followed by her words through the giggles:
— James, you’re just the best!
"The best? Best at what? Giving himself a manicure?!" Mark thought with scorn, feeling his resolve to leave his room vanish. This was the last thing he wanted to see right now: Monica looking pleased, that guy smirking, wine glasses on the table. "Fine. I’ll eat later. Or maybe not at all. Guess I’ll just crash hungry."
Mark glanced at his bed. The mattress was hanging crookedly, ready to fall, while the leg, which had been creaking ominously for weeks, now lay on the floor, utterly useless. "I should fix this… No way I can sleep on it like this," he grumbled to himself. The irritation still churned in his chest, fueled by hunger.
— Fine, — he sighed, starting to lift the mattress. — No one’s going to do this but me.
A traitorous thought crept in: What if I just asked Mr. Perfect over there? Let him prove how ‘the best’ he is. It instantly sparked another surge of anger.
— Screw him, as if he’s some kind of superhero, — Mark hissed, pushing the bed frame aside. — Monica would love that: "See, Emma, how thoughtful he is!" Ugh, makes me sick.
He crouched down and picked up the bed’s broken leg, examining it closely. The attachment point was worn, the wood splintered, and one of the screws had stripped entirely. "Hopefully there’s something around here I can use to fix this." Leaning in to check how the leg might be reattached, he noticed a small tear on the underside of the mattress.
— Great. Even the mattress is falling apart, — Mark squinted, pressing his finger into the rip, and sensed something dense inside. "What the hell?"
He reached in and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. It was tightly folded, and his first thought was that it must be some sort of factory tag for the mattress. But as he began to unfold it, he felt a strange tension settle over him.