The scars still show; remnants of the time he decided to change the room back to the way it was, before she said that it would look better with this HERE. He didn't give it much thought then, and yet couldn't stop thinking about it as he attempted to revert everything back to the way it once was; turning chairs and ottomans slightly off center, just to better suit his fluctuating brain. He had to buy another pack of band-aids just to help stop the bleeding on his arms and fingers, from the exposed nails on the wall and by the left arm rest of the couch.
The random scratches didn't necessarily sting quite as bad as they had in the past, and in that same vain, he knew that in time, they would all eventually heal up, leaving shadowy pasty splotches of dead skin where life once so freely grew from both their pores.
They were more than just another forgettable part of the living room arrangement. They were the cultivators of said arrangement, and lived with its flaws for as long as they possibly could, before the carpets were soon stained with the remains of accidental late-night binge drinking and love making sessions.
It was love for an hour, lust for a day, and is something they both still loosely consider a mistake. When it ended they were better off, and yet still apologizing for things said after dinner before both fought over the bathroom.
It would be years later that she offered one last shred of sympathy, a month after moving in next door. He would be shoveling snow with a sore back and expression; one dangling hair of a question still left unanswered in the back of his head. Why had she fucked him if he didn't have the drugs? Was it mercy or contempt that held such glue to the page? She would then buy thick blinds and tell her daughter not to cross the border of their two lawns while he contemplated buying binoculars before eventually settling on a nice and healthy porn addiction.