"The interesting part of living alone in an apartment is realizing that you are nothing but just a pebble aging in an endless and baleful river." Joross sighed out of the blue. 

It's almost two in the afternoon and the hallway on the second floor began to welcome its new guests and tenants. Indistinct chattering reverberated in the place, following the discordant footsteps of the two young guys walking their way to the neighborhood. 

"You sound so much like my Dad," Well shot back, his tone was almost dead that it's hard to determine if what he said was a compliment or an insult. "I always think that living alone is a good thing. I just don't know if I'm explaining it right, but it makes you determine how far could you go as a person. I mean, as an independent person." 

"Yeah, I totally agree with you. But..." Joross paused for a while when they reached the front door of Room 016. "Not in a place like this." He took out his apartment's key from his grey underwear and unlocked the doorknob of his for-the-mean-time abode. 

Well's heartbeat intensified. "What does that mean?" he said straightforwardly before he could even think about it. Unluckily, his pal must have missed his words. 

"Welcome to my borrowed house!" Joross said, loud and proud, opening his arms so wide towards the dining-slash-kitchen area. 

"You got a good place, Joross. Not so big, not so small," Well said as he pounded his ass on the couch. 

Joross' apartment was indeed small, but it had a nice and clean set-up that would definitely make you forget about the space. When you enter the door, an old-fashioned cupboard would be waiting with a vintage television. There's also a coffee table in front of it, seating over a circular carpet of animal print. It might only had one large couch, but that wouldn't really matter because next to it would be a six-seater rectangular table for eating. The kitchen and the dining area was separated by another cupboard where Joross had placed all of his belongings-framed artworks (surprisingly, he was a good painter), his art materials, his navy blue guitar, and other random things that could have been very important to him and to his passion.

"You never told me you are a great painter." Well slid his fingertips on one of the framed artworks. It was painted in a black and white color scheme, with a man feasting over a human heart while crying the blackest of ink on his eyes as a subject. "I don't know much about paintings and their messages, but I got a feeling that this is sad and heavy," he commented, eyes were glued on the frame. 

"That's the job of every painting. You paint what you feel, and they will tell it to the world." Joross stood next to Well and lifted the painting out of the cupboard. He wiped the frame gently, and with a hint of blue on his face, he whispered, "Sorry if you find this subject too disturbing. But you see, there are men out there who put their hearts in every word they say. But at some point, no matter how heartfelt their words could be, they feel like saying them is useless especially when they belong in a society where they are judged on their ability to hold their tears. And to them, the only way to get rid of crying is to get rid of saying their words. And the only way to get rid of saying their words is to eat them." 

Well was in deep awe. It took him a minute before he could finally get his mouth produce some words in return. "Man. That's so deep! But how about the ink on his eyes?"

"Oh, yeah I almost forgot. The ink on his eyes symbolizes darkness. We may find it very rare to see men crying because they often hold their tears as much as they could, but believe me, they do always cry darkness. And I think that hurts a lot more." 

Well was beginning to understand everything. The way the paintings were painted in the saddest colors existing, and the way the words came out of his new pal's mouth, he's starting to realize that it all had something to do with the concept of depression-of how it could possibly be involved in the life of Joross, and of how could he cope up with it without telling it directly to anyone. 

Joross left Well unmoved in front of the cupboard and made his way into his room. "There's nothing much inside this boring room that you can see, but if you'd like to take a look, feel free to enter here," he said behind the half-opened door. 

"I'll be there in a minute." Well responded. He was about to leave the cupboard too, but another painting had caught his eyes again and made him feel like he would die if he refuse to touch it.

"I'm starting to get chills everywhere." Well wasn't lying. He was holding a rectangular frame with both of his shaking hands, while staring on the image in it was considered the bravest act of the day. It was not just a painting, that's what Well had assumed. Analyzing the details of it, it was more like a Gehenna. 

The painting contained six faceless figures, each one holding a bloody knife, while in front of them was a table filled with chopped body parts of an unidentified creature. Though it was completely disassembled, some parts were still visible, and clearly it had two long horns and an arrow-like tail, which would make a lot of sense if you'd say it belonged to Satan— or at least to a demon. 

Well wanted an explanation behind the painting as much as he wanted the fear on his face vanish on an instant. But he couldn't help it. He just remained standing with earthquakes on his knees and a quiver on his lips. From then on, he was consumed by the painting, not missing a second without thinking of it. 

"I know. Quite creepy, yes?" Said the voice that echoed from behind the almost but never closed door of the only bedroom in the apartment. "You wouldn't believe me if I tell you the story behind that art."

"Oh, for my peace of mind, please do tell." At last, Well was able to flit his eyes away from the cupboard. He turned around, and just as when he's about to enter the room, Joross came out and slammed the door behind him. 

"I shouldn't be telling this to anyone. But because you just paid my bill for no justifiable reasons, I'll tell you everything as a cheap exchange," he said, tapping Well's shoulders as he brushed past him and walked to the kitchen. "By the way, story telling is no fun if we ain't got booze and a pack of cigarette." He clicked his tongue and opened his fridge occupied with beers and beers only. "Want some?" he offered Well a bottle. 

"No and absolutely not. Mom's going to kill me if she knows I drink alcohol. Believe me, my Mom's warning is the kind of warning you would certainly keep in mind all the time," Well said superfluously. 

"You just rejected a good friend's offer. " Joross smirked. 

"Sorry. I just want to live longer," Well replied. 

"When I drink, I feel like I'm living longer. When I smoke a stick of cigarette, I feel like I'm living longer, too." Joross opened a bottle of Gold Eagle beer with his ring. The sound of the oozing white and foamy bubbles was satisfaction to his ears. "See? How could you not drink it? The bubbles itself is already heaven. I don't want to ignore heaven. In fact, I want to live there," he said softly while pouring the beer on a glass. 

"It smells heaven, it looks heaven, it tastes heaven. You think it's a total heaven but when you're so into it, it could drag you straight into hell," Well said in a very Gerard way. 

"There you go. I haven't seen your Dad and I don't even know him. But I think you're now sounding like his legitimate son." 

"I am his legitimate son!" 

Well and Joross headed to the living room, and since the couch there wouldn't allow them to sit freely and comfortably, they decided to take the carpet instead. Joross placed his beer and his pack of cigarette on top of the round table, and the two friends went cross-sitting on the matting of animal print. 

Joross quaffed his first glass of beer. "Now what?" 

"I don't usually start conversations especially if I know it's leading into a serious one, but, how about you tell me everything you want to tell? I mean, it's like introducing yourself but in a different and wholesome level." Well looked away, his fingers were showing increasing signs of uneasiness. 

Joross sighed. "I know where to start." He hurriedly stood up and belted his second glass of Gold Eagle. There was no time for him on explaining things, so he just grabbed Well by the wrist and led the way out of his apartment. They left the door wide open, causing the white lights inside to oppose the yellow fluorescence outside. 

"What's with the hurry? Could you please tell me where we are heading?" Well was unconscious of what's going on. The only thing he knew was one moment they were sitting, and one moment they were rushing into somewhere he's unaware of. 

"Room 011." Joross said, seconds after they got there. He took a key out of his grey underwear, again, and held it up in the air as he demanded for more oxygen. He's exhausted. It was only a minute of walking fast yet he already ran out of energy. 

Well looked up. "Yeah, Room 011, I can see that. But why are we here again?" 

"We are here to tell you a story." Joross opened the door. "Now brace yourself, you might die of chills if you are not ready." The door banged. 

The lights were off. It was only sundown, but not a single ray of gleam from the good metro could pass through the thick curtains of the apartment's windows. On the corner of the wall, inches away from the doorway, Well was ready and steady. His eyes might not be able to see things because of the blinding darkness, but his right foot was one step forward and his hands were on combat position just in case something would jump in and attack him surprisingly. He wasn't in an action movie, but to him, it's better to be safe than sorry. 

"You are being paranoid." Joross chuckled, reaching for the switch just above his scared pal's head. 

When the lights finally lit up the place, everything inside went vivid. Obviously, it was a normal apartment-like Joross'-and like any other apartments on the second floor except for Well's. It' was clean and organized. Everything was in the right place as if no one was living in it for quite some time. 

"Do you think it's okay to just crash in at someone's apartment without asking for permission?" Well asked in an escalating tone. 

After staring at Well for a while, Joross replied a question with a question. "And do you think I would have a duplicate key of this apartment if I don't know the tenant here?" 

"So someone actually lives here now? How come the door was locked?" 

"Lived. Past tense. Someone I knew once lived here." Joross corrected, going straight to the television set to get two pairs of disposable gloves. He wore one pair, and tossed the other pair to Well. "For safety." 

"We are wearing gloves because?" Well asked, head was about to burst in curiosity. 

Joross tilted his head towards Well. With a little curve on his lips, and with an intimidating look on his eyes, he said, "Because we wouldn't want to leave our fingerprints on a crime scene." 

Right after getting the answer he wanted, Well became quiet. His eyes grew big, and since the second after Joross released his words, his breathing went deep and rapid. Crime scene. He had never been in one. He had never witnessed any crimes, nor had he ever heard any stories related to them. He was a pure innocent in situations like this, and that made him a great overthinker. When he felt like things were getting out of hand, he could literally think a dozen of possible scenarios in just two shakes of a lamb's tail. 

"Are you ready?" Joross sighed. 

"I don't know what this is all about, but okay. I'm ready."

In the slowest manner possible, Joross opened the door of the only bedroom of Room 011. The lights were left on, and so everything were revealed right exactly when they landed a foot inside. 

"Neat and tidy on the outside, a complete mess on the inside." Well said. 

The bedroom didn't look like a bedroom at all. It was more of a disaster, like how crime scenes actually looked like. Books scattered on the floor, blood-splattered pillows were everywhere, fragments of broken lampshade spread out over the dirty brown carpet, and a lot more mess that would definitely say the place was indeed a venue for some sort of crime. 

With gloves fitted on his hands, Well touched the square table next to the bed. "This thick dusts could tell that the crime happened a long time ago." 

"Nice. I never knew you've got some investigative skills." Joross smiled. 

"No. It's only basic observation," Well answered, moving next to Joross who had been standing for a while staring at the ensanguined bedsheet covering the surface of the bed. "I have a bad feeling that something's under the sheet." He gulped with a struggle. 

Joross took a glimpse on Well. After three repetitions of his deepest exhales, he peeled off the blood-soaked blanket away—revealing strange stuff and crime scene evidences on top of the bed. 

"Holy fuck! Joross, what are these things?" Well stepped back, his right hand covering his mouth. 

"Now, I think it's time for you to know the story behind my paintings." Joross closed his eyes. With tears attempting to escape his eyelids, he said, "They are all connected to this. To my boyfriend's secret murder mystery."