It's been quite some time, but I'm back

I haven't posted in a while, and I will have a story update tomorrow, most definitely. 
Anyway, here's a new story for you, hope you enjoy. 

This is cruel, A voice inside my head rang out. It was my voice. My voice sounded strange. This isn't right. Where are you going? What are you doing?

“You're talking to yourself again,” Alex said.

“Shit,” I paused, “I didn't even realize it.”

“I could tell, you alright?”

“Same as usual.”

“Usually you can control yourself in public, it's been getting worse.”

“I'm fine,” I lied. I knew he had some problems too, I didn't want to talk about what was on my mind. I clenched my jaw, making sure I wouldn't start talking to myself on the train again. What are you doing? We're headed home. Why? Fuck you, me, fuck, I don't know. The train stopped, the doors opened and people flooded out. The last stop before ours. Alex turned to me, getting his jacket bundled up and stood up, putting on his gloves.

“You're going to get frostbite,” he looked at my hands.

“Eh, it isn't cold enough for gloves quite yet.”

“Your fingers, we're gamers, gotta keep them fresh and working.” He turned to the doors. I sat there. You're going to go home, play some videogames and then pass out with some vicodin or klonpin. You're probably going to drink along with it so you sleep well for the few hours that you sleep before you have to wake up and go to class. Whats the point in that?

“It's life,” I said, standing up and following Alex out the doors as they opened. It was a short walk to our apartment, and Alex and I were prepared, we had cut the time on beer retrieval down by making a bottle dispenser to pop two beers out every time we opened the door. The dispenser then pops the tops off and has them conveniently placed next to the door.

We walked in, grabbed our beer, I reached in our couch and pulled out the vicodin, took two, and offered the bottle to Alex.

“I'm okay right now, maybe later,” he declined.

“Suit yourself.”

Our couch was a rather interesting piece of furniture as well. We had stacked milk crates, stuck a minifridge in the center covered everything with cushions that were essentially hinged. The minifridge opened upwards, and next to it there were pill bottles stacked up.

We sat on the couch, at opposite ends. The numerous TV's buzzed on, and the playstations turned on. I took the mouse and keyboard out of the milkcrate underneath me. I waved the mouse on the side cushion which I'd sewn a mousepad onto, and typed in the password to wake up the computer another screen was attached to. I started the music and grabbed the controller that Alex extended towards me.

“What are you gonna play?” I asked, putting on my microphone.

“Don't know yet,” he said, hooking up his mic.

“I feel like some Catherine.”

“Again?”

“It's good to reminisce.”

“You're torturing yourself.”

“I lost them both, Alex.”

“No, one is still a possibility.”

“I lost them.”

“Whatever.”

“We're just like him. We're characters being played by someone else. Our gamers have no care what happens, they have the luxury of reset. We have nothing. We feel the lows and the highs that they push us through, they don't care. They can laugh when we fuck someone, but they don't care when we get fucked over. We're entertainment to whoever's watching.”

“Depressing.”

“Very much so.”

“You need to lay off the vicodin.”