welcome to the SAB manuscript page!

Episode 2

RIGOR MORTIS

some of these earlier episodes I'm going to use my original novel format instead of the manuscript because there's just not a lot of dialogue and there's a lot of action happening. There are some slight differences between this version and the comic, but I think it sounds better and is easier to follow. I'll mark them either way. Enjoy! (also Mortem is way more blatantly mean in this version than the comic)

 A mother, father, and son lie still on a cold linoleum floor. The son, a boy whose face radiates innocence, even with fresh blood speckled across his cheek, holds his mother’s cold stiff hands with his hot red ones. 
	The mother’s stillness is emphasized by the constant wriggling of her son, completely debilitated by uncertainty. Finally, he sits up. His fingers tingle as blood flows back into them. He cannot say the same for his mother. 
     Everything in the room feels menacing. Ordinary household items carry an inexplicable weight to them now. Houseplants cast teeth-like shadows, appliances form strange monstrous shapes in the low light, and the abstract painting on their wall- once reminiscent of the happy time in which it was purchased -now resembles entrails, wet guts spilling from their golden frame. The son fights the urge to vomit. 
	He looks to his mother, her long dark hair strewn out wildly across the tile, and a broken pearl necklace draped around her neck, half covering the red imprints left by impatient fingers. 
	He looks to his father, face down, a trail of blood leading from the wound on his forehead to the sharp countertop it was smashed against. Some of the blood is dried in-between the fibers of his tight-knit sweater, some is still wet and slick like oil, creating little pools of red along the floor. 
	The son swallows, temporarily disarming another wave of nausea. He has no idea how much time has passed. The idea of time seems completely foreign to him now. In fact, the idea of reality itself has been completely turned inside out, now replaced with a scene straight from Dante's Inferno. This has to be a dream. But the blood on his hands is undeniably real, mostly dried and crusty, but real.   
What did I do to deserve this?
	The son stands, legs shaking like a newborn faun on his ascent. A sound hits his eardrums, something quiet enough to be the squeak of a shoe, but too deep, too...guttural. He swivels to see his father crawling towards him, choking and spluttering. And with his first full breath of air upon consciousness, he groans “Fucking-little-shit,” between chapped lips. 
The son feels his stomach drop again, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage, every fiber of his being screaming run. But he just stands there, watching as his father slowly pulls himself into a seated position. The man heaves, then laughs. Another piece of lip splits as he smiles. 
	“Where’d you learn how to do that?” he asks, already out of breath. 
	The son stares. He never learned how to throw someone against a counter. It was just something that happened. An action powered by a quick burst of adrenaline and followed by immediate, overwhelming exhaustion. The kind of exhaustion that made him think laying in his dead mother’s arms for an extended period of time was a good idea. Something his logical brain never would’ve allowed.  
 “You know it was a fucking accident,” his father states, liquid confidence oozing from his voice. 
The son stiffens. Strangling his mother to death was the furthest thing from an accident he could think of. Even if it was in a drunken stupor. 
	“If you really cared, you could’ve stopped me,” his father continues, snaking his hand across the granite countertop, inching closer and closer to the silverware drawer. 
	No... He knows what’s happening here. He knows the formula for manipulative bullshit. But that doesn’t stop the tears pin pricking his tear ducts. It doesn’t stop the immediate burning sensation that stabs at his eyes like a sharp gust of wind to the face. 
	“Stop it,” he says firmly, but a loud crack rips apart any authority he may have had. His father smiles an all too familiar smile that says, “Gotcha.” 
	“Stop it!” he yells, clasping his hands over his ears, screwing his eyelids shut, anything to keep out the madness. But it’s too late, and he knows that. He’s dealt with this for years, but now, with a lifeless corpse on the floor, it’s all too real. This isn’t something he can push away any longer. Hell, he clearly should’ve dealt with it a long time ago. And now here he is. Staring hell in the face. This really is all his fault. All his fault. All his fault... 
	Suddenly a hand grabs his ankle, and before he has a chance to react, it pulls hard. He flails, unable to catch himself as he tumbles backward. The back of his skull collides with cold, hard tile. Little white stars dance across his vision as his eyes flutter open. Quite frankly, he’s amazed he’s still conscious. Even so, he fights to adjust his vision, to see past the cloudy layer of tears. And then, he sees it. The sharp metal point of a butcher knife coming down fast. 
	Without thinking, he puts his hands out, grabbing the knife’s blade right before the tip reaches his nose. He feels the warmth of blood dripping down his fingers before he feels the pain.
	“Dad, please!” he shouts, the knife slicing down his palms. 
	“Don’t call me that,” his father retorts, a twinge of annoyance in his voice.  
	For a brief moment, the son doesn’t feel afraid. Because this tiny display of humanity is something he can work with. His father may be an insensitive asshole but he’s also the most impulsive person on the planet. Something evident by the so-called “accident” laying on the floor. 
While the son is constantly bogged down by worries of past and future, his father is incapable of such an act. And although it’s generally thought of as an advantage to live in the moment, that rule doesn’t really apply when it comes to murder. And he knows for a fact that his father doesn’t have a plan. Right now he wants to kill his son. But what next? His lip twitches into a faint smile and he forces it back down into submission.
	“W-wouldn’t it be better to keep me alive?” the son asks, trying to mask the fear in his voice with concern. “After all, I’m your only alibi.” 
	Somehow the little dips and quivering grunts in his voice match up with this facade perfectly. He is a good son. This was an accident. He is helpful, concerned, and genuine. He smiles but makes sure to keep the tears flowing, which isn’t hard. His father frowns. The son gulps. 
He needs more details. He needs to make this convincing. But there isn’t enough time to think of a fully fleshed out script. Right now he barely has time for an outline. The knife may not be pushing forward anymore but the point is still staring him dead in the eyes. What does he want? What does his father want? What does anyone want in the aftermath of a rage induced murder? Security maybe? That’s what he would want. Safety. A little bit of insurance to calm his nerves. 
	“I could tell them someone broke in. That you fought them off,” the son blurts. It was a stupidly unbelievable story, but his father was also unbelievably stupid. It was worth a shot. 
All he needs is a little bit of breathing room. That’s all. Hell, all he needs is this goddamn knife out of his face. He waits. His father stares blankly at him. The son wonders what could possibly be going through that thick skull of his. That thick, stupid skull. Then the panic hits again, swarming in all at once, because the knife isn’t going anywhere, and little droplets of blood are rolling down his wrists and  onto his button-down shirt. 
	“Don’t you trust me?” he asks, a bit more desperation in his voice than he would’ve liked. There’s plenty of reasons for his father not to trust him, especially at this particular moment in time. But what is he doing wrong? Why isn’t this working? He knows his story isn’t that strong but come on. His father is a certified dumbass. Why is he picking now of all times to show his first budding signs of intelligence? 
	“I stayed, didn’t I?” he whines, moments away from admitting defeat and praying to a god he doesn’t believe in when his father suddenly retreats. 
	“You’re lucky you’re a smartass,” the man huffs, removing the knife from his son’s grasp.
The son holds back his sigh of relief. “Love you too, dad,” he says, his shaking voice hiding any signs of insincerity. 
	“Shut it,” his father groans.
The son sits up slowly. He knows this moment of peace is only temporary, and he needs to work fast to get out of this. He starts to crawl backwards as slow as feasibly possible. The way prey moves to avoid detection from a predator. As long as there’s space between them, he has the advantage. He may not be as strong as his father, but he’s certainly faster. He can run and dodge if he needs to. 
To his surprise, he gets a solid couple of feet away without his father addressing it. One hand is still gripping the knife tightly, but the other is pressed into his temple like he’s fighting off a headache. The son grins. Too much thinking for you, huh dad? He takes a deep breath. He has one shot at this. He can’t afford to get it wrong.
	“Dad? Why do you hate me so much?” he asks, voice entwined with childish innocence. 
	“You know why,” his father groans, not skipping a beat. Ouch. 
	“Because I ruin everything?”
	“Sure, let’s go with that.”
	Vague and self-deprecating. That’s good. It’s his fault, remember? Plus if he gets too specific then he’ll really start hating himself. And he doesn’t have time for that right now. Maybe later if he lives through this, but not now. 
	“If I can fix this, will you stop hating me?” 
Empty promises. There’s no way to undo the body on the floor. But somehow he doubts his father really understands that.
	“If you can fix this, I’ll sprout wings and fly.”
Huh. Maybe he does understand. Well, his father may be an idiot, but at least he’s not a total moron. Still, he feels the need to clarify. 
	“So that’s a yes?” 
	His father sighs, gripping the knife tighter, pressing his hand harder against his temple. “If you can somehow do the impossible, then it’s a yes.”
The son grins. He extends his arms outward, offering a wide, friendly hug. He has no intention of getting any closer to his father, but he suspects this display of vulnerability might help his case. Open arms means his chest is totally exposed, the perfect target for a knife to sink into. He gulps. 	“Thank you. I’ll fix everything. I promise.” 
His father doesn’t accept the hug, but he does lower his knife-wielding arm, and that’s all he needs to strike. He lunges, planting bloody hands against his father’s chest and shoving him back. A loud thud echoes as the man slams against the cabinet. A misplaced drawer pull stabs him hard in the lower back and he lurches, his hands losing their grip. The knife skids across the kitchen floor just out of reach. The son scrambles. His fingers are just about to make contact with the metal when a pair of hands grabs him by the neck and yanks, pulling him away from his prize like an overexcited dog. All the air leaves his body in one swift motion. He desperately claws at the hands encompassing his windpipe but they just squeeze tighter. He gags. 
	“Too slow,” his father mocks. 
No. No, no, no, no, no this is bad. This is bad. He can’t get any air in. What isn’t blocked off by force is stopped by the layer of mucus that’s formed from all his crying. He whines like a pierced balloon. 
	“Oh, come on. Stop making that face. I’m not even squeezing that hard.”
Fuck you. Fuck you, Fuck you. The son gags again. A bubble of spit pops from his mouth and lands on the floor. He’s sobbing uncontrollably now, and with every wheeze, his vision gets blurrier and blurrier. More spit and mucus floods his mouth, frothing at the edges of his lips like a rabid animal. 
	“I’m curious. Why did you stay?” his father continues thoughtfully. “Were you really that paralyzed by your own fear?” 
He can’t think. He can’t think at all. But there is one thing that comes through. And that thing is pure, unadulterated hatred. This man killed his mother. This man is going to kill him too if he doesn’t do something. 
	“I was scared out of my mind. You know that,” he croaks. He tries to swallow but his spit won’t go past the blockage. It just clogs up his throat further. He stops clawing. 
“I still am!” He throws his head back, knocking his father hard in the chin with the back of his skull. To his surprise, it works. The hands release. 
He lunges, squirming from his father’s distracted grasp and snatching the knife off the floor in one swift motion. 
	“I didn’t wanna leave mom with a scumbag like you!” he yells, surprised by just how easily the words comes out. Talking back to his father suddenly became a hell of a lot easier with a deadly weapon in his hand. Suddenly his arms are raised, gripping the handle as tightly as he can before plunging the blade deep into his father’s chest. It happens so fast that he doesn’t remember doing it. His mind and his heart are racing a mile a minute and nothing makes sense. It’s as if the adrenaline has completely taken over, controlling his limbs like a marionette as he rips the knife back out, blood gushing from the wound like a kiddie pool with a leak. 
The next few moments are completely devoid of rationale and logical thought, filled instead with animalistic rage. One slice would’ve been enough to temporarily disable him. Stabbing him in a non-essential location would’ve been plenty of damage to escape. But that isn’t what he does. In fact, his first instinct is to go for the heart. To rip it out of him if possible. However, after a few more solid jabs, he realizes this isn’t as easy as he thought it was. The heart is protected by ribs and muscle and all kinds of organic material. Right now all he sees is red and it’s impossible to navigate. That and the constant howling and weak attempts at defence from his father are confusing his aim. 
	So he just starts swinging. Digging the blade into whatever piece of flesh he can get a hold of, aiming towards more important areas, but equally satisfied if it sinks into a flailing arm instead. He’s surprised by how long it takes for his father to stop moving, by how long he thrashes like a fish in a boat before his body finally gives up. Before he slows and crumbles like an ant in a microwave. The knife clanks on the floor as the son stares blankly at his handiwork.
He expected to feel worse. But truth be told, he feels more nausea than regret. 
Speaking of which, that familiar feeling of acid and bile suddenly pools at the back of his mouth, and he barely makes it to the sink before violently expelling the contents of his stomach into the metal basin. 
	“It was- it was self defence,” he reminds himself between heaves. 
	“Self...defence,” his voice cracks, and tears join the puddle of vomit in the sink. 


End scene.