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episode 4

the lamb in the lion's den

novel format

 
	As Sicarius carries an unconscious stranger in his arms, he thinks about his recent life choices. For example: murdering a civilian in cold blood or taking a stranger home with him for no good goddamn reason. It’s not like he cares; he doubts he’s even capable of such a thing. But here he is with yet another anchor dragging him down through this ocean of odd responsibilities. He’s been sinking at a steady pace for awhile now, but tonight makes him feel especially heavy, like he’s been slammed in the chest. There’s not much longer before his lungs give out and he drowns.
	The stranger in his arms is tiny and thin, not emaciated but just...unusually small. His torso almost looks normal with the large button up shirt he’s wearing, but his wrists jut out in a way that only fills half the sleeve. His hair is obnoxiously blue, and the only indication of its natural color are the thin blond eyebrows barely visible against translucent skin. 
	“How the fuck am I gonna explain this?” Sicarius mutters, internally cursing his own stupidity. This isn’t how he expected his night to go. He really shouldn’t have been out at all. But...he was, and now he’s paying the ultimate price. Maybe this is his punishment. He wouldn’t be surprised if this was some god’s cruel idea of payback. But it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. Right now he just needs to clean up the mess and cut back on any further damage. 
	Sicarius turns into another alley, passing broken fire escapes and graffiti riddled walls. He has to minimize his contact with people and cameras. For now it’s simple. He knows which streets are abandoned and avoided. But once he gets into his apartment complex...well, then it gets a little more complicated. He knows where the blind spots are, but that doesn’t help him get where he needs to go. In order to get to his room, he needs to pass by some cameras, whether he likes it or not. It’s just a matter of obscuring the figure in his arms somehow, which is easier said than done.
	He takes another turn, accidentally stepping through a liquid far too viscous to be water, forcing him to shuffle his feet against tar to detach the gunk from his boot. It takes a few solid swipes before his tracks fully disappear. 
The building is in sight now, but he still has no idea how to proceed. He sighs. He’ll have to wing this. And lord knows how shit he is at that. But his mind is blank. He’s tired. All he wants to do is go to bed and figure this out in the morning. Although he doubts he’ll be permitted such a luxury. 
	He holds his breath as he enters the keycode, waits for the familiar beep and click of recognition, and slides in the back door. He tentatively steps through the hallway, slinking along peach colored walls like a cat stalking its prey. The only hindrance being the buckles on his boots, emitting a soft jingle with each step like the bell on a cat collar. But the cameras don’t record sound. He’s lucky in that regard. 
	Suddenly a voice slams hard against his eardrums, and before he has a chance to put the pieces together he’s being tackled, no- hugged? Damnit. Why does everyone keep touching him today for fuck’s sake-
	“Why can’t you greet me like a normal person?” he groans, prying the woman’s arms off his neck.
	“What’s the fun in that?” she laughs, releasing him. “What’re you doing sneaking through the back door anyway?” Her eyes drift downwards and her body tenses. There’s a moment of silence as she stares at the unconscious stranger in his arms.   
	She points at him the way you point at a spider on the wall. “Who’s that?” 
Sicarius barely opens his mouth before she barrades him with questions. He sighs and lets her frantic energy wash over him.
	“It’s a long story,” he mutters.
	“Well give me the cliffnotes!” she urges.
	Sicarius sighs. “I found him.”
	“You ‘found’ him?”
	“Yeah.”
	“He’s not a dog. Where did he come from?”
	“I don’t really...know.”
	“What do you know??”
	Nothing. That is the tried and true answer. Absolutely nothing. He’s a creature driven entirely by instinct. And he knows he has to do this. But he can’t explain why. Not in a way she’d understand. He looks at her pleadingly. She crosses her arms. 
	He goes through the phrases in his head. “I know I have to do this.” No, that’s stupid. “I’ve made a mistake and I have to fix it.” Hell, that’s admitting defeat. Although, asking for forgiveness might be his best bet, even if it is an almost definite trail to pandora’s box. The verbal vomit continues to run rampant through his mind and then he sees it, the black eye of a security camera ogling him from across the hallway. The woman clears her throat and taps her foot in impatience. God damnit. He didn’t want to drag her into this, but at this point it seems inevitable. 
	“Look, Nasri-” he starts, trying to reposition himself so the stranger is out of view from the camera, but there’s no easy way to do this. He’s facing it head on, in clear as day flourescent lighting. 
	“I know it’s a lot to ask but-” he’s gonna have to start off this tangent with a fucking favor. God, he’s such an asshole. 
	“I need you to erase the security footage of me entering the building,” he blurts. 
	She gawks at him. A drop of sweat beads on his forehead as he attempts to backpedal.
	“I’ve made a lot of mistakes tonight. And I can’t afford to make any more. I’ll explain everything later, but for now-”
	“Are you joking?” her face reads pure and utter confusion. 
	Sicarius swallows. “Um, No. I’m not.” 
	She blinks, her expression changing from bewilderment to exasperation. “What is wrong with you?” 
	“...So is that a no or-?” 
	She sighs, loosening her stance and pushing a long stray hair behind her ear, trying to regain some sense of composure. But her massive square earring gets caught in the process, and she spends the next few moments silently untangling it. 
	“I’ll erase the stupid footage,” she grumbles when the hair is finally loose.  
	“Thank you, Nasri,” Sicarius says, and now it’s his turn to look perplexed. He didn’t expect her to say yes. If anything he thought he would have to haggle her for it. As if reading his thoughts, she looks down to the stranger in his arms again. That’s right. This isn’t just about him anymore. Hell, this isn’t about him at all. It was never about him. It’s about the stranger lying limp in his arms, his head pressed firmly into his elbow, breathing shallow, frightened breaths even in his sleep. He may not be a dog but something about him feels very puppy-like. The kind you’d find abandoned in a wet box on the street, crying and begging to be saved. 
	“I’m sure you know this won’t fix the problem,” Nasri says.
	“Yeah, I know. I just...need more time to figure this out,” Sicarius replies. It’s the first truly honest thing he’s said all night. 
	“Oh, and you have to take the stairs,” Nasri suddenly interjects. 
	Sicarius feels the wind preemptively knocked out of him “...Huh?”
	“There’s no cameras in the stairwells. It saves me the effort of erasing even more footage.”
	“Nasri...you know I live on the 15th floor, right?”
	“Right. I’ll accept your suffering as payment.” She smirks, and before Sicarius has a chance to rebuttal, she turns, holding her hands to her ears and singing loudly as she prances down the hall. 
	“I can’t hear you! Now get up there before I change my mind!” she sings, turning down the hallway to the lobby and disappearing from view. Sicarius stares blankly at the wall, then at the stranger in his arms, then back at the wall.
He has no problem climbing up 15 flights of stairs. That isn’t the issue. The issue is the hundred pound weight that he’s carrying up said stairs. An unbalanced weight that seems to be growing heavier with every step. Five flights up and his hamstrings are taught and burning, ten flights and his arms have completely melted into putty. By the time he reaches his door, his whole body is one big tight knot. 
	He fumbles with the light switch as he enters, only to remember the damn thing hasn’t worked in ages. He makes a mental note to get it fixed, the same mental note that he’s been rewriting in his head for the past three weeks, and seems to forget every time he leaves. It isn’t that dark, and he lives alone, so it hasn’t exactly been a top priority. He can navigate just fine with the blue glow coming from his windows, dotted by the reflections of neighbors across the way who actually have their shit together. 
	He rolls the stranger onto his futon and the tension finally releases. 
	“What am I gonna do with you?” he mutters to himself, running a hand through black, greasy hair. In all honesty, he’s amazed the guy is still unconscious. If he’s lucky he might even sleep through the night. Although, luck hasn’t exactly been on his side today. Or ever, really. 
	Still, he decides to push his luck and get changed. He’s drenched in sweat and smells like a wet dog from his unexpected work out. He takes off his holster and removes his mask and gun from their clips, tucking everything under a pair of pants in the bottom of his dresser, and taking out another pair to change into. 
	Letting out a deep yawn, he ambles into his bathroom and shuts the door behind him. His pupils immediately dilate as the room floods with bright, humming fluorescence. At least the light in here still works. He quickly sheds off the remainder of today’s gear, replacing the poncho and tight body suit combo with sweatpants and a black tank top. At long last, his skin can breath again. 
He splashes his face with cold water and brushes his teeth, staring at the black gap on the wall where his mirror used to be. The one he punched and shattered into a million tiny daggers. Every once in awhile he’ll find a piece camouflaged against tile and throw it away before it can carve up his feet. Everyone keeps telling him to replace it, to just get a new one, but he doesn’t miss it. To be honest, he hated looking at himself on such a frequent basis. There’s really no reason for it. Plus that thing seems to have an affinity for mirrors. Reflections in general but mirrors were its favorite. That’s why he smashed it in the first place. 
	He spits, gargles, rinses, and tosses the poncho over his shoulder. He pushes open the door to see two wide eyes staring at him from across the room. The stranger scrambles to a seated position, gripping the couch cushion like a life preserver in an endless ocean.
	“Oh, hey. You’re up,” Sicarius says dumbly, suddenly grateful for being able to clean himself up before dealing with this, even if the exhaustion is still pulsing in the back of his head. At least he isn’t covered in sweat now. 
The stranger gawks at him, his face contorting in disbelief and horror. He blinks rapidfire in an attempt to keep the tears from spilling out but it’s too late. He erupts into loud, apologetic sobs, the only comprehensible word bubbling from his lips is “sorry.”
	Right now his biggest concern is getting caught, and there’s a siren going off right in front of him.
	He tries to bring forth the last remaining ounce of compassion he has left but he still has no idea how to do this. So he just starts hushing and cooing like you would a baby, but this guy is definitely not a baby, even if he acts like one. 
	“Shhh, you’re gonna wake up the whole floor,” he whispers between a fake, gritted smile, waving his hands around and continuing to hush and coo. To his surprise, it kind of works. Or maybe the guy just tired himself out. Either way, he quiets down. And for that he’s thankful. The tears are still pouring out of his eyes like faucets, but he isn’t shouting anymore. Instead he puts his face into his hands, mumbling “I’m sorry,” repeatedly into his palms. Sicarius stares at the stranger on his couch struggling to stop the flow of tears, but they just keep coming. He’s clearly trying so hard to stop, stifling sob after sob, it’s...pitiful to look at. Finally Sicarius opens his mouth. “Look, I have no idea what happened to you...but you’re safe here, alright?” He tries to sound genuine, but he can’t make any promises just yet. He might still have to kill him, even if he’d really rather not.
	“Safe,” the stranger repeats, as if the word is completely foreign. He peeks out from between his fingers, mumbles another apology, and hides again, burying his face into trembling hands. 
	Sicarius sighs. God, why is he doing this? Why did he bring him here? He should’ve just killed him on the spot, but something about that didn’t feel right. His intention has never been to destroy. It’s just...the world is full of shitbags. And he has no problem annihilating those types of people- if they were even people to begin with- sending them back to the ether from whence they came, but he can’t bring himself to kill people like this. People caught in the crossfire. People just trying to survive. Those are the people he’s trying to protect. But he’s no savior, despite how much he wants to be. At the end of the day, he can’t even save himself.  
	The stranger on his couch is still sobbing vehemently, emitting quiet, lamentable grunts between each breath, stopping only to wipe away snot. Sicarius grabs the blanket off his bed and tosses it at the stranger, who doesn’t even come close to catching it, instead letting it land where gravity takes it, half overlapping his shoulder, half over the couch cushion. He stares at it like it’s a live grenade at the initial contact, but the panic fades as he realizes that his terror was caused by a limp piece of fabric. 
	“Sorry I didn’t give that to you earlier. I uh- only have one, so-” Sicarius stammers. 
	The stranger scoops up the blanket and holds it like an animal, then suddenly, as if reminded of its purpose, wraps it around himself. The motion is so awkward it’s almost alien. Like he’s completely forgotten how to be a person. Shell-shock is a bitch but this is nuts. 
	“Oh! And you can sleep in my bed if you want. I’ll take the couch,” Sicarius points to his now blanket-less bed. It’s literally right behind them. All of his belongings are very much visible in his tiny studio apartment, but he still feels the need to clarify with this guy’s insanely absentminded behavior. 
	“Thank you…” the stranger whimpers, pulling himself into a cocoon with the blanket he’s finally figured out how to use. At this point, Sicarius expects the brunt of this interaction to be over. He expects the guy to go to sleep and to figure everything out in the morning. But to his dismay, he’s still crying, hard. And not the cry yourself to sleep kind of cry, at least not yet, but the bawling, traumatized, this can’t be happening kind of cry.  
	Where did he come from? He’s not supposed to be here, that’s for sure, but where is he supposed to be? What happened to him? At what point does trusting a complete stranger become your only option? He has no idea how long he’s been standing there, stiff as a board, watching this tiny stranger sob his eyes out on his couch, but however long it’s been, he’s had enough. It’s been a long day and he’s determined to end it. 
	“Alright, alright. I’ll do anything you want, okay? So please stop crying,” 
	“...Anything?” the stranger whimpers. A fat tear crawls down his cheek like a blood engorged tick.
	“Anything.”
	The stranger thinks about this, wipes his latest set of tears from bloodshot eyes and looks up pleadingly. “Then can you...hold...me?” 
	Sicarius tenses, and he can’t hide the disgust in his voice as he says “...What?” 
	Almost instantaneously the stranger breaks down again, although it seems like it’s more out of embarrassment this time as he profusely apologizes and burrows deeper into his blanket cocoon. Damnit. He’s never gonna stop at this rate. 
	“Would that...make you feel better?” Sicarius asks hesitantly. The last thing he wants right now is to be touched again. The more people touch him, the more that thing comes around. Plus it just makes him feel...gross. It brings up memories he’d rather not think about. And when those memories swarm his thoughts they’re nearly impossible to get back out again. It’s like a hornet’s nest in the back of a mailbox. You need to get in there but everytime you try you just get stung over and over again. Sure, you can get an exterminator, but the brain doesn’t work that way. The hornets always come back to their nest, and they’re angrier every time they return...
	“I don’t know, I just-I need someone, and you happen to be here…” the stranger trails off.
	“God, that sounds...terrible doesn’t it? I really am the worst.” 
	The stranger spirals into an all too familiar whirlwind of self-hatred, accentuated by frantic paranoia. 
	“I should be dead,” he mutters. “At least that would mean something. But this...this is pointless. I have no reason to be alive. My existence is a burden. I don’t deserve to live-”
	Sicarius plants both his hands firmly on the stranger’s shoulders. “Stop that.”
	“B-But I-”
	“Stop,” Sicarius says, and as much as he doesn’t want to, he takes the stranger in his arms, and holds him. And surprisingly, it’s not as bad as he thought it would be. The stranger’s body is totally unfamiliar. He’s small, cold, bony. It doesn’t make him think of the thing at all. It only takes a moment for the stranger’s icy cold skin to thaw, and he starts to feel less like an alien and more like a person. A hot puff of air passes by his ear as the stranger shudders an exhale and melts into him. Maybe he’s just too tired to care but for once he doesn’t mind. Tonight, the hornets lay dormant. They might go on a rampage tomorrow as he thinks about the sniffling face buried into the crook of his shoulder, and the desperate hands clutching at his back, but for now they’re leaving him alone. 
	It’s the slight sensation of dampness that makes him pull away. For a moment he panics, internally cursing his over productive sweat glands, but this isn’t sweat. At least, it’s not from him. His hands have a thin film of moisture over them, as does the front of his chest right where the stranger was pressed against.
	“Why are you...damp?” he asks, and his theory is proven correct when all the color drains from the stranger’s face. 
	“D-damp?” he repeats, desperately trying- and failing- to avoid eye contact.
	“Yeah, damp. Like you jumped into a pool with your clothes on and tried to let it air dry.” 
	“I don’t know what you mean,” the stranger blurts. 
	“Cut the shit. I mean, you’re practically soaked. Aren’t you uncomfortable?
	“I-I’m fine,  I didn’t really notice-,” but before the stranger can finish the sentence his face goes from pale to green and he throws up in his hands. It’s not a lot, but it’s just enough to spill out of his mouth from the force. He stares at his hands in disgust and practically shouts his teary-eyed apologies. 
	“It’s fine. I’ll...get you a washcloth,” Sicarius says, and jumps up from the couch before the stranger can say or do anything else. All this social interaction is draining his patience fast and he needs a moment of distance to re-calibrate. He grabs a pair of gray washcloths from the towel rack in his bathroom, dampening one of them with hot tap water. He tries to clear his mind, but a quick flash of blood and panic invades his thoughts. The limp body of the delinquent he killed tonight, oozing and spazzing on cold hard tile. That thing with its big formless hands wrapping around his neck and squeezing tighter, tighter, tighter - He shakes his head back and forth and cringes inwardly. He smacks the side of his skull like a swimmer trying to get water out of his ear. Fuckin’ bullshit. When he returns to reality, the stranger is still staring at the swamp green puddle settled in the center of his palm like a psychic trying to distinguish an illegible lifeline. He barely notices Sicarius as he approaches.     
	“Here, I got two. One’s wet and one’s dry.”
	The stranger cautiously takes the damp towel from Sicarius’ extended hand. He shoves his face into it and keeps it there, soaking up the warmth from the hot water. Sitting back down, Sicarius observes the stranger meticulously scrubbing his face and hands. Something about it feels like watching a hamster in a cage.
	Suddenly the stranger winces, and a crimson stain blooms like watercolor on the wet washcloth. Sicarius grabs his wrist to get a closer look, even though at a glance, the cause was obvious. Blood. A lot of it. Seeping between crevices of skin like jelly from a white bread sandwich. 
	“Are you hurt?” he interrogates, and he doesn’t have to feign concern this time. He does genuinely feel bad. It looks painful. Although he’d be lying if he said curiosity wasn’t also a defining factor. Why does this stranger seem so unconcerned with the blood dribbling down his palms? 
	“N-no, I- It’s just a scratch.”
	Sicarius audibly scoffs. “That’s a lot of blood for a ‘scratch.’”
	“It doesn’t matter. I’m fine, really.”
	“It does matter. It looks fresh. Hell, you might need stitches for this. What’s this gunk all over it?” He rotates the stranger’s wrist to get a closer look at his palm, revealing patches of cream covering the lacerations. 
	The stranger snatches his hand away and holds it tightly against his chest. He’s starting to shake, like a small dog left out in the snow.  
	“I-I had to cover it up,” he mutters, barely audible. 
	“You what?”
	“I-I covered it.”
	“With what?” 
	A pause. 
	“Concealer, I think? Some kind of makeup thing.”
	Sicarius blinks. “Why the hell would you do that?
	“I just-I didn’t have time to do anything else.”
	“Didn’t have time-?” he questions, exasperated. “You had time to put gunk all over an open wound but you didn’t have time to bandage it? ”
	“Please stop-” the stranger interjects, swallowing a sob but letting the next one loose. “Please...stop,” he repeats, barely audible now as the tears erupt from his bloodshot eyes. “I...I don’t wanna do this right now. I didn’t have any bandages, and I didn’t want to walk around with blood all over my hands. It was the only thing I could think of,” he trails off, dialogue peppered with hiccups and sighs.
	Sicarius stares in dismay as the stranger on his couch weeps like he’d witnessed the total destruction of humanity. His fury melts into an odd mixture of empathy and embarrassment. It makes his chest burn, his stomach flip, his heart ache, and he has no idea how to deal with it. Compassion has never been his strong suit. Never has been, never will be. But he’s also never seen another human being over the age of 6 cry as much and as hard as this guy, and it needs to stop. Now. 
	“C’mon, enough with the tears already,” he huffs, using the dry washcloth to wipe away the salty streams cascading down wet cheeks. At first the stranger jolts, but then just as quickly he slackens, leaning into the touch. The tears don’t stop but they do slow as he nudges into the towel and latches onto Sicarius’ now extremely tensed arm. His hands are like little blocks of ice compared to the hot blood oozing out of them. 
	“I can get you bandages. I can get you a dry shirt. I’m just trying to help you. That’s all. But if something’s wrong you need to tell me, ok?”
	The stranger nods vigorously, squeezing his arm so tight he thinks it might pop. When he attempts to retreat the stranger tightens his grip, and it takes a surprising amount of force and coaxing before he releases his cold needy hands.
	“Good. Now, you start cleaning out that wound,” he commands.  
	“The bathroom is over there.” He points to the slightly ajar door, a creamy slice of light oozing from the gap. As the stranger redirects his gaze, he escapes once again to collect the supplies required to patch up all the holes he keeps falling into.

*********************


	Sitting on an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar room, Mortem attempts to suck up the tears rolling down his cheeks, to slow his heartbeat to tolerable levels, to redirect the queasiness bubbling up at the bottom of his esophagus, but all to no avail. His mind is a crude blend of panic, confusion, and unease. Time crawls by as his host collects the remedies needed to treat his physical wounds. 
But the cuts on his hands are the least of his worries right now. If this stupid anxiety could leave him alone for a second then he might be able to think his way through this. But with all this nonsense running through him, his current best solution is to stop thinking all together, to block the panic with nothing. But even that was easier said than done. If he lets his guard down too much he’ll be destroyed by external factors. Hell, he’s already completely lost control of the situation. He has no idea where he is, nor does he know anything about the strange man who brought him here. He seems nice enough, for now, but that could change all too rapidly. Not to mention, his judge of character probably isn’t very accurate right now.
	Taking a deep breath, he redirects all of his energy to his legs and shakily makes his way to his host’s bathroom. The light momentarily blinds him as he opens the door, and he blinks rapidfire until his vision adjusts to the stark fluorescent lighting. It’s a small, average looking bathroom with tile walls and tile floors, but where the mirror should be is a black base bordered by tiny shards of glass. 
	His thoughts are jumbled and racing as he turns on the faucet. He’s not cut out for this whole “breaking the law” thing. Literally none of the choices he’s made so far have been good ones. He washed his shirt to get the blood out, but he was still too paranoid to leave it behind, guaranteeing future illness from the cold wet fabric pressed tightly against his body. But he couldn’t risk it. Even if it was buried in the bottom of a drawer somewhere, what if they found it? What if they found it while it was still wet? Isn’t that practically an admission of guilt? He had no idea how long these things took, how much time would pass before the police ultimately found the...bodies. Just the word alone makes him shutter. Bodies. That’s all they were now.
	The gashes in his hands are far more unsightly after scrubbing off the fleshtone coverup, yet another one of his stupid ideas. The skin around the cuts is puffy and red, and while blood isn’t technically escaping from the openings themselves, everything is still fresh and glossy. That man was right, he might need stitches for this. 
	Mortem stares into the sharp remnants of glass, each piece showing a slightly warped reflection of his face. As he washes his hands, the sink fills with diluted blood. One part of him is self-conscious about potentially staining the sage green sink that isn’t his, the other part of him is fighting the bile rising in his throat again. 
	“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he mutters to himself, unintentionally scrubbing harder, but the increased force doesn’t make him feel any more clean. Instead it just opens things up and adds more blood to the sink. “I didn’t do anything wrong, I didn’t do anything wrong, I didn’t do anything-”
Finally his panicked body succumbs to the queasiness, and he barely makes it to the toilet before expelling the imaginary poison from his stomach. 
He thumps his cheek down on the cold rim of the toilet seat. While the idea of doing such a thing under normal circumstances- that is- putting his bare face on a stranger’s toilet seat- would bring the nausea back, right now the feeling of coldness against his hot face is the first sensation to actually help his condition. 
	He opens bleary eyes to see the strange man standing in the doorway, staring at him with an undeniable expression of tired pity.
	“You really don’t look good,” he deadpans. 
	“I don’t feel good,” Mortem affirms, and as if on cue, throws up in the toilet again. The man approaches, kneeling down beside him as he heaves and splutters. For the first time throughout this whole ordeal, Mortem is struck by a strong surge of embarrassment, the kind that wakes you up at 3 am years later because “God, why did I do that?” But the nausea isn’t going away anytime soon, and the idea of this strange man watching him while he chokes and spits on his own bodily fluids only makes it worse.
	“You can go,” he chokes, swallowing hard to keep things down. But the man either doesn’t hear him or isn’t paying attention because he continues sitting there impassively. 
	“I don’t want you here,” Mortem clarifies, clearing his throat and increasing his volume as best he can with the scratchy stabbing feeling that always accompanies throwing up.
	The man blinks. “Oh, uh...right.”
	“I’ll just leave this here then,” he says, leaving behind a roll of gauze and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the floor, kind of defeating the purpose of keeping things sanitary, but it was better than nothing. 
	“And I’ll be over there if you uh- need anything, okay? The man slowly retreats to the bathroom door, but before Mortem can acknowledge or respond, he vomits again. He can barely hear the mildly disgusted “Right, I’ll leave you to...that,” over the ringing in his ears. 
	Quite frankly, he’s stopped caring. The constant trauma to his body and mind has left him exhausted and numb. There really is no way out of this. There is no happy ending. There is only struggling and regrets. He’s made his choices, and there’s no going back. Why is he still trying? What good is struggling through today if tomorrow is a guaranteed nightmare? What’s the point? What does he have to live for? What has he ever had to live for?  
	A teardrop hits the back of his hand before he even realizes he’s crying again, and he rubs his eyes with an unnecessary harshness to keep them in. 
	“I should’ve stopped while I was ahead,” he muses. Laying on that cold kitchen floor in his mother’s arms should’ve been the end of him. But instead he fought back, he caused even more damage. Not that sparing his scumbag of a father would’ve helped anyone, the man got what he deserved. But...it wasn’t his justice to serve. Not like that, anyway. If he’d lasted long enough for the police to arrive, his father would go to prison for life. But instead he made things worse, like he always does. And now he’s guilty. He’s a criminal. He’s just as bad as the man who tormented him all those years. 
	Mortem hugs his knees to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the tears in, and the imminent darkness is surprisingly soothing. 
“I wanna die but I’m too scared to actually do anything. That’s always been the case.”
	Another wave of panic hits him but it’s different somehow. It feels...external almost. Something brushes past him, but it’s the kind of touch that barely registers, like the passing air of a butterfly wing. His vision is blurred when he opens his eyes, and it takes a moment to realize it’s because of the tears he’s been trying to hold back. He blinks them away and they glide down his face with ease, leaving glistening trails down pale skin. 
	A hand is reaching out to him. That is, the silhouette of a hand. A hand with shape but no substance, outstretched with a familiar daintiness despite their lack of corporality. “Mom?” he whispers, barely audible as he thrusts his hand into the air and clamps down onto nothingness. It happens so fast he has a hard time confirming if it happened at all. Even the action of reaching out and gripping down feels like an illusion. It makes him wonder if he’s still asleep and this is all some kind of lucid dream.  
	“Am I going crazy?” he utters, staring at his hands in awe. He wouldn’t be surprised really. After all this he doubts he could ever be considered “sane.” 
But then it hits him, the sensation of being tugged from the inside out. The mirror, well what’s left of it anyway, is glowing. He can’t tell if his vision is messing with him or not but it feels bright. Bright and captivating. This must be how sailor’s feel when a siren lures them to the rocks. That thought is as soothing as it is disquieting. 
	He drags his fingers along the edge of the mirror and a magnetic latch clicks. The cabinet opens. He frowns, disheartened but also relieved. 
The shelf is littered with various bottles and half-used medical supplies. One in particular, an orange prescription, catches his attention. He takes it and looks over the label. The phrase SLEEP-X stares back at him. He grips the bottle tightly against his chest. 
	“This is probably the easiest way, right? Sleeping forever sounds easy enough.”
	He takes a small white tablet between his fingers and twirls it thoughtfully. He thinks of his mom, of reaching out and latching onto something real. Of being held and soothed the way only she knew how. Knew. Past tense. Dammit...He clenches his fist around the little white pill until it digs into his palm “How many do I need...to see you again?”
	And without much thought, he shakes a few tablets into his hand and swallows them dry. This is so gross. But it’s simple, and painless...He shakes the bottle again, but nothing comes out. Panicking, he shakes it harder, as if the force could somehow manifest more pills. But it doesn’t, and he swallows past the scratchy lump in his throat and shakily slides down the wall, only getting about halfway down before crumbling onto the cold tile floor.
“Is this even the right decision?” he mutters to himself. But then a pair of shadowy hands reach in front of his face, and he collapses into darkness.