Work Text:
George enters the room, dragging his feet behind him. He had a bad high, they were bad drugs. He’ll tell himself that until it is true.
What happened wasn’t because of his brain, his thoughts. No. He was provoked in a time of stress. It was the drugs, the loudness, the people. It was not him.
George drags himself, a body, and the weight. And the blood. And her body. And a cigarette, already half-smoked. His feet make broad, drunken strokes across the cream-tiled floor. He kisses his fingers.
A bath is made, a bath they would take together, they should have. But, he must go alone. She needs to rest now.
George removes the plush mascot head, a mask, and places it on the floor. Forgets about it. It needs to be forgotten or at least remembered in a way that is better for the world. He would return this suit to the thrift store it came from someday, leave it for a birthday party or Time Square beggars. But for now, he will swing his leg over the edge of the bath. It’s too hot, but not enough for him to remove himself. The effort has already been exerted, it’s over.
The angel crooks her head at an odd angle. Has she always been that way? Is she asleep? George gazes at his leg, the colors radiating from it. The color. Red. Red like the angel’s shadow, spreading through the off-white grout. George stands in the too-hot water, nude, drifting away or perhaps already gone.
He lays for hours in the tub, consulting his thoughts, consulting the blood in the water. He does not reach for the soap. His hands scoop lazily, bringing the dirtied water to his lips. And then, his mind was music. He hums, swallowing the disgrace with acceptance. And then, there is a beat, knuckles on the porcelain. And when the words come, they are bitter like metal and sweet like skin. The angel does not listen. She does not sing along. She bleeds, though. She bleeds for him.