Work Text:
Ted Spankoffski was a rotten man.
Truer words had never been said. Of course, everyone phrased it differently, and the truly polite kept the sentence in their throat, but he knew they believed it. It was hard to believe most things at face value nowadays, but it was a proven fact.
When he looked in the mirror, he faced the evidence. No amount of statistics, percentages, or newspaper articles could argue against that face which was sharp and undeniably demented. Every crease was sickening, every smile wicked and uneasy. His eyes were shattered glass, his tongue splintered bone, hands crooked knitting needles.
No matter how hard he tried to hide it, Ted was vitriolic. Even doing the most simple of activities, like reaching into a shelf to pull out those colored marshmallows he bought for his brother, he oozed malice. God forbid you actually angered the man; if you got out alive, your only rational conclusion would be that you had seen Hades.
Evil. He was evil. Evil was stored in the curves of his knuckles, the balls of his feet, and the steep incline of his nose. It was hard to not be mesmerized by the look of him. He figured no one had ever seen such a madman.
Ted smelled of constant liquor, cigarette smoke, and leather. He held shards of bottles in his hands, not caring for the sting much anymore. It hurt less than it did back then, now that he had time to brace himself. He scratched at the surface of his teeth, making sure they were all still there. He pressed roughly into his ribcage, counting the bones.
No one had touched him for a long time. If someone did, he might die.
When he cried, sometimes he could taste the alcohol burning on his tongue, savagely snipping apart his vocal chords with edged scissors.
It wasn’t supposed to hurt this bad. He wasn’t supposed to stare at women’s lips and taste iron at the back of his throat. He wasn’t supposed to say hello to the new woman at the office and feel a dull pang in his chest, one he remembered all too well.
Thing is, he just wasn’t strong enough to stop doing things he wasn’t supposed to. Perhaps he would die this way, scattered on the ground and burnt like ashes. He couldn’t decide what would be easier - dying alone or dying surrounded by the scent of vanilla and hot chocolate.
Ted would wake up every morning. He would go to the bathroom to purge the remnants of last night from his stomach. He would pick out that same mug, the one with rainbow scribbles on it, and bring it with him to work only to feel embarrassed and hide it away in his desk. Pick out a plain white one from the break room.
He would type away, losing his focus as the hours ticked by. He would watch her move from place to place, maybe even nod at her. Maybe even smile, trying too hard to not scare her.
He would ignore calls, tear apart sticky notes, pull out his hair, scratch at his sheets, and throw bottles at walls forever and ever and ever and ever and ever.
The pain would dull someday. He could no longer hope that someone kind and thoughtful would come along and understand why he was this way. He had tried over and over again to show them why, all of them.
Ted Spankoffski was a rotten, broken, shameful, pathetic, unknowable, horrific man, and he had no choice but to believe it.