Chapter Text
How long has it been?
Martin lost his sense of time when Jane Prentiss had trapped him in his own home. The first few days were not too bad. Yes, the power was, and still is, cut, but it was bearable. He carefully rationed his food for the first few days so hunger wasn't really a problem; but he had underestimated how long he'd be confined in there. Without any power, and the loss of his phone, there was no way he could contact the outside. Still, after all this time, he hoped someone would have realized he hasn't showed up in so long and would check up on him.
Perhaps they did.
Perhaps they did and got infected with… whatever was standing in front of his door right now. Martin had gone through any books and writings he owned twice. Or more. He lost the exact count. He even resorted to reading his old poems, which he would usually cringe at when reading. He was desperate to have any sort of distraction while Prentiss was trapping him there.
It has been impossible to tell how long the days have been. After barricading his window with towels and furniture just in case to keep the worms at bay, (never mind the fact that his flat was on the third story), it was impossible to gauge the time.
He was starting to question his own sanity.
He guessed it was around the third week that he had run out of food. Even those dreaded canned peaches he got sick of eating were now gone. The final scrape at the bottom of the last can of peaches he had been avoiding back then was more soul shattering than he anticipated. With a frustrated grunt, the tin was tossed aside and left to clatter on the ground. Martin slumped to the ground and cried.
Oddly enough, he never heard her trying to break the door down. He wondered if she truly was an empty husk, with no muscles or nerves, so fragile she would just break if she tried forcing the door. Martin does not like how he's starting to keep thinking about her recently. Sometimes, he swears he hears a voice coming from his door. Sometimes a call, other times like a melody being hummed.
Was it the song of the hive she originally referred to in her statement?
He does his best to dive back into the pamphlets he had already read, almost memorizing them by heart by now. But he feels himself getting more and more exhausted. It’s getting harder for him to not fall asleep when he hears her knocking.
This is getting to his brain.
Now all Martin could do was divide the days up as best as he could by his horrid sleep schedule.
Two days later (he assumed), Martin began to write. It distracted him from the pangs of hunger, and god knew that he was desperate to vent. But the more he scribbled down his unfiltered thoughts, the more he realized how pitiful this all was. What was he even doing? He knew he was doomed. So why was he still determined to live... Especially like this? What reason could he possibly have to keep going? Would anyone even miss him?
Before his mind could supply him with a cold "no", something else interrupted his thoughts. Michael. Michael was out there still. Probably in the hospital still, sure, but he was still out there . Martin knew he wasn't a smart man, contrary to his CV, but he was willing to entertain the thought that there was at least one person out there that actually cared about him. When the knocking came again, followed by a gentle hum of a song, Martin forced his mind to wander to him being with his friend again.
He had to make it out.
With a heavy sigh, he tosses his head back to press against the wall and waits for a miracle. Instead, he gets a knock at his door.
Each time this woman knocks, it feels like an echoing headache. How he wished she would just stop-- this is making him insane.
How easy would it be to just..end this if he simply opened the door?
Martin mentally slapped himself when he realized what the hell he just started to ponder about.
There was absolutely no bloody way he'd let that thing in. No way.
At least, not willingly. Martin tried his best to block his ears whenever he heard that dreadful knock again. He tried his best to miserably keep his mind busy ,anything that could, even briefly, make him forget about the monster waiting to pounce on him outside his door.
He started to think about Michael again. How they'd always spend their break time together. Exchanging tips for how to make the best tea. Venting to each other about Gertrude and Jon respectively. Michael was always so sweet. Out of the others,he always felt like he was the best at understanding him. He remembered he even offered him a sweater for his birthday. Said he knitted it himself. He remembers keeping it safe in his wardrobe.
He wondered if he should wear it.
Perhaps that will be his sole source of comfort knowing ultimately how he was going to end. Eaten by worms before he could starve to death, perhaps--
Before his thoughts spiralled any further, Martin decided to get up and splash his face with water.
He wondered what was worse, dying of hunger or by dehydration.
Feeling the cold water did not have the desired effect of keeping his mind mostly awake,he realized how tired he was and decided to go to bed, not caring anymore if it was 3 in the morning or even noon. It's not like it mattered at this point.
With a dejected look on his face,he headed over to his bed and laid down on it.
Martin doesnt remember when he fell asleep.
He felt something slimy squirm on his legs and arms. He started to stir, but an oddly familiar tune kept pulling him in his dream world .
A world where he was not trapped inside his own home.
But the feeling of the growing mass writhing on his limbs grew, and his eyes suddenly shot wide open, his half awake brain suddenly registering the possible danger.
Martin wished he had kept his eyes closed.Or that the sickeningly sweet tune he kept hearing lulled him back to a deeper sleep.
The monster he spent several days,weeks to keep at bay had straddled him. And she was hunched over his face,with her pierced hands cradling his face in a strange softness he never felt before. Not even his own mother would tenderly hold his face like that when he was a child.
Martin doesn't know what he wants to do.
Scream?
His throat felt like it closed on itself.
Struggle?
He can't feel his limbs anymore.
Martin suddenly started to sob,a half choked gasp escaping his throat.
It was pathetic,he knew,but he didn't care anymore. if he was going to die,then he might as well do it humanely.
Tears rolled down his cheeks,and Prentiss brushed a tear away with her thumb.
The sensation of a skin full of holes against his soft, still warm flesh felt entirely too wrong.
"It's all over now. You won't have to be in pain anymore. You had friends, but they've abandoned you. The Hive has pity for you. And so much Love, too."
Her... voice scrapes at his ears. He cries more, his nerves from his limbs probably too damaged from the worms to even feel the pain. He does not dare to look at them.
Instead, he finds himself unable to turn his gaze away from Prentiss's face. Covered in holes.Too many to count. So many.
Worms started pouring down her face.
" You won't ever have to feel alone now. The Hive has so much love for Her children. It sensed the mark of the Lonely within you. Let Her consume you. "
The worms kept falling,and black liquid oozed from her hollow eyes.
Martin started to gag and choke,his throat obstructed and his chest spasming uncontrollably. His survival instincts suddenly started to kick in,and he tried to shake Prentiss off.
But it was way too late for that.
A scream was forced out of him as he felt something dig into his stomach. Well, it would've been a scream, but it came out more of a wet gargle as something tasting of rot and iron pooled in his mouth. He felt it dribble down his mouth, soaking into his now worm-eaten clothes. Jane's pitted hands tilted his face to get a better look at her work. She hummed in admiration, and Martin wished that he didn't find that comforting.
"It always escapes my memory, you know. How disgusting it is to witness someone be embraced by Her love for the first time. How beautiful it is to watch and listen to someone be overwhelmed by their rotten souls."
Martin felt something grubby drag itself across the tear tracks on his face before digging into his cheek.
His skin crawled, and Christ, did it itch. He wished so desperately that he could move, but the most he could do was squirm and writhe in agony.
...Squirm.
Why did that- why did that awful word sit so well with him? Why did it make sense?
"You can feel it now, can't you? The thrum of hundreds of organs and veins within you? They are swarming. Dancing and filling you with a new, diseased purpose. You are horribly broken and imperfect, and so worthy of Her love."
Martin could barely register his body shaking... he wasn't sure if it was actually him doing so or if it was simply the worms inside him, claiming him as their new home.
All he could do was gurgle out a "S-stop, please..." Before choking and spluttering once more.
He cringed as some of the dark liquid splattered across her face due to the proximity. But what was even more disturbing was the fact that Prentiss seemed to be happy about it. "Can you hear their song?" She asked slowly.
His heart stuttered at the question, and Martin was confused by what she meant.
His eyes scanned his attacker wildly, desperate to find anything that would help him understand Jane's cryptic inquisition.
Martin's vision became impaired by dozens of small bodies crawling on and over the lenses of his crooked glasses. He screwed his eyes shut, though he was well aware that his eyelids would do little to save him from this torture.
That's when he encountered a moment of clarity.
Though the rest of his senses were swarmed with discomfort, Martin was able to pinpoint one thing: A beautiful crescendo of buzzing. And it demanded his full attention. It was… beautiful.
Familiar, even.
Martin let himself focus on the song that thrummed within his skull, finding relief in the fact that it almost distracted him from the dull pain. Almost. It was loving and welcoming and... terrifying.
The wriggling harmonized wonderfully with it, and he snapped back into the realization that no, he should not feel loved. He should feel afraid, he should be afraid of- of...
...Afraid of never hearing it again.
But somehow, Martin knew their music wouldn't leave him for a long while. The sound soothed every twitching limb and hammering blood vessel until Martin blearily registered how painfully tired he was. Somewhere in his mind, he heard thousands of sweet voices encouraging him to rest.
As he felt his consciousness finally leave him, he felt those cold hands trail down his arms to gently take his own and squeeze them. His skin writhed beneath her grip. Her question echoed in his mind, and his throat itched to answer. Martin Blackwood uttered out his last word. Much like him, it was simple. Pitiful.
His new friends were delighted to hear it.
"Yes."