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For as long as Alex can remember, he could never shake the feeling of being watched. Logically, he knows when he looks over his shoulder he will see nothing. If he moves too fast he will see something out of the corner of his eyes because your mind loves to play tricks on you.
No matter how deep rooted the feeling was beneath his skin, he knows it’s not there no matter what is screaming at him that something is there, he doesn’t know what.
That’s why when the feeling begins to persist again, he ignores it. He has better things to feed into what’s screaming at him.
Alex is standing by Seth as he’s adjusting the cameras, small talk. It’s a nice angle and his eyes scan the screen, there’s a tall tree in the right-hand corner and he swears he sees something move.
He pushes his glasses back against the bridge of his nose, he cranes his neck. Alex’s eyes focus after a moment, it’s a dark silhouette next to the tree and It feels like something seizes his heart, squeezing it. It’s tall, unnaturally so, at a Glance, it could be mistaken for a person, the proportions are off, limbs too long dangling, no distinguishable features, he blinks once, twice, and suddenly it’s gone.
“Alex?” Seth’s voice snaps Alex from his train of thought, static, voice crackles. He stiffens when a hand is placed on his back.
“What, sorry?” Alex brushes his hand over his temples.
“Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Seth squeezes Alex’s shoulder reassuringly.
“Were you recording?” Alex questions, brushing off Seth’s prior question.
Seth squints, clicking on the top of the camera. “Yeah, why?”
“Can you rewind the video?” Alex leans over Seth’s shoulder when he gives a slight nod.
“Heel, boy,” Alex says, he tugs lightly on Rocky’s leash and the dog comes to a halt, dropping onto his behind, he stares upwards, tongue sticking out his mouth.
The streetlights illuminate the concrete as they walk. “you ready to head home?” Rocky barks in response and Alex takes that as a yes, turning on his heels, something catches his eye and Rocky jumps at the same time.
It could be a coincidence or it could mean Rocky also saw it and Alex wasn’t seeing things. He doesn’t know whether or not he likes either option.
A low growl emits from deep within Rocky’s throat causing Alex’s stomach to flip, he watches as his ears flatten against his head, backing away and his back arches as his flattening tail, slots between his legs. Crouching the way he does when he’s scared.
Alex tugs Rocky’s leash, turning on the heel of his feet.
There must be a logical explanation for everything, he’s been stressed. He just needs some sleep, yeah, that’s it.
Alex’s fingers peel back the lace curtains, and he opens the blinds, peeking outside as if he expects to see something different. He knows what he’s gonna see.
Even if he ignores it, it’s still there. It’s always there in the stillness, the darkness, watching and waiting.
These were only things you saw when you were a child, Alex never saw anything. At least, he doesn’t think so. But the breathing on the back of his neck was thick, the eyes boring into him were noticeable even if there was no proof of it.
What does it want from him? Did he disturb it? He doesn’t think he’s done anything to disturb it—whatever it is. If it is anything he is seeing something that’s there.
Dread pools in his stomach, he doesn’t think it wants anything good, he closes the blinds, a hand is on his back and he jumps.
“What are you looking at?” Amy presses, her fingers tracing shapes into her back, she brushes past him, opening the curtains, and nothing.
“You worry too much,” she says, watching as Alex removes his glasses, and rubbing his eyes.
Amy doesn’t see it, it’s not there.
That’s what Alex tells himself, at least. A steady mantra to try and ease his racing mind.
It’s the filming area, it has to be.
“I’m canceling filming,” Alex says, his hands pressed together and short bitten nails, dig into his palms that are slick with sweat.
“Why? You’ve been working on it for years, you shouldn’t let yourself be discouraged.” Amy’s reasoning is fair enough but he would have to explain to her why he is not discouraged he just wants things to go back to normal and he thinks if he stops filming it will be fine.
Amy’s hands are cool to the touch as she pulls his hands apart, they instinctively want to coil back but she laces her fingers into his and he squeezes, and she frowns.
Alex pushes the door open, guiding Rocky to follow him out the front door, leash around his wrist, he steps outside and the smell is foul.
Tufts of hair—or fur, he isn’t sure what it is—or what it was. Tufts of fur—or whatever it was strewn around everywhere, it’s mangled but it’s certainly an animal.
Rocky’s head lowers to sniff, and Alex tugs his leash back. Bile rising in the back of his throat, waves of nausea rocking further up his constricting throat, his stomach flips.
It wasn’t even the first time it’s happened, he hasn’t said anything to Amy. He thinks he’s gonna be sick, so he slams the door behind him, unhooking Rocky.
Was it supposed to be a message of sorts? A warning? He’d backed off, he hadn’t meant to encroach on whatever it was.
Alex stops leaving the house, he doesn’t let Rocky go outside without his or Amy’s supervision. Because whatever was leaving those carcasses outside wouldn’t think twice about mangling his beloved dog and he won’t be taking the chance.
Peering outside through the blinds, Alex’s eyes focus on the figure, looming outside the window and his heart rate picks up, he feels it thumping against his chest wildly, hitting his ribcage.
There’s a white, hot ache forming in the back of his head, filling in the cavity of his skull, his eyes going unfocused, watering, burning and his eyes screwed shut, he swears he hears cracking, bone digging into his skin.
He thinks, if it had eyes, it’d be staring right back at him.
“What’s bothering you?” Amy whispers, her voice is low, it’s a voice only reserved for the both of them, alone. Her palm is pressed to the front of his chest, feeling the wild thumping of his heart, her other hand on his back.
“Breathe,” she commands, her voice is still soft, but nonetheless he is supposed to do it. Alex’s eyes screw shut, she feels his breathing beginning to even out.
“What’s gotten you so worked up?” Amy asks, she’s been asking the same question so often and Alex can’t seem to find an answer to them and he hates himself for it.
It’s driving him insane, the quiet, the static rattling his bones, his head feeling like it’s gonna crack open. How can he explain that? How will she look at him if he does? He thinks he is sick like his father claimed.
He thinks maybe he needs to pray, but he doesn’t think any church in their right mind would accept him.
Alex shudders, beads of cold sweat dripping down his forehead, and any words he wants to say die in his throat. His skin is clammy, Amy’s hand rubs circles into his back and he feels a soft sigh escape her lips.
He’s sick, he thinks he’s sick.
Alex stumbles into the bathroom, his stomach flipping, he tastes the bile in his mouth, ichor seeping from his veins, his knees dig into the grout of the bathroom floor, the fluorescent lights, burning his eyes, they’re watering now but he doesn’t notice when they go unfocused, he gags, shoulders heaving.
It’s from stress, it’s from stress. He’s made himself ill from stress before, that was the correct explanation, it has to be.
Alex’s mouth waters, it feels like cotton. He retches into the toilet, the water of the basin is clear, he stares at his reflection in it, disheveled hair, eyes unfocused, he heaves whatever sickness seeping from his lips, poison on his tongue, it’s putrid, and no matter how hard his body desperately tried to expel it, it’s still there.
Alex swallows, his knuckles turning white from the sheer force of his grip on the porcelain, he thinks if his hands weren’t trembling maybe it’d shatter. His shoulders haunched over, hair spilling over his eyes.
“Alex?” Amy’s knelt beside him now, and Alex slumped into her.
“What’s wrong?” She inquires, her fingers tracing Alex’s back.
“Stress,” Alex breathes out, he thinks he can taste the poison on his breath. He’s sick, it’s making him sick. No, he’s made himself sick, he’s done it before. “Stress,” he repeats, he believes it.
“You need to some stressing yourself out so much,” Amy’s voice is stern, her fingers combing sweat-slick hair away from Alex’s forehead. “This isn’t healthy.”
His lungs aren’t able to inhale as much air as they used to be, he exhales, he tastes smoke, he coughs and coughs, lungs desperate for air to fill them, blood splatters against the sink. Staining the beautiful porcelain red, he cuts the water on, the faucet pounding on the basin, the hiss of the water is too loud, and his vision blurs.
Alex doesn’t know whether he’s happy or not, he doesn’t think the words can convey the mess that is seeping through his head. There’s tapping on the window, footsteps behind him, and hot breath on his neck, he doesn’t dare turn.
His hands tremble, and his mouth goes dry. He’s attempted to fix everything, he’s sleeping, he’s eating, he’s drinking lots of water. He doesn’t think that will stop the coughing fits but it’s worth a shot.
Illness by stress doesn’t cause you to hack up a lung. Alex has gotten his eyes checked, his prescription is up to date. He’s seeing perfectly fine, it’s always lurking, always there.
He wants to laugh or cry. Or something in between, real, it’s real, he’s not crazy. He’d spent hours attempting to convince himself it wasn’t there, he just saw shadows at an angle, it was some wild animals that were leaving the carcasses on the front porch.
But he sees it, it sees him. He doesn’t like how it acknowledges him, acknowledging that it exists, it exists. It’s as real as him. Something bubbles in Alex’s throat.
Alex’s fingers dig into his hair, into his scalp. Scrambling to keep it from splitting, he swears it’s gonna split, he feels something sticky spilling on his hands and he tastes something metallic.
Amy’s fingers cup Alex’s face, bringing him closer to hers, her fingers smooth the strands of hair that curl around his face, and her thumb traces his bottom lip.
Instinctively, Alex leans into Amy’s touch, he shouldn’t he really shouldn’t. He doesn’t know how it spreads, it spreads by being around each other he thinks.
Amy’s lips are against his, Alex’s hands slack against Amy, his fingers reverently stroking whatever he can touch, he shouldn’t, her lips are soft, the taste of something sweet, his are chapped, ichor on them.
He used to take better care of himself and The comment Amy makes isn’t lost on him, not out of anything but concern.
Can she taste the poison? Does she feel it gnawing at her insides the way he does, does it leave a layer on her tongue that she can’t brush away, does her skin burn when his hands brush against her?
He doesn’t realize when he’s breathing heavily, Amy’s words not registering through the static rattling in his head.
Alex exhales shakily, Amy’s hands pressing against his back, she touches him so gently that she just needs to get as far away as possible. He can practically see the rot taking hold, his heart thuds against his chest.
“In,” Amy directs, her palms against Alex’s back still. “Out,”
Alex does so, it doesn’t help but he doesn’t resist. If he did, he’d have to explain why breathing wouldn’t work, why his lungs are tight, full of smoke and he can taste the rot on his tongue, everything in the back of his throat collapsing.
Amy’s hands are in his, he’s squeezing hard. Her thumbs brushed circles into his palms.
Alex was sick, nature would be taking its course. It’s contagious, it’s terminal. He has to do something, it’s taken root and he thinks it’s bleeding into his head.
He can’t let it sink its claws into any of them, he caused it so he would finish it. If he was only him, he thinks he’d staunch the spread still, he’d take a mixture of something.
It’s sickening, nausea dying in the back of his throat. He’d seen it replayed over and over again. It knows what it’s doing, it knows what it’s going to do.
Alex’s hands are slick with blood that hasn’t even been drawn, he doesn’t know if it’s his or not. He thinks he hears cracking. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.
Something clanks on the floor, he stumbles off of someone, he doesn’t know. His hands are soaked in blood and he prays it’s his own but he knows it isn’t.
He wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping, all sound dying in his throat besides strangled noises. Untangling himself from the sheets he tries to wrench himself from a firm grip, it’s just Amy.
Alex isn’t able to look at knives straight anymore, his grip goes slack, his hands slick, and he slices his hand, blood pooling around the wound. All he sees is red.
Golden hair spills over on Amy’s shoulder, she’s slack against his chest. His eyes unfocusing as he stares at her, he feels his arms stinging, angry red marks, and crescents pressed into his skin but when he looks he sees nothing.
She’s not breathing. She’s not breathing. She’s not breathing.
Alex’s hands clench around the sheets, fingers digging into them. If it were his palms, he’d draw blood. Amy is pressing against him, it’s become a new normal.
He shudders, next thing he knows, she’s in front of him. Something wet and cold is pressed against his burning face, it’s a wet rag, Amy’s whispering something soothing he can’t quite make out, his face is red and blotchy from crying.
The tears always creep up on him with no warning, his eyes unable to focus as tears prick at the corners of his eyes, watering and burning unbearably and his eyes slam shut. Only serving to make them trickle down his face faster, the sob dies in his throat.
Amy’s expression is concerned, her brows furrowed, lip pulled back as she examines him. She’s always so patient and Alex doesn’t remember the last time he was that patient.
Alex catches movement from the corner of his eyes and his glasses are removed and placed on the nightstand as the rag is swiped underneath his eyes, cool and soothing.
“You need to go to a doctor, Alex,” Amy’s voice is soft but firm, she insists.
“You can’t keep doing this…” her voice trails off and Alex has difficulty reminding himself to breathe.
Doesn’t she think if that would work, he would’ve done it? How does he explain it’s not an ailment that a visit to the doctor can aid? The doctor can’t reverse the rot, it can’t pull the ichor from his veins.
He hasn’t cried this hard since he was a child, at the pews, nails digging into his palms, knees into the hard floor as he prays for something to finally soften his father’s heart.
Alex can’t save himself, but he can save them. He finds himself praying into Amy’s still chest, the stinging indents of her nails in his skin, he hopes it doesn’t leave his skin so he doesn’t forget her.