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The first time he'd gagged and rushed to the toilet, he'd kept his eyes screwed shut until he realized, whatever shit HABIT had done to him, this was another one of the freaky fucking-with-your-mind, did-it-happen-or-didn't-it things, because, fuck, there are a lot of things Evan thinks (thought) he could handle, but he knows, knows so deep it tugs at his gut and fucking hurts, seeing the half-digested remains of the baby, his baby, their baby (God, Steph) is something he knows he won't be able to handle. Dry-heaving into the toilet for upwards of an hour hurts like a bitch and he's near hysterical by the time he breaks his white-knuckled grip on the ceramic toilet rim and slumps down, the vinyl floor cool against his cheek, but at least he didn't have to see that. At least - fuck it. Fuck it. He's not thanking that son-of-a-bitch for anything.
He's so hungry he's ready to scream, but he can't hold anything down, can't even look at food, and the one day Vinnie makes hamburgers the smell of the gray-pink matter sizzling on the griddle sent him lurching towards the bathroom.
It's HABIT's gift to him, he thinks, bitter, head under the faucet, water streaming over his face, trickling into his mouth and washing away the taste of bile, clogging his nose, making him snort and cough. His head is his again, marginally, but HABIT's still tangled in the pit of his stomach.
His head is filled with things he only half-remembers and wishes he didn't; Jeff's screams and Steph's raw, jagged sobs, and others, fuck, he doesn't even know their names but he remembers the feel of their necks snapping in his grasp and their panicked thrashing, and blood, so much blood he's fucking drowning in it, and it was Evan's hands on the knives, on the saws, on Jeff's skin, on the downy hair of his baby girl's head, and she's covered in her mama's blood.
HABIT fucking loved it, wrist-deep in entrails and someone screaming and squirming beneath his hands, and it wasn't him in his head but it was still his fuckin body that felt it, and the enjoyment makes him sick; fucking chemicals, endorphins and shit, he knows, but it don't stop him from wanting to rip his own hide off and scour down raw muscle and nerves to get the sense-memory out from under his skin.
He uses up all Vinny's hot water, spends half an hour or more with the water turned as hot as he can stand it, scrubbing at his skin until he's blotchy and wrinkled, scrapes non-existent filth from beneath his nails, the creases on his palms, the red that flakes off when he drags his fingernails over the nape of his neck. The water grows cold and he's shivering, shoulders hunched, wet strands of hair plastered to his skull, water dripping into his eyes, and he thinks it should be red trickling down the bridge of his nose, bitter clots sliding across his lips, but it's just soap, so he spits it out and watches it slip down the drain.
He watches television. He finds push-pops in the freezer and sucks on a cherry one until the corners of his mouth are chafed raw by the plastic. He wakes up four times during the night with the cloying, acrid stench of charred human flesh so fresh in his memory he can taste it.
He spaces out, losing anywhere from ten minutes to an hour each time. And every time it happens he's left terrified that HABIT's used him again, slipped him on like a suit off the rack, shoved him so far down in his own head he wasn't even aware of it, doesn't remember, not like last time, not like blood on the floorboards and kitchen knives and exposed ribs, and if Vinny's gone, he's alone. There's him, and he's broken, and there's HABIT, who's broke him. And if Vinny's gone, that's all there is, because he can't fuckin die. He remembers choking on the blood and the laughter bubbling up his throat and spilling out his mouth, because he knows (thinks) he's going to die, and it fuckin hurts, but the pain is only almost as bad as when he remembered what he'd done, and he's going to die, and --
He's whole again.
He's on the couch in Vinny's basement, and his heart is pounding like it's trying to fragment his rib cage. He slides one hand over his stomach and swallows against the sickness shoving up his throat. His body doesn't ache like he's run a marathon, his stomach is still twinging with hunger pains, and there's no blood. Nothing's happened. Nothing's different. And that's a stupid way to reassure himself, because Evan knows (has a shiny pink scar on his abdomen as proof ) -- nothing ever changes.