Chapter Text
Ever since he was young, he’d known about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. How could he not when all he could hear was people echoing those words as they passed him, whispering them into ears, and looking at him with such pity in their eyes. “He was a good man,” they’d all say. Somehow, even at a young age, he knew enough to doubt that. Good men would not leave their family; the surprisingly bitter thought would invade his thoughts. Even as he sat in the soft plush chairs watching his mother accept the folded flag, tears streaming down her face as the last cry of the bugle fell silent. He’d been too young, people had said, to understand what had happened. He understood perfectly.
They didn’t move. His mother had no desire to move. After all, if they moved, how would his father locate them? He wondered, sometimes, if his mother was the one who didn’t understand. It took him a while to understand the effects of the disorder, however, he had the most interactive learning experience ever. After all, he learned each time he had to turn his few friends away, telling them he was sick because his mother would burst into tears at the thought of him being away. He learned with every bottle he watched disappear from the fridge, and every phone call, letter and family friend his mother turned away. For a short while, he’d had to stay with his uncle, out in the country, and returned only about a week before school started. He’d been told his mother was better, but really, she was just better at hiding it.
Part of him had wondered if this was his father’s last ‘gift’ to the family. An equally bitter part of him wondered what right his mother had to when he was the one who had… He tried not to think about that day, actually, even when he was older and on the cusp of adulthood. He had refused to speak about it, not to his mother, or his uncle, or the therapist his uncle had bullied his mother into sending him to. He buried it deep under his bitterness and anger, hiding that under sarcasm and aloofness, and hiding that under humor and amusement. He hid everything under silence when the family brought it up, or when he came home to his mother’s tear stained face and empty bottles.
Friends, once he’d remade some, were easier to deal with than family—the people who’d talk in whispers, passing around pitying looks whenever someone would even mention their names. “Oh? My father? He never made it home, KIA, you know?” As a teen and an adult, He’d lie through his teeth, and accept the quiet condolences that followed. He’d shrug those condolences off, ignoring how toxic they felt to hear considering that he knew the truth. “Oh, don’t be sorry… It happened a long time ago.”
But not long ago enough for his mother to recover, even as he recovered enough to stop attending therapy. She kept sinking deeper and deeper into her own hole of denial. She kept a room in the back of the house. The room his father had used when he was concerned about keeping her awake at night. It was full of photobooks, which were full of photos, especially those of his childhood. After all, when his father came home, he’d want to see all these memories of his little boy’s childhood, especially since he hadn’t been there in person. He’d watch his mother from the doorframe as she’d fill up the books, or as she’d sob on the neatly made uniform laying on the bed. As he grew older, he stopped watching her, instead just opting to close the door to give his mother the privacy she’d want. He’d shut the door, but never open it. No, he’d never open that door.
As a child, his therapist told his mother that he suffered from PTSD himself. He’d overheard the conversation between his therapist, and mother. Had watched as his mother had broken into tears, almost feeling like he wasn’t actually there, watching this. He felt disjointed, separated from the world, like he was just watching it pass by, learning as he went. “The traumatic experience of finding his father…” He’d pulled back at those words, feeling betrayed by himself as he was pulled back to the day. The creak of the wood as the rope swung in a slow circle like a pendulum around the overturned chair echoing in his ears, the image burned into his eyelids.
He’d closed himself off to most people, choosing to throw himself into school, into some sort of escape for the guilt. The guilt that he hadn’t been the son that his father had wanted. Hadn’t been enough to keep his father alive, and present with his family. The guilt that he hadn’t been able to keep his mother safe, and sane. The guilt that he was just as messed up as the rest of his family.
He was familiar with guilt. One could say they were close friends. Even closer than his first real friend. He’d been sitting in the front of the classroom, trying to prove that he was worth the pity the school had shown his mother when they let him in. Trying to throw himself into studies and school, and then some idiot in the back of the room was picking on a female with a training bra. Boom, butterfly effect. Next thing he knew, he was sitting next to a kid with too big green eyes that gleamed in the florescent lights and a big toothy grin. “Thank heavens, I was afraid I wasn’t gonna learn a thing with that idiot distracting me!” The boy with green eyes laughed, and shook his head. For the first time since before the incident, he smiled. “I’m Josh!”
As a teen, he’d discovered the joys of the digital age. Phones were his poison of choice. His mother might have preferred to forget through the use of alcohol, but him? He preferred to lose himself to the small digital screen in his hands. Interacting too difficult? No problem. All he had to do was go find Josh, gently bump his shoulder against his, pull out his phone and launch his latest app of choice. Josh would let him know if he was needed, or if someone asked a question, or if there was something going on that he needed to be present- both physically and mentally- for.
Sometimes, he thought Josh knew what was going on. He’d look up from his phone occasionally to see Josh shooting him fugitive looks. He knew that Josh had walked into his house to see one of his mother’s episodes, at least once, and had overheard some of those episodes over the phone more times than he was comfortable with. He’d explained some of it away, keeping as close to the truth as he could manage while still clinging to his own security blanket of a lie. “She… doesn’t believe my father is KIA.” The look Josh gave him told him that Josh thought the excuse was bull, but Josh never called him out on it. Nor did Josh hold it against him when he’d call out of activities because his mother wouldn’t be able to handle his absence.
Now, years later, he thinks he finally truly understands PTSD, even as he makes amends with his old friend, guilt. He thinks he can understand what his father went through, and the choices that had been made. How could he not understand when everytime he passed by his ‘father’s room’ he thought about the rope that was wrapped up in the drawer in the desk, or the multitude of guns and weapons that were displayed on the wall, the boxes of ammo under the bed. His mother had caught him looking at one, his father’s old pistol, and had promptly fallen into a fit of tears.
The wooden floor of his childhood home haunted him, reminded him with every step of the lodge. He felt like he couldn’t escape it. Escape the creatures lurking in his mind and the mountain. He’d lay in his bed, holding absolutely still. He couldn’t sleep until the first ray of light shined through his window, casting light into the shadows of his room, chasing the creatures under his bed and into his closet. They only hunted at night, and they couldn’t see him if he stayed absolutely still. It was only safe to sleep during the day when they crawled away, under his bed, into his closet, deep into the mines and caverns and broken down sheds where he’d left his best friend. During the night they’d scream into his face, trying to get him to move, to react, to make a single noise so they could find him and rip him into shreds, their sharp claws finding purchase in the softness of his organs, cracking and breaking his bones. It was the worst when they’d imitate Josh’s voice, like they had imitated Jessica’s in the mines. Those were always the hardest nights, the nights where he’d leave once morning hit and go to that room and stare at his options and wonder if he had the guts to make the choice his father had.
His mother had barely survived the first time, when he’d come back from the mountain. But she’d endured. The first, the second, the third… and so on and so on, until she no longer cried when he left for winter break because she knew that Josh would bring him back. It’d taken Hannah and Beth going missing for her to break back down, sobbing into his arms, as he bitterly wished it was the other way around. The second time, had gone exactly the same as the year before; only this time, he was taken to a therapist. Although, the shining moment came when his therapist once again informed his mother that he was suffering from PTSD, she didn’t break down as she had before, just had nodded and let a few tears slip down her defined cheek. She’d started off asking about treatment options and he had to look away again, except, it wasn’t because of the memories but because he thought he saw a shadow on the ceiling move, beside the fact it was daytime. His only restriction on the therapy sessions was that there were no evening sessions.
“Tell me what’s on your mind today, Christopher.” Despite his only restriction being no evening sessions, it didn’t mean he was entirely open to the idea. Therapy hadn’t helped him when he was younger, hadn’t helped his mother, or his father, or… Josh. So every session he’d purse his lips, and look down at his hands. He wished he had a phone, but it wasn’t allowed. Something about it being a security blanket for him. But no, the security blanket was his lie and Josh. Josh who had looked after him, even though it was Josh who actually needed someone looking after him.
“Tell me about your friends, Christopher.” He curled his fists, thinking first of Mike, and the punch he’d given him when he’d learned that Mike had been the one who had left Josh in the mines. Sam had left them both, and then Mike had left Josh. And Josh… Josh was on his own, in the mines that had murdered his sisters. In the mines where nightmares were very real and longed for nothing more than to rip the flesh off his bones. The mines that Emily, of all people, had escaped. That Jessica, poor broken Jessica, had escaped from. That Matt had escaped from. Yet Mike had only been able to save himself. He was half the man that Matt was, who had been able to rescue Jessica besides himself. Had escaped the same monster that Mike had escaped from. No, he didn’t want to talk about his friends. He didn’t want to think about them. It was bad enough that Ashley stopped by once a day to talk with him, and to keep him updated on his friends since he refused to answer their texts or calls.
He'd lost contact with most of his friends like the teams that the Washingtons had hired to find Josh’s body in the mines had lost contact with the world. The first team, and the second team. The third team hadn’t lost contact, had returned with reports of nothing. He doubted that they had actually gone into the mines at all. After all, one didn’t simply walk into the mines of that mountain and return unscathed. The fact that the first two teams had all but vanished told him that the monsters were still there. Those monsters were still up there, and Josh was still up there, and he had left Josh to them.
He owed the Washingtons for keeping him in the loop about the search for his friend, but even still, he hated them for it. Hated them because they made it so much easier for him to hate himself.
He hated that he was a coward. He hated that he couldn’t go back to the mountain and find his friend. That he couldn’t be the friend that Josh had been to him. It’d been the third report that had finally tipped the scales. He couldn’t do this anymore. His hands shook as he put the notice and letter back down on the table. His mind raced. He could take after his father… there was still rope in the room. He shook his head, no, that wasn’t punishment enough. Using one of his father’s weapons wasn’t an option either. No, he’d take bits and pieces. His father’s choice. His mother’s poison. Josh’s final resting place. It was him, in the mines, with the bottle of whiskey. It was perfect.
His friends would miss him, but they’d gotten over Hannah, Beth and Josh’s deaths so well, he was sure they would manage to get over his just as quickly. His mother… he worried about. But Sam and Ashley would take care of her, and if they were to fail, his father’s brother would. He nodded to himself, took a deep breath and grabbed his car keys, heading out the door. He felt like he was sitting in the driver’s seat for hours before he finally started the car and pulled out towards the bus station.
It took far too long for him to get to the mountain. He was certain that by now his mother was calling his friends, trying to locate where he was. Too bad he was already over the border, and he was legally an adult. There was nothing she could do. Still, the trip allowed him his thoughts. He’d at least had the foresight to bring along some cash, enough to buy a few bottles of Josh’s favorite whiskey. He’d smuggled them into the bus in his jackets and layers, and getting off the bus, was a nervous breakdown waiting to happen.
The first bottle of whiskey warmed his body as he stared up at the gate that read “Blackwood Pines.” The bus had left hours ago, and really, he was past the stage of having second thoughts. His phone had already been silenced, and had been left on the bus, so he wouldn’t have a chance to be a coward. That’d keep people off his trail long enough for him to do what had to be done. He took another swig of liquid courage, and then finally started up the path that led to the cable car station. The snow down by the road had been ruined. Ruined by footprints of dogs and men as they searched for Josh. Ruined by police and his friends. Now it was being ruined by his own footsteps as he traced the path to the station. He felt like he was being pulled forward, his strings being tugged up onto the mountain.
He stopped at the station door, frowning at it. Josh had asked for them to keep the door locked. How was he going to get up there if the door was locked? He pursed his lips, and tried the door anyways. The knob turned easily under his hand, and he wanted to scream at it. Josh had wanted the door locked! He slammed the door shut as he entered, and locked it. He’d come up to the mountain enough times to know how to start the cable car, and within no time, he was finishing up his bottle, lazing out on the bench of the car as it brought him closer and closer to Josh.
He was pretty sure most of the bottle ended up on the floor of the car, but he ignored that, and instead exited the car. All around him was evidence of Josh’s prank. The ruined station was a nice touch, he had to admit. He spun around, splashing alcohol on the floor, ignoring the soft clink of the bottle when it hit the ground, spilling out. The liquid spread over the floor, falling off the edge into the depths below. Much like his sobriety. Maybe his mother was onto something when she’d chosen her poison of choice. He watched it drip down into the abyss below. Where ever Josh’s body was, perhaps the alcohol was finding it. It was Josh’s favorite brand, after all. He started laughing, and kept laughing and laughing until his laughter turned to sobs.
He’d come up here for a reason, a very specific reason. To find closure. His own special little salvation in his own destruction. He needed to find Josh. Coward, his mind hissed at him. He wouldn’t come up here without getting shit faced drunk first. He was too scared to find the truth. But that wasn’t true. He didn’t want to find Josh, he wanted to suffer. He wanted to stumble around in the darkness. He wanted the creatures to end him, like they had ended Josh. It was what he deserved. For trusting Mike, for not going back for his best friend. He deserved to be dragged into the mines, to be ripped apart by the monsters. He’d rather be torn apart out here anyways, where no one could find him, than in his house, where his father’s monsters had torn his family to pieces.
He had always been told that he looked like his father. Guess the apple truly did not fall far from the tree. He sob laughed as he spun around, and put his hands on the railing, looking out at the endless landscape of the mountain range. What a beautiful place to die. He laughed again, spinning around as he pushed away from the rail, stumbling over to the door and out of the station, falling into the icy snow. The cold seeped in through his layers, and cooled the fire of the whiskey within. He laid there for a few moments, the memory of Josh joking about him making snow angels with Ashley randomly appearing in his head. He’d been a coward then too. He had agreed, but really, he’d been too much of a coward to tell Josh that he’d rather make snow angels with Josh instead.
It was too late now. Josh was gone, gone, gone. He was gone long before. His bright green eyes were too glassy and wise as he asked if they were ordering pizza. His chest felt tight and he sat up, suddenly feeling far too sober. He stumbled back to the station, into the cable car where he’d left the bottles. He opened up on, grabbing another for the journey and stumbled back out. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the unmistakable screech of one of those creatures. “Come get me!” He screamed back, taking another long swig of the drink. He grinned, and looked up at the starry sky above. “Hey Josh… I think I’m doing something that I would regret if you were here.” The world was spinning when he finally looked back down at the trail, and then he opted to take a step off the trail. And then another, and another, and another until the trail was far behind him. He wasn’t going to the ruined remains of the lodge. No, he was just going to keep walking until the whiskey wore off, the sun rose, he fell off the side of the mountain or the Wendigos dragged him off into the mines.
Despite everything he’d been thinking, the fall was still a shock. One moment his foot was on solid ground, the next, his foot was hitting thin air. His breath was torn from his chest as his stomach jumped up to replace it. He gasped as hit a surface, feeling his arm protest as he rolled over off of it and finding himself falling yet again, sliding down a slippery icy slope. His hands tried to claw the icy rock for purchase, but all he succeeded in was falling over more rock, and then there was a sharp sudden pain to his head and then nothing.