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one.
He is not a corpse, but in his dreams, Nathaniel rots all the same.
He doesn’t remember when it started; his memory full of blank spots and fractures – he only knows that it has been going on for a long time and it doesn’t seem like it will stop. He would like to think that he has come to terms with it; that the nightmares are something he has gotten used to; the terror fading and withering away. But the truth is an ugly, deformed thing – Nathaniel always wakes up with a scream dying in his throat, paralyzed from the phantom feeling of a sharp blade against his skin.
It’s a secret of sorts – one he holds close to his heart and guards with all his will. When it's late at night, and the dark seeps through the space under his door, crawling to him with a screech of the floorboards, he thinks about telling someone. It’s a ridiculous idea, one he entertains just because it'll never happen – the mere sight of his dad causes the spot near his collarbone to itch, and the thought of confiding in his mom offers no real comfort; her dulled eyes fresh in his mind. Instead, he settles for the lamp on his nightstand; the weak light climbing up the walls as soon as he surges towards it, afraid to open his eyes and see his nightmares as real and alive as they are in his imagination.
His days are full of carefully planned steps and hours spent being as quiet as he can; his nights consist of stifling the urge to gasp for air and staring at the blurry outlines of his wooden furniture – so silent and still that he barely feels human. It is terribly consuming.
He doesn’t dare hope for anything else.
two.
Is he bleeding? A sharp pain in his chest vibrates through his body, slowly migrating to his shoulder and then the side of his stomach. He should get up– get up, run, and don’t look back, but his muscles shudder violently, damning him to stay still. Taunts echo through the air as the red spills onto the mattress and then onto the floor, crawling further and further away– Alex’s eyes snap open.
He frantically searches for any open wound, but finds only a myriad of old, healed scars. His head clears a little; enough for the reality to sink in – the blurry details of a filthy motel room coming into focus. Alex shuts his eyes and counts his heartbeats; feels the weight of another person pressed against his back; the comforting shape of a gun under his pillow – but none of it seem to help settle his quick pulse.
He wishes he could turn on the old, rusty lamp to his side, but he won’t risk his mother waking up. He looks around, desperate for any kind of distraction, his eyes catching on the ruined desk, then an old wardrobe, the chair missing a leg. They all are worn down from use, so he focuses on their scratches, chipped pieces; occupies his mind with spinning stories of how they got them; one more outlandish than the other. Every time the dream-born claws try to drag him back, he thinks about the dull ache still lingering in his mind; about how it’s nothing compared to the real thing – the one that surges through his veins and pollutes his lungs.
Alex takes a deep breath, just to prove to himself that he can, and stifles the repulsive want to be something more.
three.
The locker room is dark and empty as Neil shoots up from the hard bench in the middle. For a split second, all he can smell is the suffocating burn of smoke swirling in the air; the fire bright and hot on his skin, even as he stands several feet away. The sound of dried blood ripping off the seat pulses through him, and he can almost hear the waves roaring, feel the ghost of fingernails digging into his skin; the promise he made settling in his gut.
And then, the rush of guilt crashes into him, nearly sweeping him off his feet. Memories morph into sharp edges and the taste of death; panic wrapping its hands around his throat again and again, until he can swear the whispers in his ears belong to his mother. She scolds and criticizes him, fading in and out of existence, like a ghost with nowhere to haunt. He tries to respond; claws at his skin, trying to pull the letters out of his mouth, throw them out in the world, but it is a pointless endeavor; one that leaves him with red lines above his collarbone and a hollow heart.
It takes a long time for Neil to get the proper amount of air to his lungs, the phantom sensations dispersing as his mind clears. He slumps to the floor – sand merging into worn-down tiles – with his back against the bench and burrows his head between his knees. He gives the ugliness swarming inside him the satisfaction of acknowledging the fact that staying in Millport is a mistake, but he is quick to remind it that he was aware of that from the very beginning. Long before the nightmares started to intertwine with his mother’s death, trying to gauge him into leaving. He reminds it that he finally has something more than the fire burning through his body – turning him into ash – and that he is not ready to give that up.
He probably never will be, even when his past eventually sneaks up on him and he'll be as good as dead. But then again, it may make no difference – he always felt it was too late very early in his life.
+one
Being real is very odd, Neil thinks as he sits on the floor of his dorm; the Foxes shoving couches out of the way and creating make-shift beds from blankets. It is almost deathly quiet, but there are no monsters hiding in the creaks between the floorboards or lingering in the corners – Neil knows, because he watched them die two days ago. He hadn’t slept much since, and he isn’t really sure what to expect. It seems pointless to try to predict what kind of amalgamation his mind will assemble, but his thoughts drift towards it anyway.
Maybe he will dream about the moment his father’s body fell to the ground; blood spattered on his shirt, violent redness against white fabric; two bullet holes in his chest. Or, he will get tossed into a world in which his uncle kicks the door open a little too late, and Neil is found as a broken pile of bones and sawed-off parts. Perhaps his nightmares will shift and mold together, stealing bits and pieces from various nooks of his mind, spreading like a disease.
It should be terrifying, but at the moment terror seems like a far-away thing; its remains trickling through the cracks of his bones, hiding away in their nooks. Neil searches for the familiar throb of urgency, but finds only a dull ache; as if he left the root of his fear in that dark basement, next to the ghost of his father. It sounds like an immature hope, a wishful prayer; it tastes like something an awful lot sweeter.
And as he lies down in the centre of the room – the Foxes scattered around in a semi-circle shape – there's no rushing blood roaring in his ears and no claws reaching for him from the shadows. There is only the sound of quiet breathing, the warm hue seeping in through the window, and the sure promise of tomorrow. It's addicting. He studies Andrew's face, and when sleep begins to creep up on him, turning his mind sluggish, he doesn't fight it.
In his dreams, Neil stops burning.