Chapter Text
Elk heads decorate the walls, mounted with their beady eyes fixated on Mick. They sneer and laugh at his every move. He can hear hints of their whispers; they sound like the kids at school.
‘Freak’
‘Fag’
‘Sissy’
‘Tard’
Their voices play on repeat as Mick breaks into a run. The air is filled with the stench of rot. It sticks in his sinuses and soft palette.
His feet splash in the gore on the floor, intestines trying to trip him. His socks are soaked. Mick cries and screams with all his heart, yet he knows nobody will hear.
He comes across a dining table with a marble top. There's a bloodied feast set out atop it– a grotesque gourmet. It's all soaked in blood.
Mick picks up a brain labeled ‘Whitetail’ and holds it in his hands. He stares at it, the gelatinous blob of flesh that used to hold a soul inside. It's cold. Mick wishes he could put it back in its rightful place.
He hears a gunshot and flinches so hard he drops the brain. It disappears into the rapidly rising blood at his feet. Mick takes a step back, but something cold and hard presses against him. Head swinging to look, bone-white antlers greet him. They wrap around his body. He can't move. He can't move. He can't fucking move.
The antlers start to poke between his ribs. He hears popping sounds as the points force his ribs to part. Mick’s lungs fill with fluid, and he coughs up more and more blood.
Oh, God.
…
Clawing at his throat, Mick gasps in air. It's like he just got kicked by a horse. His lungs have caved in. Coughing and spitting, he keeps clawing at his throat. Tears are falling freely; he can't be seen.
‘I'll give you something to cry about’
“No,” Mick whimpers. “No, please. Please.” His fingers move on instinct, scratching and scratching and scratching and scratching. He can't stop it. His fingertips are wet; the scent of copper becomes more intense by the second.
Everything about him feels wrong. He's hairy, and big and long– Why isn't he small? When did this happen? Where the fuck is he?
The bed smells unfamiliar; a cloak of darkness conceals his surroundings. Blood drips between his fingertips. Mick’s lost.
‘I thought I raised you better than this’
“I'm sorry,” Mick whines. His voice is barely above a whisper; it sounds as small as he feels. He curls into a ball. Blood and ichor coat his hands, but still he can't stop their movements. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” Hot tears drip onto the pillowcase. Shaking his head, his hands grab desperately at his hair.
Mick doesn't know where he is.
The bed under him is soft and cushy; it isn't his. The goose-down duvet is warm and holding him just right; it isn't his. The pillowcase is satin and cool; it isn't his.
Air escapes him in punched out sobs. He gasps and gets nothing in his lungs.
A hand touches his shoulder. Mick nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Ray?”
Mick shakes his head at record speed. “No, no, no,” he whispers. “That's not me.” The hand doesn't return, but the voice does.
“-ickey? Babe?”
That's– that can't be right. Babe? No. Mick’s never dated anyone. Right?
“Babe? Are you with me?”
Whose voice is that? Why does it sound so familiar? Mick’s heart is in his throat, so close to where he's clawing at his skin. If he scratched just a little bit harder he could rip it out.
“Mickey, stop, please.” The voice shakes.
Hands encircle Mick’s wrists, tugging at them despite his determination to keep itching. He fights against the hold. The bed under him is damp from his blood, tears and sweat. He needs to bathe in it. Maybe then he'll feel more real.
"there you are. can't you see? i can see you now. you're here, and you're real”
when did my bones get long and lanky?
when did my left eye get so lazy?
when did my fresh wounds become rotten?
when did my old wounds get reopened?
this body is not mine
i don't know if it ever was
my hair is longer than i last remember;
the colour's not quite the same
an abomination in my own right
trampling my own grave
it's horrific
the new scars that i’m adorned with
whispers of memory tell me
they're all self inflicted
Corey doesn't know what to do. Mick’s inconsolable, rolling in the bloody hotel bed and continuing to make himself bleed more. There's stripes of raw flesh all along his throat, bits of skin clinging to the underside of his nails.
“Mickey, stop, please,” Corey chokes out. He can't call him babe right now; Mick didn't respond well to that. His hands wrap around Mick’s wrists, attempting to stop the scratching.
A blood-stained hand pulls out of his grip. Blunt nails frantically carve into the side of Corey's face, leaving bloody streaks in their wake.
It hurts. The air stings against the fresh wounds. Blood begins to drip within seconds. Faces have always been unfairly vascular.
Corey decides right then and there that he needs to step back for a bit. He runs to the bathroom to wash his face. The cold water adds to the sensation, elevating the pain. His reflection has three bright red stripes on the cheek Mick scratched him.
The door creaks open without warning. Corey nearly jumps out of his skin as Mick lumbers in. Saying nothing, covered in blood, hands held before him, with vacant eyes.
Corey thinks he might be a fucking zombie for a second. He watches from the wall as Mick slowly walks to the sink. Mick doesn't acknowledge Corey in the slightest, even as he sluggishly goes through the process of scrubbing his hands clean. He's completely silent. Up until he starts to clean his neck, that is. He lets out a hiss with the first wipe of a wet cloth to broken skin.
Is he fucking sleepwalking? Corey thinks. Wait, no. Scratch that. Sleepwalking wouldn't explain this trance that Mick is stuck in. It's only after Mick’s applied antiseptic and carefully bandaged his neck that Corey decides to interrupt.
"Mickey?" It comes out soft, tentative.
Mick positively jolts at that. Then, he holds still.
"Are you okay?" Corey mutters. He can't think of anything else to say, watching as his lover stands ominously on the other side of the bathroom.
"What?" Mick asks as he turns around. His eyes slowly take in the scene, looking all across the room before finally landing on Corey. "What happened to your face?" He reaches a hand out to touch.
Corey flinches. Mick pulls his hand back.
"Did I do that?" Mick whispers, horror tracing the words.
Unable to respond verbally, Corey nods. His throat is choked up from fear and confusion.
"I'm so sorry," Mick whimpers. "I… It's never happened like that before." His brows scrunch together. Mick raises a hand to his neck, tentatively feeling the freshly applied bandages. "Oh." He sits there, slackjawed.
Corey only speaks up when Mick's eyes start to go dead again. "Who the fuck are you?"
Mick's head tilts. At a loss, he whispers, "Mickey?" He seems so unsure, it almost breaks Corey's heart.
"What the fuck." Corey whispers, with feeling. "What was that?"
It takes a few minutes for Mick to respond. "I don't know…"
"What the fuck does that mean?" Corey's patience is running thin.
"I woke up from a weird nightmare and my hands were bloody, so I came in here to wash up." Mick says it earnestly.
"And that's normal for you?" Corey questions.
Mick shrugs.
"No fucking way," Corey breathes. "You looked like a fucking zombie."
"I'm sorry."
"Stop fucking apologizing."
"I'm— Okay," Mick corrects himself halfway through. "I'll try."
"How do I take care of this?" Corey asks, pointing to the scratches on his face. "You know, right?"
Mick sighs. "Yeah. I can help you clean it up."
i know what it's like to see flashes of a life you can't remember living
the taste of blood in my mouth when i went shooting with my fathers friends near [REDACTED] field
the fullness of water in my lungs when she made me jump off the bridge in the [REDACTED] river, the shadows bouncing off the surface
the feeling of hands on me in the middle of the night, touch i never wanted or asked for regardless if they said i did
crying in the alcove at recess because i felt like a ghost, like a corpse just pretending to be alive, uncared for, alone
waking up with a razor in my hand, covered in my own blood with no memory of the days prior
how do i know who i am when i don't even know all the parts that im missing?