Burn Corpo Shit

It’s not him. 

It’s his eyes though—warm brown. His hands, his arms, his wide, wide shoulders. His voice and accent, the long vowels and the dropped consonants. Y’all and might could and fixin to and reckon.

Not his smile though. Never his smile.

God it hurts to hear him, to see him, to feel him. The demon parades Hunter around like a trophy, like something to taunt him with. But cruelty from the demon makes sense to Travis, even when it’s coming from Hunter’s hands.

The way it grips Travis’s arm too tight and squeezes. The way it twists and tugs his hair hard because it knows exactly what that reminds him of. The way it manhandles him, using Hunter’s strength to subdue him, to pin him, to fuck him so rough that sometimes Travis nearly throws up.

That all makes sense.

It’s the mimicry that’s worse. Gentle moments. Rubbing Travis’s back up under his shirt like Hunter used to. Slipping a hand into his own like Hunter used to. Pulling him close at night, burying a nose in Travis’s hair like he used to. Moments of intimacy and sex that sometimes feel good, that feel so so good.

It’s not him. 

The first morning after the demon brought Travis home from the hospital he’d woken up to the smell of eggs and bacon.

A brief, stupid moment of relief.

This fucking nightmare hadn’t been real, it never happened. Travis had never been committed at UNC for the last 4 months, Hunter was normal and things were fine. Hunter was making them breakfast like he always used to. Things were fine. 

Stupid to hope for that. It shattered the moment he entered the kitchen.

Hunter’s face split into a too-wide smile. Not his smile. 

“Mornin,” it said in his voice.

Hunter had always been so much stronger, had a good solid hundred pounds on Travis too, made sense for the demon to use that against him now.

Hand shot out, pulled him toward the stove; forced one of Travis’s arms down onto the hot burner and held it there—kissed his head while Travis screamed and cried, nuzzled into his neck while Travis begged, his skin starting to blister.

Force-fed him his eggs after it finally ended, Travis choking on most of them because his arm hurt—it hurt so bad.

IT'S NOT HIM 

Except when it is. Brief heartbreaking moments.

The demon slapping Travis so hard that his teeth rattled, arm reared back for another when it froze. And it was Hunter then—Hunter’s eyes wide and wavering.

“Travis?—oh fuck—” 

Nothing else mattered then, didn’t even notice that his ears were ringing still. He’d collapsed into Hunter’s chest and sobbed, felt Hunter pull him into a hug, so, so tight.

“I’m sorry—” Hunter wept into his hair. “I can’t stop it—I’m tryin baby but I can’t.” 

And just last night, the demon pinning Travis flat on his back on the bathroom floor, choking him with both hands.

Travis’s vision started to tunnel, blackness intruding at the corners—he wondered if the demon actually killed him, would anyone tell his mama? Would the demon make Hunter take the rap for it? He didn’t want that.

Hunter’s body started spasming, his grip went loose suddenly and he recoiled from Travis, pulled his hands away.

“Oh god Travis—oh fuck”

All Travis could do was cough at first, inhale great big lungfuls of oxygen, sparks danced across his eyes. When his vision cleared Hunter looked stunned then pained. Hunter pushed his palms to his eyes, sat back against the wall, shoulders shaking.

“You gotta leave me baby, please,” Hunter cried. “I can’t protect you from it.”

But Travis just climbed into Hunter’s lap and buried his face in Hunter’s shirt, tucked his head under his chin.

“Not leaving you,” Travis told him. “I’m never leaving you.”

It’s not him. 

It’s not him. 

It’s not him. 

But he’s still in there.

And Travis is never going to leave as long as Hunter’s still in there—no matter what the demon does to him.

Is that why the demon sometimes lets Hunter out? Bitterly, Travis thinks that it probably is.