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Sometimes, you just have to lie faceup in a creek, staring up at the stars. Now, this statement doesn't apply to most people. But in FOXHOUND, is anyone just "most people?"

In hindsight, it seems contradictory. To be exhausted, yet restless. To want quiet, yet hearing the incessant babbling of the creek around your ears. To want peace from your mind, only to be left with nothing but your thoughts. But for Frank, for Gray Fox, this is exactly what he wanted: river-smoothed stone pressing against his back, cold water surrounding him. Only his face is peeking out from the water, staring up at the moon and stars.

Another thought crosses his mind, as they've been this night. If he'll get sick from this. But the cold of the water shocks him to the core only at the start. By now, he's gotten used to the feeling. It's almost a comfort—for someone who usually prefers the heat, the encompassing chill just about forces him to normalcy.

The water splashes over his face again. Eyes closing as it passes his nose and mouth, stopping his breath for only a moment before it recedes. He could do this in the pool, he knows. Stable water to leave him to his thoughts. But the creek provides him that extra edge to his senses—a reminder that begs his attention just as quickly as it leaves. He feels his last thought leave him as he breathes again.

After all, if he could, he'd stay beneath the water longer than he should. He knows that's no good. The movement of the water across his body keeps him still, keeps him from falling prey to his worse impulses.

he’s always dreamt of the same thing, night after night after night. bodies lying in a pool of blood around him. when did it start.

he dreamt of the opposite, long ago. of allies smiling around him. when did that disappear from view. when did he lose all of that.

not that it matters. he’ll forget about it in (we’d give a time if he could keep track of it).

bile swells in his stomach. up his chest. up his throat. it hits his teeth on the way out. he hates the feeling. when was the last time this even happened to them. (recently, he doesn’t even remember. a little too much a little too late and fuck, why’d they have to stick to alcohol? coke and a bitch with a knife used to do the trick. splatter blood all over them ‘til they’re left screaming. how many times did he have to practice that one until it settled raw and true into his skin, into his muscles, into his bones.)

sick. you’re sick. he just wants to grin up at the sky at whatever joke of a god there is and flip them off into high heaven. *heaven*. what a load of bullshit.

he heaves again. when was the last time he ate. last time he drank. nothing but acid burning his tongue. fuck, he’d kill to take a knife to the back of his neck over this. feels like sick and dizziness and blood on the bathroom floor.

shit, blood? from inside or- (dumbass, all blood comes from inside. not exactly helpful) you know what i mean. he smashes the back of his head against the wall. shut up. shut up. it sends a shock through his system. great. because sitting in vomit and spit and blood on the *god-damned* bathroom floor without a limb to stand on is just where you want to be. how the hell are you going to get this cleaned up-- how the hell did you even *get* here anyway?

he knocks the side of his head on the wall now. looking for a lower buzz from that shock up his body. something he can use. something to make this worth it. it’s just getting worse. it’s just getting worse.

when was the last time you

when was the last time he

disappointed chiding. he can almost hear it. disappointed. worried. a memory slurred out in blurry images. let’s play guess who! don’t. x x x yeah we know. cause he saves us. he always does. keeps us from od-ing in the middle of fuck-knows-where doing god-know-what while you’re sweating like you’re dying of heatstroke. better than the cold. better than alaska.

i don’t know why you hate the hot and humid so much, snake. it’s not that bad--if you’re used to it. so thick you can drink the water off the leaves. you should come visit sometime, when we’re both retired. (like hell you’re retiring, fox. you’ll be dead before you get there. ha! maybe. bet i’ll last longer than you.)

god, get your head off the floor, you’re making a mess. come on, stay awake at least. hold it down or double it. (did we ever find out where the blood came from?) inside to out.

what was this what was this

dreams? we were dreaming? do you even remember what it was about?

come on, stay awake. stay with us. stay with us. miller’s gonna bust your ass in the morning when he finds out you missed drills. (like that old f##### could catch me. hey, you wanna bet i can steal his leg and run with it? come on fox, that’s just mean.)

eyes open eyes closed eyes open eyes closed eyes open i’d turn on a light but it’d kill you at this rate. where’s a lighter when you- he grabs at the floor, searching for something he’s sure should be there. pants and pockets and *there it is*. his lone arm left to fish out a cig and set it between his teeth and light it. the smoke tastes better than the bile at least.

he’ll have to drag himself to the tub eventually. why’d he have to go and slice himself up around the metal end of his right leg. clawing at the junction between metal and flesh as if to rip the nerve caps off and toss it. (he had enough of his mind not to, just barely. he’d have been better off dying if he did.) bandages soaked in filth--if you get an infection that’s your own fault. (you know, back in the day, the hellmaster was one hell of a- don’t bullshit me fox. oh come on, i swear this one is true!)

maybe it’d be better if it did. if he- (not like it matters, the train of thought. he’s already unwrapped it. left on the floor with the other scraps of his misery. the sound of the water is making him sick again. *unnatural*. you were better off drowning in the river, under the trees. food for the animals. returning the favor for all the disgusting meals he’s made of hunts lost in the wild. (good practice my fucking ass. you’ll eat anything, alive or dead.)

hitting his head on the side of the tub. it’s a miracle he doesn’t have a brain hemorrhage. don’t drop your toaster into the water. or was it a hairdryer. fork in the toaster? not the first time you’ve sat in the tub thinking about it. but slitting your wrists just feels too good. the water seeps into it just the way you like and you’re too alive to die today. you like the feeling of cold wet hair sticking to your sweating neck. makes up for the heat. you’re wet from the humidity anyway, just jump in. just jump in. just jump in.

one. two. three. four. he doesn’t realize he’s even banging his head on the wall. mesmerized by the pain and the feeling and the emptiness. five. six. seven. eight. (all you need is a cheerleader and a knife and some coke to keep you going don’t you. are you even american? or are we whoring ourselves out for plain cash? where the hell are you even getting a cheerleader out here. no a chick in a miniskirt doesn't count, shut up.) just don’t drop your fork in the toaster in the water unless you want to