#chris basri

Suffer me, suffer me, they suffer you and tolerate the husk of your mind, cradle the shattered shell flowing only with air beneath. Suffer it so you may remain in circulation - never outdated, upgrade the engine - they keep you around because you are useful.

Kerbside me, you’d ask, never out loud lest they hear - comply - but always letting the idea turn in your mind. A rotation of thoughts - chasing your own tail, watching it shorten, snapping at it with a broken jaw - you chase and corral your way into life. A semblance: you breathe, you eat, you go to therapy like a good little- Like a person who wants to get better. And you will - you’ll give it one hour to make it happen, to tear the orange from your body - you were always too blue anyway - and set yourself free.

Jailbreak from your mind, take the Rat but leave the withered plants as decoration, sabotage their escape by draining the roots. Hide the spiracles beneath the jacket - we’ll crush you like the insect you are - you’re above monologues, so you stop listening. You want to stop listening. You want out: out of the lies that became reality, out of the mind that hounds you to death, out of the body that feels neither right nor wrong but clings all the same.

Sometimes you do escape, allowing your psyche to curl up in Eden’s - dusty, sometimes, but soon becoming elegant and almost graceful. The body is beautiful - to you, to Mortum - it is smooth, unscarred, young and everything you knew would fix you if you could attain it. You curl up in Eden’s mind, and he smiles like no other - snark, but soft in its charm - he bewitches and bewilders, and for a few moments, you forget the bother, forget the mind that sees everything, and become Eden.

So it’s no surprise to feel the flesh cringing away from your skin as you stand, in all your magnificent, tiny, quivering fear before Ortega’s scrutiny. Judgement. Like you’ve handed him the axe, bid he have at it as if you hadn’t already cleaved and hacked at pieces of yourself in the hope that you’d rearrange, come back better than before, having fixed it all. But you’ve fixed nothing, stirring only the solution you’ve diluted yourself into - a quandary of pieces all belonging to different puzzles.

You’ve eschewed Eden’s panache, leaving behind only Chris. Chris, who kills the plants they touch because they cannot even care for themselves. Chris, who fronts with a joke every time lest you notice the pain beneath. Chris, who stands now in fear and in clarity, waiting for their antidote to strike them down.

“Hey,” soft, like mercy. “Chris, listen to me,” because honesty pays in what? Not in life, for this is just existence. Not in kindness, because you can feel it falling away. “Orte- Ricardo,” I am Saboteur. I am everything you hate. “It’s okay,” how? “I can’t say I understand, but I trust you.” Mistakes - you’re covered in them, Ortega.

“C’mon,” he coaxes you over to one of the sofas, and you let yourself remember where you are. Rangers’ HQ - had you hoped that in hearing you say those words, something somewhere would have ordered your demise? Guns in the walls, perhaps? Ortega himself? His mind buzzes beside yours as you join him, allowing a tentative arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer. Like he understands. “Chris,” he repeats, and this time you find it in you to look at him. “Why?” He’s suffering you. For a moment, you think he may play dumb - but in faith, in confidence, he says, “Because you never killed,” low standards, then. “You never threatened, or even spoke - you came to the hospital, and,” a sigh, but it’s tired above all else, “And stupidly, I fell.”

You’d ask, but you do him a service in turn, reaching for the hand that hovers beside yours, pulling it into your lap for fear of. Of what? Everything? “So,” he’s patient - older, different, no less kind. “What now? I’m still… y’know.” he squeezes your hand - comfort, you take it. “Step by step,” he concedes, but you catch the corner of his mouth turn up at the inadvertent pun. Yours twitches too, and you manage a laugh - or a gleeful gurgle, mixed with unshed tears. You catch him looking at you - at the rare smile over your face - and you cover it sheepishly with your free hand.

“We need to see more of that,” his voice is hushed, but his hand tightens around yours - excited - thrilled. You smile again, and this time clasp both hands around his, letting him see that slow, precious grin once more.

You wonder if the fall would be big enough to kill you this time.

You know it wouldn’t be, if you were at your place, but you are now on Ortega’s balcony and he has enough money to live on a high floor. You take a drag from your cigarette and watch the street bellow. You are on your forth one and you don’t think you are stopping any time soon. You are suddenly worried your pack won’t be enough for you.

So you smoke you cigarette until it nearly burns your fingers and you put it out on your arm. Slow. Taking in the pain. It will hold you together for a little while longer.

You take another cigarette out and light it.

You don’t regret it. You don’t. You really really don’t. Except why would you keep repeating that if it was really true? Aren’t you just trying to convince yourself? It felt good. So much better than you ever thought it could feel. It didn’t hurt like it used to. It didn’t make you feel dirty and gross like it used to.

So you are trying. You are trying so fucking hard not to regret it. Not to remember the last time you did something like this. Not to remember hands around your throat, not to remember making him keep squeezing, making him think he had to kill you, not to remember the frustration when the guards burst in the door not to remember- You watch your hand shake as it holds the cigarette.

You watch the ash you flicker off your cigarette flitter down off the balcony and you try to run the math. Though, if you jumped here, Ortega would have to deal with the mess. He’d know why you asked him to keep your clothes on. You shudder and take another drag against the feeling. If nothing else, then at least the smoking will kill you eventually.

Too long, your brain chimes in.

You start thinking of the pills you have hidden in the back of your cabinet. Of the razor you keep in your bathroom. Of the the gun you bought for Eden. Feel once again the taste of metal that won’t leave your memories. Pull the trigger. Destroy the brain. That was all anyone was ever interested in anyway.

You suddenly remember what the therapist said. ‘Being a perfectionist is hard work.’

No. It wasn’t a mistake. You don’t regret it. You don’t. It-

-Chris?

You turn your head at the sound and there he is. Ortega. It couldn’t be anyone else, but you are still somehow surprised to see him. He must have been just gotten up. He had been sleeping when you got up from the bed and he has that fresh out of bed look. Sleepy eyes, messy hair. You can’t help but want to run your hands through it. You also feel like that is something you can’t do anymore. Why? Just a few hours ago you had sex with this man, why do you feel like there is a gaping hole between you now?

-Everything ok? – He tries again when you don’t answer. You can see it in his eyes that he knows the answer. His voice makes it sounds more like a plea than a question. You flicker your cigarette over the railing again. You want to run your hands through his hair. You want to kiss him softly. You care for him. You care for this man so fucking much. Why isn’t that tnough?

-Yeah, I’m fine – you tell him, because what else could you say? That your skin is tingling? That he is just a few steps away from you but that crossing that distance feels impossible right now? You will your muscles to form a smile. It doesn’t quite work. You take another drag to hide it.

-Are you coming back to bed? – He asks and it sounds too much like begging. You suddenly remember what he said before. I love you. Fuck. He doesn’t love you. He loves Chris Basri. The person you created when you back when you were naïve enough to believe that if you lied enough some day the mask would stick.

His eyes are soft and worried. He looks so fucking vulnerable, looking at you from the door to the balcony, feet bare on the floor, the scars on his chest plain in sight. There are marks there and you know that you were the one to put them there. You can’t help but look away.

Looking at him like that only reminds you of how much you want to protect him. How much you want to keep him safe from everything that will ever hurt him. But you know that all those things will also be your fault. Your eyes fall to the asphalt down bellow again. You think of gravity, of the pills, of the razor, of the gun.

-Chris. Look at me. –You turn to look at him. Oh. You hadn’t answered him, had you? He has a hard look on his face. Is that the face he made when he talked to Chen during heartbreak? – You don’t have to come back to bed if you don’t want to, – he looks so serious. So worried. Then I guess I fell for this new you all over again. You are going to destroy this man – You don’t have to stay the night if you don’t want to. Just please – his voice cracks and you shiver. You care for him. You want to protect him. You hurt him. You lo- – Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.