#obsessive behaviour

You interrupted his thoughts by appearing in the doorway, arms full of steaming tea and a soft smile that somehow felt like forgiveness for sins he never told you about.

“Dan Heng?” you asked gently. “You’ve been holed up all day.”

He hesitated. You were so warm, so soft, so trusting—it made something dark stir inside him. Something old. Something he buried with Cloud-Piercer in blood-soaked memory. But when you looked at him like that, like he wasn’t a monster, how could he not want to keep you forever?

“I... didn’t want to leave you unguarded,” he murmured. “There are still people who’d take you from me.”

You set the tea down and stepped into his space, fingers ghosting over his arm.

“I know. But you’re here now. And I’m safe when I’m with you.”

Dan Heng’s eyes lowered to your hand. You didn’t flinch from his touch. You never did anymore. His breath shook as he cupped your face.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered. “But I won’t let anyone else have it.”

Then he kissed you—deep, protective, desperate—like it would anchor him to the present and drown out the ghosts.

You only smiled afterward, tugging him closer.

“Then don’t let go.”

And Dan Heng didn’t. He wouldn't. Ever.

Phainon had always believed in duty. That the Heirs served Amphoreus, that sacrifice was noble, that love was a luxury warriors couldn’t afford.

Until you shattered that belief with your gentle touch.

He watched you laugh with Tribbie, sunlight catching in your hair. He should have kept his distance. He meant to. But when you had run to him after the siege, face smudged with ash, tears glistening but voice steady—“Phainon, I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”—he knew.

You were the one thing he couldn’t burn for the mission.

Now, you sat with your head in his lap, humming as he braided golden threads through your hair—just something he liked to do to remind himself you were his.

“You never flinch when I’m near,” he murmured.

“Why would I?” you asked, reaching up to hold his hand. “You’re warm. Safer than any armor.”

Phainon smiled softly, though his grip on your hand tightened. “If others knew what I’ve done to keep you near... would you still say that?”

You only tilted your head and kissed his palm.

“I already know.”

He stilled. “And yet you’re still here.”

“I’ll always be. Even if the whole world burns down around us.”

His heart swelled with something dangerous and beautiful.

“Then let it burn,” he said.

And in his arms, you felt the heat of both divine power and undying love.

Sunday had always been afraid of touch.

Not because it hurt, but because it healed too much.

When he let you into his room—bathed in the glow of floating sigils and soft ambient music—you didn’t ask questions. You simply walked to him, wrapped your arms around him, and let his halo hum in quiet rhythm.

“You’re warm tonight,” you murmured, fingers brushing the wing behind his ear. “Were you thinking of me again?”

He chuckled weakly. “Always. You’re the only thing I haven’t exiled from my dreams.”

You leaned in, eyes reflecting his own. “That’s good. Because I want to stay. Even in the parts you think are too broken.”

He closed his eyes, burying his face into your shoulder, wings fluttering softly.

“I’ve watched utopias collapse for the sake of mercy. Let people sleep forever rather than face pain. But you...” His voice trembled. “You make me want to stay awake.”

You kissed his forehead, fingertips curling over the white strap on his waist.

“I love all of you, Sunday. Even the pieces you think are too dangerous to share.”

His halo pulsed.

And he whispered, voice so quiet only your soul heard: “Then I’ll destroy anything that tries to take you from me.”

Your smile was serene. “I know.”

“You know,” Aventurine drawled, lying upside down on the couch with you lazily sprawled over his chest, “most people run when they figure out how deep my claws go.”

You giggled, finger tracing the curve of his spade cutout. “Lucky for you, I like dangerous things.”

A grin bloomed across his face, wide and wolfish. “Gods, you’re perfect.”

His hands, adorned with rings and sin, stroked your back possessively. “You’re not scared of me?”

“Why should I be? You’re soft with me.”

“I’m obsessed with you,” he corrected, voice dipping dangerously. “I have blackmail on half the IPC to keep them away. I’ve poisoned deals that dared try to involve your name.”

Your lips brushed against his collarbone. “And I love how far you’ll go to protect what’s yours.”

He froze.

No one had ever called him protection. Just a parasite, a gambler, a liar.

But you curled into him like he was sanctuary.

He cupped your face, eyes glinting with something manic and pure. “You’re mine, sweetheart. The house. The jackpot. The endgame.”

You kissed him hard, tugging his hair.

“Then bet on me.”

He laughed—giddy, dangerous, enamored.

“Oh darling. I already rigged the game in our favor.”

Their socks now wet and cold, [REDACTED] wishes to get this over with quickly, no patience for hours-long, cruel torture. He's done it all before: pulling off nails one by one, then painfully breaking his victims' fingers. Already before he'd gotten far, they'd be begging for sweet release. Seconds would span over an infinity as he drained their life force bit by bit. It is amusing to watch them descend into the depths of insanity, a pit they will never be rescued from.

In a way, this one is lucky to catch [REDACTED] on a day that left him with little energy and motivation.

Panicked, the unfortunate individual struggles to escape the dark confines of the bag, kicking their legs and yelling, almost uncertain in their movements.

How unlike them, to sound so scared, unsure and panicked. Though his face does not betray any emotion, a feeling of sweet revenge is already spreading across [REDACTED]'s body, anticipating what is yet to come.

To witness their confident visage crumble is only part of the fun, however. Rather, he does not only do this for fun. No, not even the ruthless, mysterious serial killer would pick his victims at random, for he is not a madman. They are handpicked from the very most deserving of the whole bunch. Their actions towards the only person he sympathizes with, the only one he could ever care for, are utterly unforgivable.

This one in particular has found joy in poking fun at his Angel, not showing an ounce of regret even as they'd teared up, escaping to a more quiet spot to cry in peace. The tears they shed are now in the past, yet they can never leave his memories.

Of course, they'd been shadowing Angel, watching the tears fall and therefore sealing the bully's fate.

"Waking up, I see. Tsk, don't break the bag."

Swiftly, the thin yet sturdy barrier is cast aside, forcing them to look into his eyes.

The devilish, murderous gleam in his eyes makes them flinch, hurrying to get up. Cold and calculated, [REDACTED] strikes them down with a sledgehammer, breaking a few ribs in the process. Hearing their screams is delightful, an addictive, familiar sensation bubbles up inside their chest. Delight is not the right word, however, implying a certain luxury and privilege in fulfilling the action. No, [REDACTED] needs to feel this. He needs to liberate his soul from the constrictive, piercing grip that takes ahold of his body when knowing his Angel is being hurt.

Nothing compares to the feelings Angel's happiness and mere existence blesses him with, but the satisfaction of punishing those that wronged his dear stands proudly in second place.

Far away is the high pedestal, crowned on top sits his wish to be their number one priority. Though still in the distant future, the thought is ever present, determining all aspects of [REDACTED]'s life, who hopes to reach the highest level of fulfillment through this sole way.

And proud he is, standing tall above the cowering figure as they hold a hand to their aching side, weeping and whimpering in pain.

"Are you not going t' ask what you've done? Maybe I'll let you off the hook."

It is cruel, so, so cruel to make them believe in redemption when there is no way for them to crawl out from the grave they've dug for themselves. That is part of the fun.

Face stone cold, they watch and listen to pathetic begging, promises to do whatever he'd ask in exchange for their miserable, measly life.

"I'll make it up to you, I swear, just tell me what I-"

A piercing scream echoes through the empty woods, not a soul around to hear.

"You're so desperate, begging for me to spare your pathetic life. Can't stand your voice, but it's tolerable when you're the one who's scared for once."

A terrible pain is pulsing through their thigh, a knife ramming through flesh; muscle and fat tissue alike as if it's butter.

Their mouth is agape, panting like a dog in the summer heat.

It hurts, the unbearable sting of his ruthless blade, but no more than the hell they would have continued to put his Angel through if he let them live.

Human instinct is strange. His victims, without fail, are often frozen out of sheer shock, pain and fear. It would be in their best interest to run away, to fight back, yet none of them have ever tried - at least genuinely. It is mildly interesting to [REDACTED], and all the more amusing. Perhaps, though, this is just proof that anyone who would stoop so low as to hurt his perfect Angel is nothing but a slimy, disgusting coward.

[REDACTED] feels his hand twitch and takes it as a sign to twist the knife, causing a fiery pain to shoot through their body once again. Thick blood oozes out of their wound, tainting the cool grass beneath. If [REDACTED] were in the mood to stream today, he'd have been tempted to make them taste their own blood, which would surely make the chat go wild.

However, they are not in the mood for a long and slow, torturous murder. Although the bully surely deserves such an ending, [REDACTED] does not have the patience to watch them die slowly today.

Their voice cracks, weak and broken already, though he is sure it hasn't even been a minute. It is so pathetic he could almost feel bad.

"You have made a mistake that does not allow forgiveness. You hurt the only most important person in my life. I cannot allow dirt like you to live on the same earth as them."

Bitter realization washes over them like a bucket of ice water, realization that their days have been numbered. Useless wails and shaky attempts to push their attacker off fail miserably.

"P-please, no, I'll do anything!"

A scarily calm and unbothered expression is on his face, lifting the heavy sledgehammer to unceremoniously bash it into their skull.

Limp and lifeless, their body falls back onto the grass, causing it to rustle softly.

Finally.

Now, the forest can return to its natural state. Quiet. Undisturbed.

[REDACTED] does not understand the term 'eerie silence'. Nothing about the absence of noise, whether the noise in question would come from the awfully loud cars, bothersome neighbors or bullies whose necks he hasn't snapped yet, feels the least bit intimidating to him. Unless the silence is suspicious, the opportunity to roam through his mind without disturbance, to think about the things he loved most, is truly appreciated, at all times.

Now, in the quiet of the forest night, they focus on each of their senses, one at a time.

While the faint smell of green, damp grass mingles with the pungent smell of red blood, earthy notes compliment the mix. Still, their keen nose notes that the bloody smell left a thick coat over the others, yearning to stand in the spotlight much like the person who it belongs to. Peaceful thoughts are interrupted by the disgusting smell reaching [REDACTED]'s tongue, lying heavy on the sensitive taste buds.

Much to his relief, though, that sickening voice no longer interrupts the beautiful view of the silver moon, or his perception of the more subtle noises such as the soft wind combing lovingly through the trees above and their hair alike.

Quiet times are an ointment for his scarred, disturbed soul. Nothing that could truly heal him, but it numbed the pain for sure.

He has to laugh. If only Angel's mind were as depraved as his, they may have come along to appreciate the romantic scenery together. However, the pungent smell of blood, not to mention the presence of a corpse, would ruin whatever they likely thought of as 'romantic'. Besides, for a shot at going on a date, he'd have to be noticed first.

Wide, toothless mouth. Cave with no end, looming over you as you sit at your front door, fiddling with your laces. Mud caked strings that you hardly want to touch in the first place. You thought about just toeing them off, ruining the already flattened ankle support—courtesy of Jeanne—but the moment you started pulling, overused leg muscles writhing, you were reminded of your stitches. Reminded that part of your leg is being held together by nothing but string. Texture on your sinew where there shouldn’t be.

So, instead, you sit, stitched up leg stretched out, and the other bent towards you. Trying not to look at your hands, skin cracked and stinging between the plasters, trying not to look at the corridor. Each time you do, you swear your bedroom door gets further away. Minotaur’s labyrinth, cursed catacombs. Nausea. Try not to think about that, either. 

Eventually, the first shoe comes off, and you bring your other leg up gingerly. 

Try, try, try. Try to keep your mind blank, try not to think about what’s blood and what’s dirt under your broken fingernails. A small, whiny voice whispers that you’ll never get rid of it. The stain. The grit. Should pry each nail off. Should scrub at your hands until there are no lines in your palms, no fingerprints to leave behind. 

A small, whiny voice that you ignore, and pull off your second shoe. You shove them off to the side and messily line them up next to your other pairs. One of them wilts under its own weight—moist. Your socks are, too. Can feel the damp between your toes, fabric sticking to your heel. They’re peeled off easy enough. Examined for a few moments. Each misshapen white splodge counted, loose threads of stitching eyed.

In the end, you stuff them into your shoes, mumbling a mental reminder into the stale air inside your head to wash them—same with the boots; something that may or may not ever come to fruition. 

Slowly, your head turns back towards the hall. There’s someone stomping around upstairs. Cars honking outside. Shower being turned off. World keeps turning. 

You sigh as you rise, hand on the wall closest to you for balance. Your nausea follows you up, too. Tries to make acid jump up your throat while white noise creeps into your vision—blood ringing its alarm bells in your ears; little needles pricking against the backs of your eyes. You want something to grip onto, something sturdy to collapse into, but you have nothing; just your brain falling out of your ears, and something squirming inside your chest that feels akin to dread. 

Hunched, you wait it out. Pain ebbing and flowing. Old ship battered by a storm. Death rattle into the air until it passes, and you straighten yourself.

Lack of food, lack of water—that’s all it is. 

That’s all it is.

Swallowing the buildup of spit in your mouth—something that does nothing to ease the dryness of your throat—your eyes trail towards the crutches, leaned up against the far wall, before you glance back down the hall. Crutches again. 

Yeah, no, fuck that. 

Hastily, you grab the crutches and open the tiny storage room to your left with your free hand, the door whining. You haven’t been in here since your washing machine broke. 

The bulb pops on with the flick of a switch, light stuttering and illuminating said washing machine, some forgotten cardboard boxes with memories that you don’t have space for anymore, the maybe-broken-maybe-not landline, and the odd cleaning item. Detergent, broom, bleach. Soul of a basement even far above ground: smells like dust and water damage. The crutches are leaned against some of the boxes, and then the door is closed. Sealed. Dust scattering in the light.

Still holding onto the doorknob, your head bows toward the door a moment, hitting it with a dull thump. Make another mental reminder to take the crutches to your local collection point in two weeks’ time. 

Wherever the Hell that is. Probably the hospital.

Languidly, you roll your head to face forward again. Sigh long and deep before pushing off and beginning to make your way to your bedroom. You’re careful about it; there’s no ache where there should be, yet you still feel the need to limp. Still do limp.

The kitchen passes you by. It’s just as you left it; crumbs still on the cutting board, toaster plugged in, dishes unwashed.

Still feel a dull pain in your lower back begin to bloom.

It feels strange.

You know that it’s the numbness. That, despite it, your body still knows something is wrong.

As much as you hate to admit it, everything feels strange.

The floorboard whines loudly underfoot.

Your home smells like you, lungs filled with the eternally lingering aroma of all the meals you’ve cooked, of the scents you use on your clothes, of the certain smell that screams comfort, yet you still feel anxious. Tense. 

Your hands find the doorway of your room, and the texture of the paint makes the pads of your fingers tingle, even through the bandages. 

A feeling you’ll bury. Stomp out, if you have to.

You almost want to wrench them away. Too much of everything.

You don’t step further than your doorway. Loiter like you’re waiting for someone to tell you it’s okay for you to come in—the soft light of your fish tank a small comfort.

Quiet, you step in.

A tinge of guilt finds you when you remember the lights’ been left on since you left. Though, approaching it and crouching down—bright, too bright—you’re glad to see all your fish coming to the front of the tank to greet you; darting around in flashes of neon blue and red. Watch their beady eyes watch you through the scabs of algae covering the glass. 

You feel like crying again. Universal lump in your throat.

You want to see Helen. Want to hold her tight until you smell like her perfume. Want to put your, then maybe Jeanne’s, head through a wall. You don’t know.

Stiffly, you stand upright again, steadying yourself with a hand on your bed. Head hung as your brain pulses. 

You need a painkiller. Need to knock yourself out for the next week. 

When it subsides, you drag your feet towards your wardrobe. Use a bit too much force trying to pull open the stiff doors. The texture of every single shirt, jumper, hoodie and trouser makes you feel sick. Sweat in your armpits and pooling on the back of your neck. Too much of everything. One of your hands occasionally darts back, the heel of it dragging underneath your eyes. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. 

You struggle with pulling a top off its hanger. 

There’s no point.

Struggle a little less with finding suitable trousers and underwear. 

There’s no point, and the world keeps turning.

Just as languid as before, you make your way towards the bathroom, bundle of clothes in hand. Your feet are still cold. Whole body a furnace except them. 

You blink rapidly when you turn the switch for the light on, immediately deciding to turn it back off. Needles in the back of your eyes again; kaleidoscopic shapes on the tiles that make you feel dizzy. 

The door shuts firmly behind you, mechanism clicking as you turn the knob. 

As you relieve yourself, you contemplate a cold shower for a moment—biting waters that’ll wash away everything from every nook and cranny, maybe even freeze your headache to oblivion—but shake the thought away. Even with the sweat dripping down your back, you’ve had enough of the cold. Had enough of shivering until it feels like even your blood itself is vibrating. 

Had enough of it all. 

After washing your hands, you lean into the tub and turn the showerhead on, and begin shifting out of your clothes. You keep your eyes on the towel rack—refusal to look at your mottled skin, refusal to acknowledge the roughness of all your scabs. Zombie that doesn’t want to acknowledge that they’re falling apart; only that they’re still living, and that’s all that matters.

Conscious of your wounded leg, you shimmy it out gingerly and make the mistake of looking down. You’re all bruised—mottled skin surrounding a thick white bandage, like spilled watercolour over a fresh canvas. You’ll have to go out and get some more at some point. 

You look between the shower and your leg. A damp bandage doesn’t sound pleasant.

Steam already fogging up the mirror to the side of you, you step in, sticking your wounded leg out stiffly. The rim of the tub presses against the inside of your leg, and you’re a little off balance, but the burn of the boiling water takes your mind off it: wildfire to overgrown thicket, molten doom to hillside. 

You stay like that, for a while. Burning up; steam filling up your head, your lungs, until the dizziness—the warning that your body will reset; make you go limp, put you out of it all for a few minutes and put some red on the porcelain—and the headache feels dull and distant. Unimportant. You scrub layer after layer of skin off ‌yourself with dose after dose of soap. Face scrunching up in pain each time the suds worm their way into all your half-healed cuts. Skin itching at the texture of all the damp plasters—already peeling off. For a moment, you imagine yourself as a caterpillar. Squirming, in its chrysalis. Common Blue; Mountain Swallowtail. You wish you could peel off your skin, sometimes. Get rid of every scar and indent etched into it—become something new. Something clean. You miss watching the Painted Ladies dance around Noah’s mum’s garden. Miss looking up at his wall of bugs. Miss all the photos Helen sends of every oversized insect she sees when she goes home. 

You miss. You don’t know exactly what it is, but you miss something. Like a bracelet you used to always wear, or a ring that someday fell off your finger. Small absence that, especially in winter and summer, aches. Don’t know when it got there, and don’t know if it’ll ever leave. 

You can taste iron in the back of your throat, and you don’t know what time it is when you get out, stumbling a bit on your bad leg; muscle aching from having it elevated for so long. You only know that your skin stings, and that you think you should’ve stayed in there for another hour.

Even so, you try your best to dry yourself off with the towel and pat mindfully around the bandage. The patch of skin you left untouched around it, a precaution, feels like a sewed on graph rather than something apart of you. The plasters and bandages on your hands feel much, much worse, though. After you change, you think you spend fifteen odd minutes sitting on the lid of your toilet, hunched in the humidity—you can already feel yourself sweating—and steadily revealing your skin once more. Tapestry of a memory you want to forget. You don’t think they need them anymore—except maybe around your nails, that’s gonna be Hell to regrow—but you’d rather have fresh coverings on them. Some more flimsy gauze you’ll peel off in a few days’ time. 

There’s still some adhesive left on your skin. Your tailbone whines from being sat awkwardly for so long.

Plasters. Go get yourself some plasters. 

You rub at the back of your neck as you stand, trying not to cringe at the feeling of either sweat or condensation making the skin almost slick, and stoop down to gather up the not-so-dirty clothes. Some of the graphic from the hoodie flakes off under your touch, floating towards the bathroom floor, along with something solid. Loud clattering noise, and less loud clink.

Confused, you peek over your pile. 

Your phone. You’d almost managed to forget about that.

Practically shattered, its blank screen stares up at you, fractures of yourself peering through the shards. 

A frown crosses ‌your face as you crouch—putting more weight onto your good leg—down, shifting the clothes to one hand. With your other, you bring the phone up to your face, holding the ‘on’ button. Somehow, it’s still intact, and that alone gives you a spark of hope; one that quickly dies out when the screen stays blank.

Your hand goes limp and, for the second time today, your head dips, resting on the heap, and you sigh; long and muffled, hot air warming your face. You’d stay there for longer, head buried under the sand, if the stitches hadn’t begun to pull on your skin. There’s the urge to sit down, Hell, even lie down, but you have the feeling that if you do, you won’t be getting up for a long while. Maybe melt into the tile, evaporate with the steam. Peace and quiet. 

Sluggishly, you raise your head, lidded eyes landing on your phone once more. A tinny voice tells you to charge it, as if there’s any way on Earth that that would help. Despite it all, you still tuck it into one of your pockets, stand upright—dizzy, dizzy, dizzy; you try not to slip on the tile—and make your way to the door. 

That is, before you step on something. 

Automatically, you flinch, bringing your foot up as if you’d just stepped on roadkill, but you find something much worse. 

A key. 

For a split second, you doubt yourself, wondering if you really did put your key on its usual nail, before it registers. Before it registers, and all you can do is stare. Wide eyes; deer in headlights. A kind of nausea builds in you the longer you look; a pressure in your chest like you’ve been holding your breath for far too long. Little twinge in your leg.

The key.

Feels like standing in front of a mirror and just asking for a ghost to appear. 

Cautiously, you bend down again and pick it up: metal still freezing, even after having been tucked in your pocket. Ridges of it like broken teeth.

Upright again. You turn it around: once, twice. Rusted. Jagged. 

Your fingers closes tightly around it—can feel it dig into some of your cuts. Steam spills out past you when you open the bathroom door, quickly moving towards the kitchen. The clothes land on one of the counters in a dull heap, the trousers threatening to fall off as you step towards the sink. You have to lean a bit to get there, and the handle for the window is stiff, but, once it’s wide enough, you use every ounce of strength you have to throw the key out. The moment it is, you close and lock the window once more, counter digging into your stomach. You keep hold of the handle like you’re expecting something to try to worm its way back in, looking down into the sink and feeling each breath run in and out of your dry throat. 

No more.

Head still bowed, you pry your fingers loose from the handle and flex them. 

No more, no more, no more.

There’s an indent of the key in your palm.

You’re done.

Stiff, you grab your pile once more. Half limp towards your room. Ignore how your wounded leg feels like it’s dragging behind you.

You shut the door after you enter. Take a deep inhale—release it slowly through your nose. Throat is itching. Can’t be bothered to go back to the kitchen and get a glass of water to ease it.

You step towards your window, dropping the clothes inside, or, rather, on-top, of the laundry basket in front of it. Stacked high like a cliff; sedimentary layers of clothes you haven’t had the energy to drag to the laundrette in weeks. 

For a moment, you stare at the closed blinds, before you pull them halfway up; holding onto the cord to keep them upright. The world is grey outside, just like it was hours ago. Just like how it’ll probably be for the rest of the month. The maintenance balcony has a sheen of dampness to it; there’d probably be a pool of rainwater if not for the holes in the old metal. Someday, you think it’s going to fully split in half. Thin sheets folding in on themselves like wings. It’ll probably take maintenance months to get around to fixing it when it does happen. If they ever do.

Out of habit, you reach up and check the lock, pulling the latch open and closed, listening to the low click, thump, of the mechanism. Open, locked, open, locked again.

The cord slips out of your hand, and your room returns to being dimly lit once more.

Almost robotically, you walk towards your bed, placing your phone on your bedside table. Hope, again, tempts you to try to charge it, but you leave it unplugged. 

You glance between the tank and your unmade mess of blankets. 

There’s no way you’re getting to sleep now, not with this headache. 

You don’t want to, anyway. 

Swallow. Swallow thickly, and, instead, sit down in front of your tank, take the lid off, ignore the pain in your fingers, and open the cabinet it sits upon. 

Again, time passes. Vacuum that’s a little less listless, a little less dissociative. You trim plants that aren’t really overgrown, try to pretend that the light doesn’t make you want to tear your eyes out. Scrape algae you can never truly get rid of, off of the glass. Vacuum the sandy bottom; the excess water pumped into a bucket while your fish swim inquisitively around your fingers.

At some point, your upstairs neighbours start arguing again. No music to accompany you, you hear almost every word.

You drag yourself upright, hauling the half-filled bucket with you towards the kitchen. Try not to think about the way your broken nails dig into your palm.

For what may be the first time, perhaps even the last, you’re glad to hear their thoughts over your own. 

Drain it. Refill with half hot, half cold water.

“...nd you can’t even take responsibility for all the shit you do-”

Flinch when something heavy falls above you, wait in the sudden silence, and carry on once the two of them begin shouting again. 

“Don’t you start, you ass; I’m just trying to take care of you-”

You fiddle around with a thermometer until it hits 26C, then add the right dose of water conditioner.

“-bullshit. All you ever do-”

Heave the fresh water back to your room. Spill a little on the way there.

“-How about you fucking-”

“-No-”

“-listen to-”

“No! Fucking shut it! All you ever do is pretend that everything is fine-”

For the hundredth time, as you pour the new water in, you wonder how many noise complaints it’ll take for them to get kicked out. Or—you slide the lid back on—until she kicks him out.

Finally, a door slams, and the shouting ends. 

Pigs will fly, you think.

Legs to your chest, your head resting on your knees, you stare into the eyes of one of your shrimp, happily sifting through the sand you’ve kicked up. 

Ouroboros. Swallow hemlock and grin at the feeling of a full stomach. World keeps turning. 

Your head is finally quiet. Hands been busy long enough with the mundane that you can pretend that your headache is barely there. No cares nor worries; just you and your fish, swimming in loops. Just the reflection of the hunched, bunched-up creature that your laundry basket has turned into, cowering in the corner of the room.

You wait for it to move. It doesn’t. 

You have the quiet feeling that you’d be sat there for a few more hours if it weren’t for your stomach grumbling. Brings you back to Earth, headache pounding and all. Knock, knock, knock on your skull; unwanted visitor.

Painkillers. 

Using a hand to grip onto the side of your bed, you draw yourself up, shaking your legs and letting pins and needles rush through your uninjured one. 

Painkillers, plasters and some food.

You feel a prick of pain somewhere in your calf on the other—halfway between phantom-pain and some tiny muscle’s convulsion: you part-hope-part-dread that it’s the anaesthetic wearing off—but, that’s it. 

You hope you can keep at least something down.

Eyes closed, you keep your head lowered as blood rushes in your ears. Open them and exhale shakily once it calms. 

Out of habit, you glance at your phone—unsurprisingly still blank—before you head towards the kitchen. Though, once you reach your door, you lean back in, flicking your bedroom light on.

How long does local anaesthetic take to wear off, anyways?

The hallway light is next; bright-ish LEDs Jeanne said she’d change out for something warmer but never has. You’re just happy they don’t flicker. 

Forty-eight hours—maybe more, maybe less. 

Then, the bathroom’s light—mirror still fogged up—and, even if something in the back of your head tells you that you’re being pedantic, you pass the kitchen by and turn the living room’s light on, too. 

You tell yourself not to think about it: your body will rid itself of what isn’t meant to be there in due time. 

The fridge opens with a thump, light trembling and illuminating the scarce contents. Milk, some fruits and vegetables, a jar of…something, a few microwave meals—you roll the idea around in your head a moment, before pushing the boxes aside; maybe you should have toast again?—and a plastic container full of leftovers, right at the back. You draw it out, squinting at it as you close the door. Maybe something Helen made you at some point. Either that, you think, pulling the microwave door open and sliding it inside, or takeout.

Pressing hard on the worn buttons, you set it to three minutes and lean back on one of the counters while you wait. 

It’s odd to be without your phone. Odd to not have music, to not have a distraction. 

The Microwave hums dull music into the air. Food spins, loops, endlessly.

You think back to your friends: ‘Text us if you need anything’. Even if you did, that’s certainly not happening.

Tired, you glance down at your hands, pad of your finger tracing the scabs, fingernails catching on them.

Either way, the only person you really want to talk to is Helen. You can just about remember her number, but, you’re pretty sure the landline is only meant for emergencies. If it even still works, that is.

Gently, you pick at one, before drawing your hand away and crossing your arms. Bunch up the fabric of your shirt at your sides.

You don’t even remember the last time you used it, if at all. Sat silently in the dark of the storage room, gathering dust just like everything else in there.

You shift, stretching and shifting your shoulder blades to try to get the ache out of them. 

Anyways, you’ll see Helen in two weeks or so; if she needs anything, she’d come to you. She’d say something.

Your eyes turn to the hall, hands clenching and unclenching wads of your t-shirt.

Maybe…maybe you should-

-beep, beep, beep. 

You jolt, hackles raised, then relax as your muscles loosen.

Too much thinking again. 

Heat and humidity spills over your face when you pop the door open, and you burn yourself slightly when you pull the container out; plastic half-placed-half-tossed onto the nearest surface. 

Where even are the plasters?

Muttering under your breath, you shake your hand as if the sting might shake loose and use the other to shut the microwave’s door; turning it off before reaching for a plate and some cutlery. 

What cabinet did you put them in?

The plastic cracks like it’s one tug away from breaking as you pull the lid off, steam rising and condensation forming on the plate as it plops onto it. Some of the food in the middle is still cold. 

Kitchen? Bathroom?

You trudge towards your living room, turning on the TV. Static crosses its reflective face a moment, humming in the speakers, too—far too low to hear, but just the right pitch to feel—before it clears up. Some random show echoes around the room; actor you’ve never seen before crying into another’s shoulder. Wonder what happened for a moment, before you trudge back to the kitchen.

Painkillers, plasters.

You rub at your eyes as you open one of your drawers, shifting through various—mostly empty—boxes of pills and knick-nacks until you find your preferred painkiller, as well as a battered-looking container of plasters. Edges of the cardboard all worn; lip of the lid half ripped. 

A drink, too.

It comes open easily enough; four or so plasters sliding out onto the kitchen counter. Wince a little when you wrap them around the worst of your nails, before you pick up the painkillers, trying to pry them open as you make your way towards another cupboard. 

Your food is gonna be fully cold by the time you get to it.

It opens with a low creak, your hand blindly feeling around for a glass as you attempt to pull the blister pack out with one hand. Just as you get a glass out, the packet falls from you with a light clack. 

The more time that passes, the less hungry you feel. Can’t decide if you want to starve yourself for a week to avoid the chance of throwing it all up, or stuff your face until you do.

Placing the glass on the counter, you let out a mildly frustrated exhale as you lean down, picking the packet up and squinting at the two glasses on your counter as you wait out the ache that thrums in the back of your skull. Scalpel cutting through your scalp, hammer and wedge tap, tap, tapping away at your skull. 

Two glasses. 

Your brows furrow.

Did you leave one out earlier? 

You reach a hand forward, picking it up.

Looks clean and dry, though. 

You twist it around, waiting as your fingers distort in the glass. There’s a quiet fear that your hand will phase right through it. 

Gently, you shake your head—agitating your headache—and put it ‌to the side, filling your original glass. You struggle a bit to pop your pills out, but down them along with a gulp of water. Frown at the taste it leaves on your tongue. You drink what’s left in the cup, fill it up again, and, after placing the spare back into the cupboard, you finally settle down in your living room. Whatever show that was playing before has finished, ads blaring out. You don’t have the energy to change it. 

For a moment, you let your head rest on the back of the couch, eyes tracing the bumps and cracks in the ceiling. You twist them over to the armchair to the left of you; the one Helen always sits on. Almost finished crocheted blanket limp against its arm.

You miss her cooking. You’re probably eating it right now, and you still miss it.

Careful, you reach for your plate and glass, and step towards it, sitting down on the plush fabric. Settle in, place your plate in your lap, and slowly but surely get through your meal; bite by bite. It churns in your stomach, and there’s something gag-worthy about dry, practically cold, food, but you eat. Pass through show after show—repetitious enough that they blend into one another like a half-awake dream. 

Once you finish, you set the plate and glass down onto the coffee table, and curl up. Eye the swarms of fish embroidered onto the armrest. 

Your fingers trace them. Feel the rise and fall of the thread, even through the plasters.

Iridescent scales of silver shoals, neons of hundreds of tiny tetras, sentences in Greek weaved between them. 

You draw your hand back. Pull your legs up to your chest, and rest on the curve of the headrest. Feel like a kid falling asleep while your parents talk idly in the background. Summer holiday that never ends.

There’s a new one, you think; sat near the end of a group of simple, grey fish. Just like the surrounding ones, but red. 

You let your eyes droop. You don’t feel as afraid to let them, with the TV and lights still on. No shadows hiding in any corners. 

Maybe a sardine, or a herring. 

--------------------

Guess who found out they’ve been using en-dashes instead of em-dashes for like. This entire fic. This guy!! I’ll fix that up later; I’m sorry if it’s been bothering anyone haha.

I apologise for being gone so long! Everything sucks butt and ass for me currently, so I don’t really know what my update schedule is gonna be like, but I’ll be around! Even if it takes me, like, another year to finish this, I will, lol.

Also, side note, how do you guys pronounce Jeanne’s name? Like, the English ‘Jean’, // ‘Jean-ie’ or the French ‘Jean’ // ‘Jean-ie’? 

I am a huge fan of Lyle from Look Outside, specifically for him stalking Sam. I love Lee from Clinical Trial because of how obsessed he is with Angel.

I was stalked by someone— C— who ended up hurting me. I found his diary entires of how much he loves me, how much I love him, and how we're meant for each other.

C stole my panties, same reason Lee stole Angel's jacket. A ball of them, stuffed into a sock, hidden in his room, wet and crusty.

It's not a kink for me. It's not a satisfaction.

It's like One Way Or Another by Blondie; I like to think in the perspective of an obsessive stalker, as someone who's been obsessed over and stalked.