sunshiline-writes

[sunshiline-writes]

[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns : The Name His Father Gave (a oneshot)

Word Count: 2.7 k

This is a oneshot. It is Solomon's memory of Jesse as a young boy. Jesse is about 12 years old here. I hope you all enjoy!

CW: allusions to minor whump, migraines

It was cold today. A chilly breeze made Solomon shiver. The sky was that cold blue that said that it would be even colder later. The chill was familiar to him, it was less cold than the winters back home. Most winters when he was younger would be filled with snow and the smell of pine. Here it was dry, a slight breeze that carried no scent. Solomon often missed home during these months. He stood out on the porch, staring out at the sleepy ranch that also seemed to be taking in the chill. It seemed that everyone was having trouble waking up, even the animals. The chill made him feel just a little closer to home. 

Xavier came out from inside the house, rubbing the front of his face and shivering slightly. He whistled low. 

“Damn it’s cold, ain’t it Sol?” 

Solomon forced a smile, “Yes. It is. It’s nice.” 

“I suppose it’s nothing compared to what you're used to huh?” Xavier said, rubbing his

hands together and blowing the hot air from his breath into them. “Do me a favor and wake up Jesse in an hour or so? He’s got chores to do.” 

Solomon gave him an inquisitive look. Xavier laughed slightly, suppressing a yawn. 

“Figured he could sleep in a little, too cold right now for him,” he explained. Then he waved at Solomon as he walked down the steps. “Just an hour though. Don’t let him sleep till noon, kid can sleep like the dead if we let him.” 

Jesse was a fairly new addition to the farm. The kid had come in a year and a half ago. Half dead from starvation and grief. His mother, Xavier's sister, had died. Solomon had met her once or twice. Jesse too. Ximena was a sickly little thing, but with a soft, hopeful disposition. She had dark, black curls and bright green eyes. Solomon had been checking her over after a nasty bout of pneumonia, making sure her lungs were healing right. Jesse had been next to them the whole time, asking questions and walking around them to look from different angles. Curious, talkative, intelligent, still had light in his eyes. 

It had taken weeks of making the boy sip at broth and slowly work up to solid foods again. Xavier had handed the boy off to Solomon for the first month or so. He wondered if it was his own grief that had created a degree of separation in the two of them. Solomon tried not to think about it too much. He focused on getting Jesse better.

 It had turned out that the boy was deathly afraid of water, or being wet in any capacity. Solomon had taken a wet rag to clean the boy once and he screamed so loud that Solomon had gotten disoriented. There were certain things that he recognized in the boy from the men he had helped in the war. The same wide eyed expression. Same terrified screams in dreams. He’d asked Xavier what exactly happened, but neither him or the boy seemed keen to talk about it.

 It was strange and awful to see the young boy so haunted. For the first couple of months, Jesse said not one word to him. Not anything that wasn’t “no”, “yes” and “leave me alone”. Solomon had been patient, waiting for him to start talking again. Eventually he did. Solomon remembered the day clearly. 

He’d been cooking dinner, a vegetable stew for them all. Game had been low that year. Jesse sat at the kitchen and just started to talk. It was like the boy had just rediscovered his voice and wanted to use it as much as possible. He said a lot without saying anything at all. Talking mindlessly about a stray dog that used to walk around his hometown. Solomon didn’t stop him, he didn’t have the heart to. 

Jesse started to come around more and so did Xavier who had thrown himself into the working with the cattle. It was a lot more that they started all having meals together. Jesse talking over everyone at the table while Xavier sighed. It had been good for a while. Now Jesse was working with the ranch hands. He helped them fix the fences, clean out the stalls and whatever else was needed to be done. Jesse was a hard worker, following Xavier’s footsteps in throwing himself into work. Supposedly to forget. It wasn’t until the ranch hands had started to complain about the smell that things got bad again. Jesse simply refused to bathe, or anything of the sort. When he or Xavier tried to coax him into it, he ran, or shut the door to his room and put the dresser in front of the door. Xavier had gotten tired of it and had grabbed Jesse like a sack of potatoes one day, and threw him straight into the tub, clothes and all. The kid had shrieked like a wild pig and Solomon felt his heart in his throat as Xavier half drowned him. 

Jesse didn’t talk for days after that. 

Solomon tried not to think about all the things that happened after that. The bruises and the black eye he’d seen on the boy at times. The light that was still in his eyes had been slowly fading and Solomon was powerless to stop it. He didn’t know how. A conversation? Begging him to just give the boy some time. Solomon just couldn’t bring himself to take that chance. It could make things worse. For himself and the boy. 

Solomon went inside, the chill finally had gone into his bones. He set a kettle on the stove and filled it with water. Then he started the fire below to heat it up. He sighed softly and finally made his way up the steps to Jesse’s room. First, he knocked on the door, then he turned the knob. Peeking his head in, he saw Jesse sitting on the bed, hunched over a bucket. 

“Jesse?” 

Jesse lifted his head slightly, and the boy squinted at him. His eyes were sunken in and his face was staunchly pale. “I’ll be right out,” Jesse mumbled, voice strained and shaky. 

Solomon walked in, immediately going over to him, reaching out to try and touch his forehead. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest when Jesse flinched away. Giving him a look of apprehension. His face paled even more and he leaned into the bucket, retching. “I’m going to touch your forehead to see if you have a fever Jesse,” Solomon stated, giving no room for argument. He pressed his hand against his forehead, frowning. No fever. In fact, the boy was cold, clammy. His whole body shook. “Jesse what’s going on?” 

“N-nothing,” he stammered out, one hand going to rub at his face, “I just need a second.” 

“Jesse,” Solomon prodded, hand moving away from his forehead. Gently, he cupped his cheek and Jesse lifted his head to meet Solomon's eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong so I can help you.” 

“My head hurts,” he said softly, glancing at the door. 

“Don’t worry about Xavier, you’re not working today. Can you tell me more?” 

“I dunno, jus’ hurts, I feel like I’m gonna puke.” 

Solomon hummed, frowning slightly, “Where is the headache?” 

Jesse gave him a confused look for a moment, trying hard to think about the question before he pressed two fingers to his right temple, “Righ’ here. It’s all over my head but feels like something stabbing me right here.”  

A migraine then. Solomon gently took the bucket from Jesse, placing it on the ground. Jesse whined slightly, curling up on himself, hunching over his stomach. Slowly, Solomon grabbed the boy’s shoulder and pushed him to lay down. This was much to Jesse’s dismay, who attempted to argue, opening his mouth, before shutting it. He maneuvered himself to lay on his side. His expression shifted from pained to worried. 

“Xavier’s gonna be mad at me,” Jesse whispered. 

“I’ll tell him you’re not feeling well,” Solomon assured, gently running a hand through Jesse’s greasy curls. He really wished he would wash himself. 

“He won’t believe me,” he pressed, biting his lip. 

“He will if it’s me,” said Solomon, sighing. He would have to do a bit of convincing, but Xavier would give in if he pressed enough. Hopefully. Xavier’s moods seemed to be more fickle than usual since his sister died. Solomon half expected it, but not this bad. He’d known for a long time now that Xavier was, not a great man. He’d seen terrible things, torture and death, all the hands of Xavier. Maybe it was a blind hope that Xavier would act just a little kinder to his sister's child. 

Jesse squeezed his eyes shut, groaning in pain. Solomon knew his mother suffered from them too. He’d given her medicine for them once, a very, very low dose of ergot tea. Too much would poison her, so he gave her the minimum. His other suggestion was a wet rag over the eyes to keep the light from coming in. That would be impossible for Jesse. 

Lavender and ginger root tea could work. It would at the very least relax him a bit. Solomon considered giving him some cough syrup. That had a sleep inducing effect, but he feared the boy might refuse due to the taste. There was nothing much he could do other than make some tea and hope that Jesse slept it off. He wondered vaguely if Jesse knew how to deal with them due to his mothers previous condition. 

“Jesse, do you remember what your mother did for her migraines?” 

Jesse glanced at the door again, as if Xavier would pop up at any moment. He curled around himself tighter, knees up to his stomach, hands balling into fists. 

“Jesse?” Solomon pressed again. 

“He don’ like it when I talk about her to much,” he whispered before burying his face into the duvet.  

His heart skipped a beat. Would Xavier truly be that cruel? To not even let Jesse utter a word about his own mother? Was it grief? Unable to hear about her in any capacity because the pain was too much? Solomon didn’t know. But Xavier was haunted, Jesse was too. There was a spark of anger in him. Why did it matter if Xavier was haunted? He took the responsibility to care for his nephew. When someone has a child in their care, their own feelings and needs become secondary. That was how it should be. Xavier had never been one to put others before himself. As soon as Xavier decided to take in Jesse, his priority should have been helping the boy get better, his own grief should have come later. 

“You can talk about her to me. Always. She was a good woman.” 

“She was,” Jesse agreed softly. It took him a few times of opening and closing his mouth. Fighting some internal battle before he finally spoke. “She used to use the meds you gave her. Make tea. The wet rag thing. But.. but I can’t-” 

“Shh, I know you can’t, I won’t make you.” 

It was heartbreaking when Jesse pressed his palms to his eyes and pressed in, sucking in air through his teeth. The kettle whistle blew and Solomon moved to stand. He heard Jesse whimper and Solomon turned to him. “I’ll be back. I’m just going to make you some tea first okay?” 

The watering eyes that stared at him, finally broke him into pieces. The kid was so young. Obviously been through something traumatic and was brought into a house full of violence. Solomon would have to watch Xavier change him, like he’d changed everyone around him. He always saw it, the people around Xavier tended to follow him into darkness. Jesse was going to be a part of it. Following his uncle down the dark path that had been spread out for him. How was he going to know anything else? It wasn’t Solomon’s job to lead him down the right path. He wouldn’t waste his time trying. Xavier would just turn his attempts into something dark and twisted like he always did. Solomon couldn’t save him. He couldn’t even bring himself to try. The one thing he could do, was give him a few spots of light in the darkness. Like now as he walked and made the tea. It had to be just right for him, or else it would never work. Just enough lavender to calm him, enough ginger to settle his stomach. If he didn’t, he’d have to make it again until it was right. He only remade it twice, before bringing a cup to Jesse. Helping him sit up to drink it. Jesse was surprisingly okay with all the help, letting Solomon gently maneuver him, helping him. Usually the kid was always wanting to do everything himself. Independent and determined. Solomon did what he could. He always did what he could. It was all he could do. It was all he could ever do. 

“Solomon,” Jesse whispered, staring up at him, shaking him out of his ruminations, “my mom had headaches. She died. Am I going to die too?” 

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re going to be just fine.” 

“Do you promise?” 

How was he supposed to answer the question? What could he say to sever the tension that they both could feel rising in the air? 

“You’re not going to die Jesse,” he assured, “You’ll live a long life of whatever you choose. Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.” 

“The way it’s supposed to,” Jesse repeated to himself, before flipping himself over to face the wall. 

“Rest Jesse, you’ll feel better after some sleep.” 

There was no response for a while and Solomon counted the boy's breaths. When they evened out, Solomon assured himself the boy was fine and asleep. He wished well for him. Standing up, he walked to the door. As he opened it, Jesse spoke again. 

“Solomon. What’s my name?” 

Turning toward him, door still half way open, Solomon hummed inquisitively. He was unsure of what he meant.

“Jesse Reede,” he answered carefully. 

“Not that one,” the boy said softly, “the one my father gave me.” 

Now it was Solomon's turn to fear Xavier. That was something that Xavier had insisted on. If Jesse was going to live with him, he would take Xavier’s name. Solomon had pathetically tried to convince Xavier otherwise. Xavier wouldn’t hear any of it. The desperation for an heir was that strong. Someone to take over the ranch, deal with the business end. So far, Xavier had none of his own. He hadn’t even found a wife yet. Though, since he’d taken in Jesse, Solomon had become increasingly grateful that Xavier didn’t have any kids. None of his own at least. 

  Solomon didn’t want to know what Xavier would do if he encouraged this behavior. The need to hear something from his own life. To have the one piece of his actual father that he had. Jesse didn’t even have any memories of him. All he had was the name. Well, and the fact that Jesse was practically a miniature version of Abraham. All red hair and freckles. He had his fathers looks, but his mothers eyes. 

“Jesse Ricardo McCellan,” Solomon answered. 

There was a long bit of silence between them before the quiet response came. 

“Thank you.” 

Don’t thank me, Solomon thought to himself. I can’t help you. Not in any way that is meaningful. God what had happened to him? Had he really lost that much faith in Xavier? Or had he lost that faith in himself? Faith that even the smallest amount of good could make a difference. He felt powerless to his own change. Maybe he would never come back from this. He’d stay forever jaded and powerless. The thought brought a sinking feeling in his chest. He pushed it away as he closed the door to Jesse’s room. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. It did nothing to settle the uneasiness in his chest. 

Solomon could not save the boy. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to try.  ____

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[sunshiline-writes]

Withdraw

Part 2 of the Professional//Victim + In The Woods Somewhere crossover series The Professionals

~

Tommy spent the rest of the day outside, between lying in the sun and walking laps around the property. It felt like a dream after being in the hole for so long. Well, he assumed it was long - he had no way of knowing how much time had passed since Caius took away the last of his light. 

He’d been outside for a couple of hours before he realized it might look bad to Fletcher. If they suspected he was trying to plan an escape, they might take away this freedom just as fast as they had given it. Tommy stood in front of the lodge, taking slow, even breaths to try to steel himself. 

He finally ventured inside, nervous to walk through the house alone to try to find Fletcher. Luckily, they were in the kitchen, cooking something that reminded Tommy how hungry he was. He hadn’t dared take anything, even after Fletcher said he could. It felt like a trap. 

Fletcher glanced in his direction. “What’s up?”

Oh. Tommy immediately forgot what he had prepared to say.

“I uh– I guess I just wanted to…check in. Do you need– do you want me to help with dinner? Or…anything else?..” He cringed internally, but offered Fletcher a timid smile. Please, please like me.

“Mm, no, I’m just cooking for myself right now,” Fletcher said. 

“Oh, okay. I’ve just been outside, you have really - the grounds are really beautiful.”

“I’m glad you appreciate it. Have you eaten yet?”

“Uh…no, not yet.” The idea of taking his own food sounded infinitely daunting. Caius had been very strict on that, and it felt wrong now to assume what he could eat, and when. Tommy fidgeted uncomfortably, wrapping his arms around himself like a shield.

Fletcher said nothing. They retrieved two bowls from the cabinet, filled one for themself, then dished the remainder into the second. It was smaller, but still enough to be a decent serving. They picked both up and held the smaller one towards Tommy.

Tommy looked at the food. Steaming, vibrant vegetables tossed with rice. His stomach growled loud enough he was sure Fletcher heard it. He looked up at Fletcher, trying to read them, to see if this was real. They just waited.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tommy reached for the bowl, and Fletcher pulled it back. Tommy snapped his hand back like Fletcher had tried to bite him.

“I’m being nice,” Fletcher informed him. “I told you to eat hours ago. I’m not cooking all your meals for you. I’m cutting you some slack because you’re new here. But you need to feed yourself. Understand?”

“Yes, Fletcher.” Tommy swallowed nervously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to… overstep.”

“I told you more than once that you can get your own food from the kitchen.”

They held out the bowl. Tommy haltingly reached for it again, and this time Fletcher let him take it. 

“I’m sorry… thank you,” he added timidly. The bowl was warm in his hands, and the smell was making his mouth water. 

“Do I eat at the table?”

“Sure,” Fletcher said, heading off towards the couch. “Wherever. You can eat in your room, just bring your dirty dishes back.”

Tommy absconded to his room to eat. Sitting at the table felt like too much. He snuck his dishes to the sink and sequestered himself back into his room until nightfall, just sitting at the window, trying to drink in the dream while it lasted. 

When it started to grow late, his meditation was interrupted by a knock on the door. When Fletcher entered, Tommy scrambled to his feet.

“Stand down there, soldier, I just brought you some necessities. Since apparently they sent you without anything but the clothes on your back, I put together a little pack for you.” Fletcher opened the bag and showed him - shampoo, conditioner, deodorant,  a bar of soap, a toothbrush, tooth paste, dental floss, antibiotic ointment, and a big box of bandaids.

Right. Still going to beat the shit out of me. Don’t get too comfy, Tommy chided himself, but accepted the pack gratefully. 

“I don’t – I don’t know what to say, thank you,” he told Fletcher, hugging the bag to his chest. 

“There’s some clothes in the dresser. Should fit you, sort of.” 

Tommy nodded, thanking them again. Fletcher made a vague grunt of acknowledgement and left. He found a pair of gym shorts and a soft tee to sleep in, both baggy on him, but good enough. Fletcher didn’t lock the door to Tommy’s bedroom when they left, or even after he showered and brushed his teeth. Tommy couldn’t bear to turn the lights off, so he sat in bed with them on, anxiously waiting to see if Fletcher would lock his door. He was still waiting for the sound of that click when he finally fell asleep.

~

He woke up early on his own. It took him a minute to remember where he was, all that had transpired yesterday. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d fallen asleep without a heavy dose of meds from Sam. He wished he had some now, a thought that had occurred to him numerous times while he had sat vigilant the night before. He wasn’t in any real pain, other than the usual aches he had from things that never healed quite right. The meds still offered comfort, the best break he could get from his reality. 

Through the window, he saw the grounds illuminated in a dull blue light. Sunrise hadn’t broken yet. Maybe it was the new surroundings, maybe it was a hanging fear of Caius coming for him – whatever it was, Tommy felt sick to his stomach with anxiety. He decided to get up and make his way downstairs to get a jump on the day. If he showed Fletcher that he was useful, then maybe they would maintain their mercy on him for a little longer.

It felt good – or, at least, better – to do something. He found an assortment of cleaning supplies in the cabinet under the sink, and got to work. Without knowing Fletcher’s schedule yet, he wasn’t sure how long he would have, but he was hellbent on doing the most thorough job he could. Everything was wiped down twice, every corner and crease scrubbed to perfection. Tommy was still furiously wiping at the grouting between the shower tiles when the door to the bathroom swung open. 

“Uh…okay.” He recognized the trainee at the door, the only woman he’d seen around the lodge. Her hair was tied in a bun that more resembled a rat’s nest on top of her head, and she still had sleep in her eyes. She stepped back out the door, turning her head to call out–

“Fletcher! Your boy is taking up the bathroom!”

Tommy’s eyes went wide, still clutching the sponge when he raised his hands in a supplicant gesture. “No, wait, please don’t get–”

Fletcher appeared in the doorway, eyeing the disheveled Tommy standing in the bathtub. They looked over the bathroom he had already cleaned with a charming look of utter boredom.

“You. Let them use the bathroom.”

“Of course– I mean, yes Fletcher,” Tommy stumbled over himself, rushing to wipe the bleach from his hands and fleeing the bathroom while they waited. 

“You can finish it later, it’s a bloodbath trying to get in there in the mornings. Go put some proper clothes on and get breakfast, I have tasks for you today.” 

Tommy nodded eagerly and retreated to his room. He was already sweating, did Fletcher turn the heat on in the night or something? But when he wiped the sweat away, his skin felt clammy. He did his best to clean himself up a little, giving the dresser a quick rummage for clothes. 

He settled on a pair of jeans and an old shirt with a car on it, boasting the Ford brand. While Tommy was not loyal to any particular car manufacturer, it felt like a little link to his home back in Detroit. Maybe that made it a lucky shirt – and he could really use whatever luck he could get for his first full day with Fletcher. Everything was still big on him, but he found a belt in the bottom drawer that helped. He took a deep breath before heading to the kitchen, scared to keep Fletcher waiting too long. 

Having options to choose from for breakfast was a little overwhelming. He settled on a bowl of cereal and an apple. Sitting at the table with Fletcher helped a little - there had been very few times in the last five years that Tommy had eaten a meal without Caius’s supervision. Still, he bounced his leg under the table, and his anxiety nagged at him. 

Am I chewing too loud? What does Fletcher want me to do? Are they unhappy with how I was cleaning the bathroom? Sweat dewed on his forehead while he struggled to get his meal down, even though everything tasted good. Fletcher even let him drink coffee, which he immediately burned his tongue on, eager as he was to get to drink it again.

Afterwards, Fletcher presented him with a list. 

“Clean up the kitchen. Anything that doesn’t fit in the dishwasher needs to be hand washed, and don’t forget to wipe down the counters. Then start on the list. The order doesn’t matter, other than doing the dusting before you do the floors. I don’t care when you break for lunch, just don’t let me catch you slacking off for too long. I expect everything to be finished before dinner. If you have any questions, come find me, I’ll be with the students. Capiche?”

Tommy read through the list. Dust, scrub the floors, weed the crops, lunch, water everything in the greenhouse, clean the bathrooms on the middle floor and upstairs, clean up after dinner. It sounded doable - though the weeding could take a long time, depending on how bad it was. He tried to remember if he had seen many when he looked at the gardens yesterday – it couldn’t have been bad, he probably would have noticed that. Right?

He worked through the kitchen, trying to do as thorough a job as possible, as fast as possible. He upended the toaster over the sink, giving the bottom a few slaps to empty the crumbs out before wiping it down and replacing it. Dishes were rinsed with hot water before being loaded into the dishwasher, and he managed to slip the broom underneath the fridge while he was sweeping. There was an overflow of dishes from a day or two of neglect, so he was left with a lot of handwashes, which he polished dry. After a lot of rummaging in the cabinets, he eventually found where each thing went, or at least an approximation. 

Dusting next, afterwards floors, by then the bathrooms should be mostly clear - and he had a head start on one. He dusted furiously, straining on the tips of his toes to reach the top of the ceiling fan blades. Everything got a once over with the duster, and then again by hand with a paper towel, spraying any surface that could take it with cleaner. It was odd using real cleaners again - he’d been long banned from most anything other than vinegar and baking soda. Nothing that could put him out permanently if he drank it. 

He was soaked with sweat already before he moved down to the floor to scrub. No mop, just crawling around on his hands and knees to polish the wooden floors. The fumes from the lemon cleaner stung his eyes. With only a fitful night of sleep, his weariness was quickly catching up to him. At the same time, he was fervently anxious, buzzing with nervous energy. Jittery and exhausted, always a winning combo.

Tommy finished the main living room, his arms sore and knees aching already. He flexed his hands open and closed, trying to regain feeling. He kneeled on the floor and looked at the scrubber, and back up at all the flooring he still had to do, and a frustration welled up inside of him.

What stupid motherfucker buys a big fancy cabin they don’t even take their boots off in, and doesn’t own a mop. Invest in a goddamn Swiffer. How useless do you have to be to not even keep the bare minimum of cleaning supplies? Is that going to be my role here, being a housewife to replace your mommy doing everything for you?!

The moment passed, and he was a little taken aback by himself. Fletcher obviously wasn’t…whatever that was. They raised all of those crops, for fuck’s sake. 

Pace yourself better. We just need a little - a super quick break. Grab some water. 

Tommy set his supplies to the side and slipped into the kitchen. Unfortunately, he was not alone there, as a student was helping themselves to a late morning snack. Tommy had seen him yesterday, but steered clear. He was tall with a little bit of bulk, the poster boy of frat bros who’d recently gotten really into crossfit. His wavy hair was long on top, buzzed into a severe fade to the nape of his neck.

And he was making a goddamn mess.

A knife handle smeared with jelly stuck out of a jar of peanut butter on the counter, crumbs decorating the counter Tommy had just worked so hard to polish. He had a plate out, but opted to eat leaning against the counter instead, letting crumbs and drips of jam fall where they may on the newly cleaned floor. 

Tommy stared at him for a moment in disbelief. Here was some real, shameless laziness to be mad about, but what could he say? He considered turning and leaving to drink from a bathroom faucet, but the trainee had spotted him. Nervously, Tommy made his way to the fridge to find a pitcher of filtered water he’d spotted earlier. 

The trainee watched him with open curiosity as Tommy approached the refrigerator with the tribulation of a tightrope walker. When he extracted the pitcher, victorious, he peered inside to find it had been fridged empty. Tommy stared at it, dumbfounded, before raising his gaze to the sink, only a few feet from the other resident. 

It was with a dramatic resignation that Tommy approached to refill it. His hands trembled holding it under the tap, wrists tired, already sore.

“I’m Billy,” the student offered. Tommy gave his general direction a curt nod, a thin smile. 

“So uh…you live here now?”

Tommy set the pitcher on the counter, waiting for it to trickle through the filter.

“Yeah, um, I guess.”

Billy munched at his sandwich. There was a smear of peanut butter in his short beard.

“Why are you wearing a collar?”

Tommy froze, a deer in the headlights. He had assumed Fletcher had offered some form of explanation to the trainees. Or maybe they did, and Billy was trying to fuck with him. The familiar weight of his collar around his neck suddenly felt heavy, sweaty, conspicuous. The barbed tines inside itched.

“If it’s a sex thing, you can just say so. You look like you’re into some freaky shit.” Billy wasn’t subtle about checking him out, his eyes sweeping over Tommy with a lurid gaze. Maybe Tommy could have fielded it, if he was still under Caius, but what Fletcher expected from him remained an enigma. Should he ignore it? Dispute it? Agree with it? Excuse himself? Fletcher hadn’t said anything about how Tommy was supposed to treat the students.

“Jesus dude, chill. I was just asking.” Tommy hadn’t realized he was breathing hard until Billy raised his hands innocently.

“I’m – I’m sorry, I don’t think – I’m not sure if Fletcher…” Billy raised an eyebrow, waiting for Tommy to form a complete thought. Tommy waited for one, too. The awkward pause only grew more awkward. 

“I just – came here for some water.” Tommy ended weakly. He snatched a glass from where he’d put them away earlier and poured some water in with shaky hands, spilling some on the counter. He wiped it up hastily with a towel, cursing under his breath. 

“You look crazy tense. When’s the last time you got laid?”

“No,” Tommy snapped. Simple, but an unconscionable protest. He slapped a hand over his mouth and retreated, beelining for the bathroom. He enjoyed his hard-earned glass of water sitting in the half-cleaned tub, behind the curtain, hiding from the world as best he could behind a door with no lock.

His frantic compulsion to please Fletcher forced him out after only a brief break. He washed his face in the sink, sweat beading on his brow almost instantly. His head felt foggy, and a throbbing headache was blossoming in his skull. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment, before wringing his hands out as if to banish his shakes. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Fletcher was waiting for him.

Fletcher looked like they were about to say something, but stopped when they saw Tommy’s face. It was pale and sweaty, dark curls sticking to his forehead, deep shadows under his eyes. Not a huge difference from his usual demeanor, but enough to give them some pause.

“You good, dude?”

“Yes,” Tommy said quickly. Then, “Um, actually, I just have a headache. I was wondering if I could maybe get some painkillers, please?”

“Yeah, sure,” Fletcher said, still eyeing Tommy skeptically. 

They led him back to the kitchen. Billy was gone, but his mess remained behind. Tommy could feel his heart racing. Should he tell Fletcher that he had cleaned the kitchen and Billy had messed it up again? Or would they get mad that he was blaming one of their trainees?

Fletcher glanced around but made no comment. They opened up a cabinet and fished out a bottle of ibuprofen, dumping two small red pills in Tommy’s hand.

Ibuprofen was not exactly what Tommy had hoped for. They may as well have stuck a bandaid on his forehead for all the good it was going to do him.

“Thank you,” Tommy murmured, staring down at the pills in his palm.

“You need water?”

“Oh...right. I got it.” 

Tommy picked up the pitcher on the counter and shakily refilled his glass. He tossed the pills into his mouth and drank them down. He forced a smile to Fletcher.

“All good. Thanks.”

Everything went blurry, then sideways. The ground hit him hard.

Tommy laid on the floor staring up at the starburst of the ceiling light. Fletcher appeared over him, lightly slapping his cheek.

“Hey, hey, you with me?”

“Uh… uh-huh,” Tommy managed. 

He started to stand up, but the room swam, and he fell back with a groan. He felt feverish, his short break hadn’t helped the sweating at all. His head pounded like a hammer to his temples. He felt so weak he could barely move, yet he trembled uncontrollably. 

Tommy couldn’t deny it any longer. He’d tried to dismiss it, tried to power through, but he knew this feeling - it was unmistakable. It didn’t always happen when Caius took his pain meds away, depending on where in the healing cycle he was, if he’d been tapered off slowly - but when they cut him off cold-turkey, things got bad fast. He just wanted so badly to prove to Fletcher that he was worth keeping around. Instead, he was twitching uselessly at their feet on the kitchen floor, a junkie going through withdrawals.

Fletcher sighed, kneeling down over him. “Alright, alright, c’mere.” They pulled Tommy by his arms to sit up, hunched over his lap limply like a ragdoll. With a surprising swiftness, Fletcher pulled him over their shoulder and lifted him up in a fireman’s carry. Tommy squeaked, dizzied from the rapid shift, and swallowed back nausea as Fletcher carried him off. He was deposited unceremoniously into his bed with a bounce and a yelp.

“Bag, please, bag-” Tommy stammered, but he only lasted long enough to crawl to the edge of the bed before retching onto the floor. 

“Great,” Fletcher mused dryly, and walked out, shutting the door behind them.

They only left Tommy to wallow a few minutes before they returned with paper towels and a cleaner Tommy had left in the living room.

“I’ll clean it up,” Tommy mewled, but when he reached for the paper towels, Fletcher slapped his hands away easily. Chastised, he curled his hands against his chest, whimpering in distress when Fletcher did a quick clean up. 

Oh, they’re going to leave me to die in the woods for sure now - it should never be their duty to clean up after me. Fletcher’s aid had immediately iced Tommy’s agitation, leaving him feeling remorseful and meek. 

“‘M so sorry,” he slurred miserably. Fletcher didn’t answer, just removed the soiled paper towels from the room without a word.

They returned a few minutes later with a water bottle, a sleeve of crackers, and a small garbage can that they placed beside his bed. 

“Here, just, stay hydrated. I can make some ginger tea or something if you still feel… nauseous…” The end of Fletcher’s sentence trailed as they looked Tommy over. “You’re shaking real hard.”

Tommy wrapped his arms around himself as if he could hold himself still.

“Sorry,” he forced out through a clenched jaw. He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. Being too sick to work?

Fletcher placed their hand against his forehead. 

“When did you start feeling sick?”

“This… morning.”

“Hm.” 

Fletcher stood there watching him for a moment, then sighed and sat down at the foot of the bed, drawing their phone from their pocket and dialing a number. There was a moment while they waited for an answer, then Tommy heard one half of their conversation.

“Hey, I got a guy here who got really sick all of a sudden. He just got here yesterday and seemed fine then. Feels like he’s running a fever, definitely sweaty, shaking, throwing up, headache, passed out for a second, looked like. Seems kinda out of it. He’s not like sneezing or coughing, though. Hey, anything else?”

Fletcher poked Tommy in the leg to signify they were talking to him.

“Um…” Tommy tried to take stock. He tried to remember the symptoms Fletcher had already said. “Hurts.”

“Hurts?”

Tommy nodded. The motion made his head swim.

“Okay, uh, body aches I guess,” Fletcher added to the person on the phone. 

Fletcher pulled one of Tommy’s arms toward them and pressed their fingers to his wrist. After a moment they said, “It’s elevated.”

Fletcher listened to the person on the other end, then reached over and pulled Tommy’s eyelids open, looking closely.

“Yeah, I think so.”

They released, and Tommy squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them, Fletcher was pinching the bridge of their nose.

“Yeah, I was worried you would say that.” Fletcher moved the phone away from their mouth and spoke to Tommy. “You on drugs?”

Tommy’s mouth flapped like a fish out of water. They said on drugs like someone in a DARE psa, and he didn’t want to get in trouble so quickly. But it would be worse if he lied. It was obvious now, so he should just cooperate. Maybe… maybe Fletcher would get him what he needed if he was forthright about it.

Tommy nodded an affirmative.

“What were you on?”

“I, uh, I don’t know, exactly,” Tommy responded sheepishly. “Mostly, painkillers and sedatives. Sometimes….some coke, to wake me up. I just took whatever they gave me, I don’t - I didn’t ask questions. I think… I think the doctor started, um, overdosing me on purpose.”

Fletcher stared at Tommy a moment before speaking into the phone.

“I’m gonna have to call you back.”

Fletcher ended the call. They began dialing a new number, walking out of the room as they did so. They didn’t particularly want a chat with Caius, but it seemed to be in order. 

“Tommy’s not giving you trouble, is he?” A silky voice asked when he picked up the call. Caius oozed charisma - an insufferable tryhard at his best.

“Well, he was perfectly well behaved before he started going through fucking withdrawals,” Fletcher said as they shut the door to their office behind them. “I need to know what drugs he was taking since you and your associates conveniently forgot to mention this.”

“Oh, well, we have a doctor on staff who provides cutting edge medical care-”

“What. Fucking. Drugs,” Fletcher cut him off.

“I’m saying,” Caius sounded annoyed, “that I didn’t administer the medications myself beyond some basic painkillers.”

Fletcher took a breath through their nose. “Then put me in contact with the doctor.”

“I’m not at liberty to be giving out the personal information of-”

“I will come to your fucking house!” Fletcher yelled through the phone. “Meadowview Community. Only house in an abandoned neighborhood development, props on pulling that off. You sold me a defective product. Don’t fuck around with me right now.”

“...One moment.”

There was shuffling and muttering on the other line before a new voice spoke into the receiver.

“This is Dr. Sam Snow, how can I help you?”

Fletcher blinked. “Were you fucking sitting next to Caius this whole time?”

“Well-”

“Put the phone on speaker. I want a list.”

Sam sighed, and Fletcher could hear him shifting in his seat on the other end.

“I make customized blends and dosages to fit the specific needs of-”

“Of what?” Fletcher interrupted again. “I don’t need the sales pitch, I need names of drugs.”

“Some of them are pre-market, the names wouldn’t be of any use to you. What do you need them for? Maybe I can help if I know what you’re looking for.”

“Yeah, the guy you sold me is going through withdrawals, so I need to know what he was taking.”

There was some muttering on the other end, muffled like a hand was held over the microphone. 

“Mostly opioids, some SSRI’s, and then some stimulants and depressants to keep the yoyo going. Give him some methadone to wean him off, he’ll be fine. How bad off is he?”

“Shaking, passing out, throwing up, running a fever,” Fletcher rattled off the symptoms. “You said he was on SSRI’s?”

Caius said something unintelligible, and they both giggled. 

“Uh, yeah, just to keep him from, you know. Kermiting-the-frog suicide. You might want to watch out for that.”

Fletcher blew out a long breath. “Okay. Methadone. Anything else I should know? How often was he taking stimulants - are those going to be a concern?”

“Eh, probably not. Towards the end there, we were kinda just keeping him in storage, so he’s just been doped down.”

“Right. Well. If there’s anything else I should know, you should tell me now. You don’t want me to have to call you again.”

Fletcher balanced their tone between civil and threatening. There was a long pause on the other end.

“...Like, about drugs?”

“About anything! If I need to know something, tell me now.”

“Ehh….not really? If you ever want some more though, I know all of Tommy’s favorites.”

“Did Tommy ask about me?” Caius spoke up, his voice carefully dry. He could play casual all he wanted, Fletcher wasn’t fooled.

“Why, did you want him to?”

Whatever Caius might have said, Sam interrupted. “We don’t care. Did you need anything else?” 

“That’s all.” In the interest of being diplomatic, they forced out a, “Thanks,” before ending the call. 

They called Estrada back.

“Do you have any methadone?”

~

Fletcher slipped back into Tommy’s room, looking something akin to apologetic. It set off alarm bells in Tommy’s head. If his heart wasn’t already racing from the withdrawals, it would be now.

“So… here’s the thing,” Fletcher began. “I can’t get you methadone until tomorrow at the earliest. So we’re just gonna have to tough this out together.”

It took a moment for Tommy to process what they were telling him, trying to think through a haze. 

“Can I have something else? Just, a tiny bit to get me through, until then? Please?”

“Thing is, I don’t know what exactly you were taking, so I don’t really want to give you anything else. I don’t know what’s in your system right now - it’d be better to just flush everything and get a clean start.”

There was a terrible dread in Tommy’s expression for just a moment, before he reflexively masked himself with a poker face. He curled up on his side, looking up at the window, his throat too thick to reply.

“Alright, well, I’ll check up on you. Drink water, try to sleep it off for now. I’ll be back around for the thick of it.”

Before Fletcher could head for the door, Tommy pushed himself to sit up.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

Fletcher hesitated.

“What do I have to do?”

“You’re gonna just have to let it run its course-”

“No, no - to get the drugs,” Tommy stammered out. “What do you want me to do?”

Fletcher stared at him. “What did I just say?”

Tommy looked down at his hands, fidgeting. 

“I know,” his voice broke. “But… you could get them. If you wanted. So… just tell me what you want and I’ll-” he swallowed uncomfortably. “-I won’t fight.”

Fletcher looked down at him. “You would do anything?”

“Yes,” Tommy breathed.

“That’s why you need to detox.”

Before Tommy could beg, bargain, or argue, Fletcher left the room.

~

~

~

Taglist: @suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @utopian819 @pretty-face-breaker @thesuffererrrr

Thank you for reading!

[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns #23: On The Horizon

Word Count: 4.7k Previous | Masterlist | Next

Cw: slight suicidal ideation, aftermath of noncon

It took four days for him to wake up fully. By that time, the swelling around his face had gone down and he was left with bruising around his eyes and nose. His lower back hurt something awful and his insides felt like they’d been scraped raw. His insides were scraped raw. There were flashes of what happened, Xavier’s hand on his leg, then in his hair, lips on his throat, something rough and made of metal inside him, his hand pressing against something in his stomach. His brain filtered it out as best it could but there was something missing inside him. 

His body felt empty. There was a big deep pit inside him that had only been growing larger and larger since he first arrived here. The aching numbness of despair ate and gnawed at his very core. He felt like an apple left to rot in the battering sun. Miguel thought, for just a moment, that Xavier had taken the last of him when he left the barn that night. 

That night, it was his birthday. He was twenty-two. Nine years spent afraid and beaten. Six spent raped and used like a toy. But he couldn’t feel anything about that. There was just the numbness, the dark hole in his chest that only got deeper. Maybe Xavier finally killed the human in him. Took the last of Miguel with him when he left the barn. Maybe he was just the dog now. Nothing else left. 

Dead dogs don’t bark. 

He kicked out his feet from under the blanket, the heat was getting to him again. The sweat dripped off him in rivulets and made the blanket stick to his skin. He finally threw it off him and onto the floor. The air was dry, not even a breeze. His body protested as he moved himself onto his back, staring up at the barn rafters. Vision was still slightly blurry, he assumed that was from his eyes being pummeled. It had cleared slowly, over the past two or so days. But he still had fuzz in the corners of his eyes. Miguel had panicked for a moment that he was blind forever. That God had become increasingly more cruel as he got older. If his sight was taken from him as well, where would he be? What was the point then? 

But he wasn’t blind and he wasn’t dead and God was still cruel. 

Maybe God thought it was a funny joke. The fact that he kept on living through awful terrible things. Was it a curse to stay alive for so long? He had thought it was because he had hope for the future, that one day he’d get out of here and live a normal life. Now he couldn’t sit up without his stomach cramping painfully and his back seizing up on him. 

Miguel was useless and a burden at the current moment. If they wanted to leave, he would only slow them down. They could go right now if they wanted. He would watch them go, Henrietta and Solomon, and he would be left behind again. Last time he didn’t really mind, nor was he all that surprised. Not when his hands were on Terrance’s  stomach, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Henrietta mounted the horse and ran out of the barn. But his focus was on his friend. Terrance’s eyes were so afraid, so wide. His hands had covered Miguel’s as they both pressed to try and keep the blood inside. 

It took five minutes for Solomon and Xavier to get there. Xavier had ripped Miguel from Terrance and threw him against one of the stall doors. There was so much screaming and angry words and Solomon working. He didn’t even have it in him to lie. Miguel thought the punishment was simple. He watched Terrance slowly die. The bullet had nicked his liver and he was being poisoned slowly by his own body. Solomon and Miguel could do nothing but keep him company. Miguel was holding his hand when he took his last breath and it was Miguel who buried him underneath the mesquite tree on the top of the hill. Three days of suffering and then a grave on top of a hill. 

Three days of wondering why. Blaming himself, blaming Henrietta, blaming God. Was there really anyone to blame? It was an accident and Henrietta did the smart thing and left. Miguel had waited for a punishment that never really came. Nothing that wasn’t the usual. He expected something bigger. Something like what happened to him four nights ago. Xavier was waiting. Waiting until he got comfortable and when he was the most weakened. He didn’t have his hands like he used to. Could barely push him away, any punches were barely hard enough to bruise. He was malnourished and dehydrated. Miguel was a stray dog laying in wait for someone to kick it a few more times. 

His body was falling apart and he could do nothing about it. Miguel grabbed at his hair, ignoring the pain as he pulled. Then he screamed, something hoarse and raw. His throat burned by the end of it. He took some deep breaths, fighting the urge to throw himself on the floor, to force himself to get up. Do something. Do anything.  

His eyes closed as he tried to calm himself down and when he opened them, he saw curly red hair standing above him. This day couldn’t get any better. He couldn’t take Jesse right now. He’d die. He’d die this time and Jesse would probably laugh. His eyes closed again and he tried to choke back the whimpers at the thought of Jesse only being here for one reason. His whole body tensed as he waited for it to happen, for Jesse’s hand between his thighs and– 

A gentle hand rested on his forehead instead. Miguel opened his eyes, trying hard to focus on Jesse. The hand on his forehead quickly retracted and wiped itself on Jesse’s pant leg. If he was saying something, Miguel couldn’t see it. His vision was still blurry, going in and out of focus. He squinted at Jesse and he could see Jesse turn to leave. 

God had some mercy after all. 

Solomon was the next person he saw. The two braids down on his shoulders as he placed a cool cloth on his forehead. Oh.. he was running a fever. Or he must have been. The world faded in and out of the edges of his vision. Everything melted into one another. Dripping onto his face and it melted into his skin. The hurt faded, his vision did too, the damp cloth removed itself from his forehead. 

Something hot hit the back of his throat and Miguel coughed. His whole body seizing in pain. He turned his face, but the spoon was put to his lips again. It was cooler this time and he was able to drink it down. His world spun, when they finished feeding him, making him lay down again. 

Miguel curled up tight. The blanket reappeared and disappeared. Everything faded in and out. He was dying. He knew he was dying. It was something like Terrance where something inside had been broken and he was slowly bleeding out. There was something wrong with this picture. If he died here, would he see Terrance again? 

He would like that. 

But for now, he would sleep, and maybe, just maybe, he would not wake up. 

____

In the dream there was a lone coyote, staring at him from across the raging river. It turned away from him and he watched it walk into the desert. It threw its head back and even though he could not hear, it howled the song of freedom. The coyote disappeared into the sun rising behind it. The sky erupted into brilliant reds and oranges that stained the silver clouds. 

The dream shifted to the side, sliding out of his vision. 

He stood face to face with a child. The child had brown curls and light brown eyes that were filled with fire. He tilted his head at the child. 

“Who are you?” he signed. 

The child signed back. “I’m you.” 

His memories returned in a whirlwind. Running around him in circles. His father offered Miguel as a way of payment for stolen horses. Because he was worth that much at least. A few horses. Xavier had tied his hands together in front of him, dragging him behind a horse. 

The next memory was of his mother, rubbing his earlobes when he was younger. 

Then he was holding the gun and aiming it at Xavier’s face, feeling the anger well up inside of him. His finger on the trigger and the noticeable lack of kickback as he pulled it. Xavier’s eyes filled with anger. 

Pain flaring in his back with every crack of the whip. 

Solomon lowering the blindfold and releasing the gag. His teeth sinking into Solomon's hand. Grinding his teeth against bone and Solomon’s refusal to pull away until Miguel let go of his hand. 

Teaching Terrance sign language. 

Jesse hovering over him in the barn stall. Breath hot on his neck and stickiness between his legs. 

Terrance beating the absolute shit out of Jesse. 

Henrietta playing her violin, letting him touch the wood as she played. Feeling the vibrations. 

Solomon brushing his hair. 

Terrance’s blood on his hands. 

His hands being crushed under a boot. Nailed to the wall. 

Dirt and oranges. 

Everything surrounded him and it was too much. Too much to remember, so much he wanted to forget. He fell to his knees, hands pulling at his hair and he felt himself scream. Down low from inside his chest. 

The boy gently took Miguel’s face into his hands, eyes determined and full of fire. 

“You are still strong, if you could just remember,” he signed slowly 

“I don’t want to remember, please. Too much has happened.”  

The child gently wiped his tears. “You don’t have to remember it all. Bad things have happened. Bad things will happen. But there is good there too. There will be good again. You can’t give up yet.” 

“I’m tired.” 

“I know you are. I know we are. But giving up is not an option. There is light in your future. This darkness will not last forever. You have people in your heart who you cannot let down.” Solomon, Henrietta, Terrance, his sisters, his brother.  “Yes, them. All of them. Everyone who has helped you survive, you owe it to them to try. Just one more time.” 

Miguel closed his eyes. Remembering every good thing he could about each of them. From Solomon reading to him, to his little brother's smile. 

Just one more time. 

____ Miguel woke up with a gasp. His heart and head were pounding. Mouth filled with cotton. A hand gently laid itself on his chest, keeping him from getting up too fast. He choked on his breath, turning to his side. Rubbing at his eyes, which didn’t hurt as bad as before, he noticed, and opened them. His vision was clear.  

Turning himself on his back again, he noticed it was Henrietta who stood over him. Eyebrows furrowed in concern. She laid the back of her hand on his forehead, it felt cool to the touch. 

“Your fever finally broke,” she signed to him, gently smoothing his hair from his face. She stood up from the side of his cot. He watched her grab a canteen of water. She came back to him and pressed the opening to his lips. Miguel unsteadily grabbed it with his hands as Henrietta tipped it. Cool water filled his mouth and he drank greedily. She pulled it away and he whined lowly.  “Slow down, you’re gonna choke,” she warned him, before she tipped it against his lips again. He forced himself to drink slower, savoring the coolness and fresh taste of the water. 

When he was done, she pulled away. Staring at him with an expression that was something of a mix of worry and relief. 

“How are you feeling? You’ve been out for three days,” she signed, looking him over. 

Miguel thought about it for a moment, his face felt less swollen, his back was less painful as he forced himself to sit up, and the rawness of his insides had depleted some as well. 

“Better than yesterday,” he signed back. “I’ve been sick for? A week?” Miguel asked, frowning. He put his hands in his lap and he stared down at them for a second. They didn’t hurt in the dream. They were normal in the dream. Lifting his gaze back to Henrietta he saw her nod. He took a deep breath before looking around at the barn room. There was a bucket filled with water with a rag over it on the floor. The light shining through the window at the top of the wall was a golden yellow.  

“You were healing the first few days and Solomon said you probably had an infection from whatever Xavier used to..” Henrietta’s hands stopped moving and she shifted in the chair. The chair was new. That wasn’t there before. “I’m so sorry he did that to you. I never thought- he always looked at you, like that but I never thought he’d actually…”  

Miguel reached forward and grabbed Henrietta’s hands in his. He shook his head. It wasn’t her fault. Xavier was always going to do it. There was nothing she could have done. The man always took what he wanted. Miguel was surprised he had waited so long. Henrietta nodded at him, pulling her hands away. She stood up from the chair and licked her lips nervously. 

“I’ll go tell Solomon you’re awake.” 

Yes. Solomon. God he had missed him. Really missed him. Not even for any particular reason. His presence being so far away, knowing he couldn’t even look at him without fear for punishment, was something that ate at him. He supposed that Xavier had to let Solomon see him since he’d been beaten and raped within an inch of his life. Apparently, he had almost died from infection. Maybe he was still dying. Miguel didn’t exactly feel great but he felt awake, aware. More than he had been in a long time. Almost like being blinded had cleared his vision. 

There were still the dull aches from his body, but they were easier to ignore now. He tossed his legs over the cot with a low grunt. It took effort, he was still sore. His lower back protesting against any movement at all. The wood beneath his feet felt warm. Miguel lifted his face to the rafters of the barn and took in a deep breath. It smelled of manure, hay, and dust. This place was never going to smell like home. It never had. But he almost believed it was, he thought that if he had tried to make this home, it would be better. He was wrong. Something moved at the corner of his vision and he turned to see Jesse again. He looked like a wreck. His hair was tousled up like he’d been running his hands through it. There was dirt all over his clothes. It normally wouldn’t be such a sight if Jesse wasn’t staring at him like he’d just seen a ghost. 

Miguel was not dead. Not yet. Jesse needn’t worry about that. Miguel was just too stubborn to die. 

They seemed to stare at each other forever before Jesse finally ran a hand through his hair. Taking the steps to close the space between them. Then Jesse moved his fingers at him. It was so strange, so foreign,  coming from him that Miguel took a second to realize that Jesse was signing at him. Full blown, sign language. His language. How long.. how.. Miguel was on him in seconds, ignoring the pain in his lower back, in his hands. Standing took more effort than he thought it would but he did it anyway. He curled his hands as best he could into fists and struck Jesse wherever he could. Shoulders, chest, back. Everywhere. Jesse stumbled back, grabbing his wrists in one hand, kicking his leg out from under him. He fell hard, head smacking against the ground. Jesse straddled him, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. ”Wanna tell me why the fuck you did that?”

Miguel grunted, the pressure on his pelvis making his eyes water. Jesse, seeming to realize this, lifted his weight and shifted to instead sit on his thighs. He let go of Miguel’s hands and slowly brought his own hands back to himself. “You signed,” Miguel stated forcefully. Growling at Jesse. 

“Yes,” Jesse signed back, shrugging slightly, “I thought you might be able to understand better if I signed.” 

“How long have you fucking known?” 

A look of realization crossed Jesse’s expression before he pressed his lips together in a firm line. “A while,” he signed, “I liked it when you struggled.” 

“Fuck you,” Miguel said, smacking Jesse’s chest once more with a closed fist before leaning his head back on the floor. “You knew this whole time and you didn’t use it because you liked to see me try so hard to understand you.” 

Jesse laughed, he could feel in the way his weight shifted on his thighs. Miguel refused to look at him. Refused to give him the satisfaction. The man leaned in real close, grabbing Miguel’s face, fingers digging into his cheeks as he made Miguel look at him. “You know, I thought the fire died in you a long time ago.”   Just one more time. One more time. 

Suddenly, Jesse’s head snapped upward, and Miguel followed his sight, craning his neck to see Solomon standing at the entrance to the hayloft. He climbed up from the ladder. Expression furious as he started to talk. Miguel couldn’t see what he was saying, but Jesse scrambled away, getting off him and holding his hands up in surrender. Miguel shakily sat up, eyes watching Jesse carefully. 

“He hit me first!- I know.- I know! He literally hit me first.”

He caught the one sided conversation but turned to see Solomon kneeling beside him. Checking him over quietly, wrapping an arm around his waist he finally spoke, “Come on, lets get you back to your cot.” 

Using the arm around his waist to support him, Solomon half lifted, half helped him stand. Walking the few steps toward the cot was more tiring than Miguel would have liked. When Solomon helped him sit down, his stomach turned awfully and his back ached. 

“Did you hit him?” Solomon asked him in sign, before quietly sitting down next to him. 

Miguel looked at Jesse, who had suddenly taken interest in the wall to the left of him. He chewed on his lip looking down at his feet when he answered. 

“He knows sign. He’s known it for years and he just.. He never.. I’m sorry.” 

Solomon stared at him for a moment, before pulling Miguel into a hug. A soft, enclosed space. He was saying something, his chest vibrated with speech. But Miguel just buried his face into Solomon's shirt, hands going under his arms and clutching at the back of his shirt. The older man wrapped a gentle hand on the back of his head. They stayed like that for a moment. Holding each other. Basking in each other's presence which they both went so long without. Solomon was everything. Every good thing that had ever happened here, it had happened when Solomon was near him. He’d never truly appreciated it before. The love. The pure, unconditional love that came from Solomon. Towards him, towards Henrietta. Solomon was the best man he’d ever met. Miguel would never live up to him. Maybe it was worth trying anyway. 

They pulled away at the same time, staring at each other. 

“I thought you were going to die there for a second. You need to rest. The infection seems to have run its course, but we can’t be too careful.” 

Solomon turned toward Jesse, and Miguel followed his eyes. Jesse was talking again, this time signing as he did so. It still filled him with anger. To see his language in Jesse’s hands. Filthy, awful hands that hurt him so badly. Who watched him struggle and attempt to understand. Sometimes, Miguel got tired of translating words into his head. Trying to read and concentrate and then trying to make sense of it. It was exhausting. 

“How are we gonna leave with him barely being able to walk?” 

“We’ll figure something out.” 

“He can’t ride a horse like that.” 

“I know.” 

“We’ve got a week.” 

“I know.” 

“Solomon-” “I know.” 

Miguel frowned, tugging on Solomon's sleeve to grasp his attention. 

“He’s coming with us? To where?” he asked, a sick feeling churning in his gut. Solomon and Jesse exchanged looks. Miguel felt his heart pick up pace, his stomach twist. Jesse was coming with them? They had a plan? Where was he? What was going on? Was this just because he was sick? Or had they been planning behind his back the whole time? “Miguel,” Solomon started. 

“No.” 

“Miguel,” Solomon said again, sighing heavily. “Listen carefully. Henrietta met some people, when you went into town. It’s people she knew when she left. They offered to help. They’re gonna help get us out of here.” 

“How?” 

“Just listen Miguel,” Solomon said, signs more forceful. So forceful that it made Miguel flinch. “I’m sorry, I just need you to understand. We have a date. They’re gonna set the stables on fire, a distraction. Jesse has guns, and-” “Since when is he involved? Why is he coming? Do you know what he’s done? Do you know how much-” “I know Miguel! But he also saved your life. He saved your life. Jesse found you after Xavier, brought you to me. If he hadn’t you would have died. You would have.” 

Miguel bit his lip, anger welling in his chest. God when was the last time he’d been this angry? How long? Years? He wasn’t even this angry when he slammed the shovel over Jesse’s head. That was instinctual, a primal need for survival. This was different, this was pure. A true feeling that he couldn’t shove down into a little box inside his chest. 

His hands clenched into fists on his lap, or something resembling a fist. The anger only grew as Solomon continued to speak. 

“Jesse saved you. He’s only coming with us to the river. Then he’s going off on his own. He wants to leave as bad as the rest of us. Do you understand?” 

“Why are you speaking to me like I’m a child?” Miguel asked suddenly, huffing slightly. “Of course I fucking understand.” 

Solomon stared at him, mouth slightly open in surprise. He could see Solomon swallow before looking down at Miguel’s hands, then his eyes again. 

“You changed. You’re different,” Solomon stated, an expression he’d never seen before on his face. Pride? Determination? Hope? “I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re a child. You’re not. I just, I am worried and I am frustrated. We think you’ll take more time to heal than the time we actually have.” 

A burden again then. Miguel was so tired of being a burden. There was a deep red mass taking a hold of his heart. So big that it was making it hard to breathe, hard to see. “I’ll be fine,” Miguel said, “I can be fine. I’ll push through. I always do.” 

Solomon stared at him, studying him for a moment. Trying to figure out what had changed. Had he changed from this? It was noticeable to them at least. Something inside Miguel had snapped that night and something new was reborn. He was growing teeth. “They’ll set the stables on fire, Jesse has guns. Henrietta will meet us outside the barn with the key to your chain.” 

Miguel thought for a moment and shook his head. “If we’re all meeting here, just shoot through it, it’ll take less time.” 

Solomon looked back at Jesse and Jesse pressed his lips together in a tight line. Thinking for a moment before nodding. “Yeah we can do that. It would be easier,” he agreed. “We can unlock the manacle on the wagon.” 

“Right,” Solomon said, rubbing his face, looking tired. “We’ll get you into the wagon, and Jesse and Henrietta’s people will cover us as we leave. The hope is.. The stables will distract Yardly and the others while we get all our things. Get you in the wagon, just buy us some time.” 

“And then?” 

“Then we run like hell.” 

There was an uneasy silence between them all before Jesse finally decided to leave, to go off and tell Henrietta the new part of the plan. When Jesse left, Miguel felt like he could breathe. Like the very air got cleaner with his absence. The mass in his heart lessened slightly and he leaned back on the cot.  

Solomon sat on the cot next to Miguel, simply staying next to him. Waiting for him to talk. Waiting for him to do something. Finally Miguel turned toward Solomon, his mouth felt dry again. 

“I missed you,” he signed to Solomon, sitting up straight. 

“I missed you too.” 

“A week?” 

“A week. Miguel, I’m sorry.” 

Miguel shook his head, sighing. “No. Don’t be sorry. It’s fine. I don’t think Jesse should come with us. He could be pretending, playing a game. He could be tricking us.”

“He wants to get out of here just as bad as we do. As soon as we hit the river, we’re going different ways. We’re crossing, he’s not.” 

“I don’t think he should come,” Miguel repeated. “He’s coming. He’s one of the only people who can use a gun well. We need him.” 

“We don’t need him, he’s an asshole. He doesn’t deserve to leave.” 

“If he stays he’s dead Miguel.” 

The statement hit him like a train. The exhaustion did too. He’d gotten up too fast, his body felt awful. His hands were shaking.His back ached, and his head where it hit on the floor throbbed. He was starting to form a headache behind his eyes. Pressure building. Solomon gently put a hand on his shoulder and Miguel turned toward him again.  “You need to rest,” he signed, his hand moving to the back of Miguel’s head and he pressed their foreheads together. “Miguel I thought you weren’t going to make it through the night.” 

“I’m here Solomon,” Miguel assured. Just one more time. One more try. He had a reason to hope now. A reason to be here and present. He can’t escape to somewhere in his head this time. He had to be here. He had to. “I’m here.” 

Solomon pulled away, gently trying to make Miguel lay down on the cot. Helping his head onto the pillow and lifting his feet. He curled up on the cot. It smelt like sweat and blood. One day he would sleep in a real bed, or at least, something that didn’t smell like shit. Solomon covered him again with the blanket.

Miguel frowned the pressure behind his eyes building more and he pressed a palm to his eyebrows. The bruising was still there and the pain of pressing against the bruises, dwindled the pressure behind his eyes. Hands gently grabbed his wrists and pulled them away from his face. He was too weak to pull back. “What’s wrong?” 

“I have a headache, it’s nothing. I just need to sleep.” 

Solomon rubbed a thumb over his forehead. Nodding. He started to slowly stand up and Miguel’s hand shot out, grabbing onto Solomon's sleeve. Solomon slowly sat back down, nodding silently. The silent request was loud. Stay. 

He wouldn’t leave, not if he asked. And Miguel didn’t even have to ask. Not really. They were in this together. All or nothing. 

Just one more time. One last time. 

There was hope here. There was something new coming with the horizon. A coyote was howling in the distance. He couldn’t hear it, but he knew.

____

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[sunshiline-writes]

Colors of The End #4: Brown of the Earth

Word count : 2.5k

Cw: minor whump, minor character death, graphic descriptions of a dead body, manipulation, digging a grave, politics, child soldiers.

Benjamin was not a stranger to feeling like he was insufficient at his job. As the train came to a stop, he felt very much like he had failed in more aspects than one. Jeremiah seemed deep in thought as they walked out together, brows furrowed. Benjamin placed a gentle hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. Jeremiah glanced at him and didn’t offer any type of smile like he usually did. 

Jeremiah was the youngest of the three of them. Fourteen seemed like such a young age for someone to be used as a weapon. But the fact of it was that Jeremiah was the strongest out of them. His lightning was something to be afraid of and even though he was young, he was useful. Ben hated that fact with a passion. The fact that he understood why Zachary kept letting him come on increasingly more dangerous missions. He was training all of them for something big. Ben wasn’t sure what, but it made his stomach churn. 

There was an increasing feeling of doom that hovered over him like a cloud. He felt useless in a way. The mistake of yesterday weighed heavy on his shoulders. It was something simple, keep Isobele and Jeremiah close. Don’t let them get hurt. Then Isobele goes off on her own and almost gets herself killed. Fucking ridiculous. It wasn’t his fault but it was. 

He looked back at Isobele using Zachary as a crutch to walk down the steps off the train. Zachary looked at her with a certain type of pride that made Benjamin’s anger rise to his throat. He hated him. Hated that man with every fiber of his being, even if he was the kinder option than what he had before. Barnabus used to beat him within an inch of his life if he missed a target. Zachary was more inclined to mind games. 

Zachary was a taller man with long blonde hair always pulled back in a ponytail that made him look like an idiot. He had a kind face, soft green eyes that stared into the soul. Older than most people here, sometimes he swore he saw grey hairs at the roots. Ben had made a bet once with Isobele that Zachary dyed his hair.  He rarely ever got truly mad. Never yelled. However, Benjamin had gotten a few hard slaps to the face when he talked a little too much. But Zachary never broke skin, rarely ever hard enough to bruise. The man always calmly assigned punishments like they were just chores they were meant to do in the first place. 

Benjamin hated him. He hated him less than others, but the way he presented himself to Isobele and Jeremiah. Like he was something to be trusted, confided in. This man was neither. 

“Ben. With me,” Zachary said as he helped Isobele down the last steps. Isobele was panting heavily, hand on her side. “Jeremiah, take Isobele to Sonya. Ben and I will meet with you later for the mission briefing.” “Yes sir,” came the practiced reply from Jem. He slowly wrapped an arm around Isobeles waist, careful to not touch her wound. As they walked past Benjamin, Isobele winked at him. 

Idiot.

They watched them walk into the base and Benjamin looked at Zachary. He gave the man a shit eating grin. 

“You gonna slap me again?” 

Zachary chuckled and shook his head, “No. I lost my temper with you then. I was worried about your sister.” 

“She was fine,” Ben said with a shrug, “would have been better if Henrik was on board.” 

The man was silent for a moment. It made his chest twist sideways. Silence was never a good sign. Ben straightened his back. 

“Walk with me Benjamin,” Zachary said, a possessive hand placed itself on the back of Benjamin’s neck. The weight of it felt like a brick. He forced his feet to move in time with Zachary’s.  

“What happened Zachary?” Ben asked softly as they walked. The leaves were starting to turn orange with the colder weather. He tried to shake off Zachary’s hand, twisting out of the grip and meeting face to face with the man. “What happened?” he asked again, firmer. 

“I want you to walk Benjamin.” 

“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on!” he growled, stepping backwards. 

“You’re really going to take that tone with me right now?” Zachary said calmly, looking at Ben with a plain look. “Think twice. Walk now, forward. Toward the ruins.” 

“No.”

“Walk.” 

The compulsion always hurt, always shattered the walls in his brain like a sledgehammer. He took a janky step forward and Zachary watched him with an unimpressed expression. Benjamin’s whole body was on fire as he fought the compulsion. 

“I don’t know why you insist on fighting it, it’ll only hurt worse the longer you fight. Just walk.” 

The compulsion hit again like a truck and his limbs moved on their own. Walking straight ahead. Down the little pathway he walked all the time with Henrik. Where they snuck off during drills. Mostly just to talk, to say they were committing some form of rebellion. Henrik had brought a gun once, hidden it under one of the stones. Just in case, he said, just in case. Ben could do nothing as Zachary walked behind him except look straight ahead. His heart hammered in his throat as they came to the ruins. “You can move now, don’t make me use that again. Understood?” 

Benjamin took a deep heaving breath as his limbs unlocked, hunching over slightly. 

“Yes sir.” 

“This is where you Henrik tended to hide during briefings, was it not?” 

“Yes sir.” 

Zachary offered him a soft, sad smile. He gently laid his hands on Benjamin's shoulders and moved him forward. The ruins weren’t hard to maneuver through. It was a pile of rubble from the old days, what used to be a building. The concrete now had moss growing over it, plants and weeds nearly covered the entire ground, where the rubble hadn’t suffocated the soil. It was just a place to sit by and enjoy the sun. It was supposed to be safe. Even if they knew about the cameras. They weren’t supposed to bother them there. 

“What is this?” Benjamin asked, hating how small his voice sounded. 

Zachary left him, for a moment, pulling out a shovel from behind a pile of rubble and put it in Benjamin's hands. His hands felt the rough metal, looking up at Zachary with an incredulous look. 

“Sir?” 

“Oh? Respect now that you’re afraid?” 

Ben lowered his eyes to the ground beneath his feet. The clearing between the piles of rubble that held yellow flowers from the weed. Zachary reached out to him and lifted his chin with a hooked finger. “I want you to dig until I say stop.” 

“Wh-” 

“Shut up Benjamin. Dig.” 

There was no compulsion needed for him to shake his head free of Zachary’s finger and shove the shovel into the dirt. His heart hammered in his chest so hard he felt like his chest was going to burst. Everything tunneled in his vision as he shakily kept sinking the shovel into the dirt. Over and over. Until his shoulders were sore and his hands were blistered. He dug a few feet down, when Zachary instructed him to make it long too. That was when he knew he was digging a grave. 

“You figured it out?” Zachary asked, sitting on a rock, legs crossed.   

Ben set his jaw, before shoving the shovel into the ground and leaning forward on it. His smile was forced, but he kept it on his face. He sighed softly. 

“Am I digging my own grave sir?” 

Zachary returned his smile with one of his own. Hands clasped together on top of his knee. His uniform looked strange in the bright yellow glow of the sun. He hummed thoughtfully. 

“You know? I thought about it. You and Henrik, coming out here during drills, at night. I let you have your fun. But the gun Ben. The supplies. Did you know Henrik was sending letters to rebel forces? Be honest.” 

Benjamin couldn’t even fight the words that came from his mouth, spilling out from him like water. 

“No. I knew about the gun, supplies. Not the letters.” 

Zachary hummed thoughtfully again. “I figured that was the case. I bet he thought you were a liability with your mouth. With your.. affections for Isobele and Jeremiah.” 

The man slowly uncrossed his legs, unclasped his hands and stood up. His uniform rustled with him. The dark green, almost blended with the weeds in the ground. 

“I have a gift for you Benjamin,” he said, walking behind the rubble. There was a sound of something being dragged before he saw the body. Zachary nonchalantly threw the body in front of him and the smell of rot filled his senses. He gagged and turned away from the scene in front of him. 

It wasn’t Henrik, it couldn’t be Henrik. It was something else. Something else that had Henriks eyes, his hair and his skin that was bloated and grey. The hole in his head didn’t exist and the way his whole body was awkwardly was thrown on the ground. Limbs looking strange. Benjamin turned to the side and threw up bile and last night's soup. 

“This is what happens when you try to commit treason. This could be you instead if I hadn’t found the correspondence letters. I know you’ve been thinking about it. Escaping. Little birdie and all that. If I find anything from you, that even looks like it could be used for a little escape attempt. The next grave you’ll be digging won’t be yours. It’ll be Isobele’s, or Jeremiah’s. Am I understood, Benjamin?” 

Benjamin's ears rang. He hated how casual Zachary sounded about it. The idea of harming his siblings. His stomach churned as he gasped for air. 

“I need an answer from you,” Zachary pressed. 

“Y-Yes sir,” Benjamin choked out. 

“Good. Bury him. Take the time you need, but be back for dinner.” 

Zachary left him casually, hands in his pockets and humming a tune. Calm and ever. He hated him. He preferred Barnabus’s beating over the fucking mind games and psychological warfare. Barnabus never had him bury the body of his best friend. 

The tears came up faster than he could stop them. Ben fell to his knees and screamed. His hands clawed at the ground, tearing it and then pressed his head to the dirt. He screamed until his throat was raw and the aching in his chest had diminished to a certain numbness. His head spun still as he breathed in the smell of dirt and rot. His eyes opened, he stared at the deep brown of the earth. He felt the dirt in his fingernails and he reminded himself that he was still alive.

Then he screamed again, his head pounding with power. He felt it in his blood, in his muscles contracting. It worked itself up to his fingertips and he pounded a fist into the earth. He felt the rubble lift and fly backwards. There was a loud crack as it hit a tree and snapped it in half. A groaning sound mixed with the piece of concrete thudding against the ground. The tree fell backwards away from him. Ben laughed at the sound of it crashing to the ground. Hands deep into the earth, he forced the pressure from his head to his hands again. More concrete lifting into the air and shooting away from him. Hitting trees, more concrete. He wanted to crack it all, he wanted to crack the earth in fucking half. There were sounds all around him of rubble and earth breaking around him.

 The power pulsated in his veins. There was a chemical reaction when he used it. Like his body was finally releasing pressure that had been building up for forever. It made him feel lighter, almost giddy from how good it felt. It released the weight on his chest. He could breathe finally. Even if there was still an aching hole in his stomach. His face felt wet, he put his fingers up to his lips and saw blood come away. His nose was bleeding. Maybe he went a little too far. 

He still needed to bury Henrik. Ben couldn’t stay here on the ground forever. The anger could come back later. Right now, he needed to get up, pick up the shovel. Shove everything else away and focus on the task in front of him. 

Slowly, he pushed himself up to stand.

 His eyes glanced over the body.

Henrik Ardik was dead. He was nineteen years old. He liked licorice and sunsets. Henrik was a healer. He wanted so badly to help. Henrik took Ben’s letters to the train, snuck them to rebel forces. No one was supposed to pay attention to him. His blood, it was on Ben’s hands. His letters got him killed. Benjamin would live with that. He had to. 

All in favor of getting Isobele and Jeremiah the fuck out of here. It was worth it right? It had to be worth it? Even if it was just a minute of freedom. 

Benjamin buried his best friend, the mound of fresh dirt in the middle of the ruins was almost beautiful. The blisters on his hand stung, and his chest felt strangely numb. His feet did too. He took a moment to lift his head to the sky. Listening to the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The sun coming through the leaves was close to a golden color. The weeds that grew yellow flowers swayed toward him. Ben grabbed a handful, pulling them from the ground and laid them in the unmarked grave. He’d make the sacrifice worth it. He’d make all the blood on his hands worth it. It had to be worth it. Not for himself, but for them. They didn’t deserve this. Isobele was getting closer and closer to having the same mentality as the others. He wanted her to be different. Needed her to be different from what she was. If he got her out, she could figure out she was more than the fear she used to consume others. She could be so much more. 

Then there was Jeremiah, who barely knew anything outside of orders. Who panicked when making a decision. Only knowing how to follow orders. Sometimes, Ben could see a personality coming out from the shell he currently was. A smile or a smug smirk when he hit Isobele during a sparring match. 

Was it terrible of him to wish for more? To wish for their safety and maybe his own? He never asked to be a soldier. He was given, a gift from his town, for the promise of life. One life for many. Was he spared? Or was he just being killed in a different way? He was complacent in his role. But Isobele and Jeremiah, they were taken, forcibly turned into weapons. Ben was a gift, Jeremiah and Isobele were stolen treasure. 

He would get them out if it was the last thing he did. Yellow flowers on a grave that was his, even if it wasn’t, burned itself into his mind. Ben looked one last time. He stood up straight, faced the setting sun, and gave a salute to his fallen friend. 

“See you around Henrik,” he whispered, putting his hands in his pockets and beginning to walk back to the base. 

___

:)

[sunshiline-writes]

Horror November 2024 #10: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Word Count: 250

Cw: Hallucinations

____

Exhaustion was a living thing in their body, wrapping around every bone in their body and constricting them. Their head fell forward, against their chest and for a second they felt nothing. Floating endlessly in the dark abyss of sleep. 

It was just a second. Only one. 

Then the ice cold water sprayed over them and they screamed. Sobbing softly as they were shook awake. 

“You can’t sleep dude, come on, why don’t we sing some songs together okay? You know what happens when you sleep.” 

Yes. They knew very well, but their brain was screaming for sleep. The shadows danced in the corners of their vision. They were laughing at them. Whispering awful things that they couldn’t quite make out. They just knew from the venom in the harsh whispers that they were telling them awful things. 

“Please.. Please let me sleep. Just five minutes..” 

“I’m sorry. But I can’t. Last time you slept.. Well you know what happened.” 

They threw their head back against the wall in frustration. Sobbing harder as they struggled in the restraints. The cuffs that were linked to the chair made them want to scream. The restlessness throughout them made their legs twitch. 

“Please,” they pleaded. 

“No. We’re still cleaning up the mess from last time. The longer you stay awake, the safer everyone is.” 

They sobbed again. Why did they always have to be right? Why couldn’t they just sleep? 

The shadows danced around them again, laughing maniacally. 

They just wanted five minutes. 

[sunshiline-writes]

Horror November 2024 #9: LIGHTHEADED

Word Count: 286

Cw: Gore, dead body

____

It’s hard to breathe through the mask. The world is only seen through two holes that are screened. It makes everything seem like it has dots in their vision. Black and white. It gives the landscape a filmy look because of the dust. The gas mask they wear changes the perspective of the land, but everything is different too. The bombs weren’t supposed to go off the way they did. They weren’t supposed to be caught in the middle. 

Yet here they were, searching for survivors. Searching for signs of life anywhere. It was hard to hear through the mask too, making everything muted and distant. They poked at the rubble beneath them with a stick, watching pieces of concrete fall out of place. Everything was different now. All of the buildings were gone. The grocery store on the corner was nothing but ash. 

Everything was ash. 

Something moved behind them. There was the sound of rubble falling out of place. Concrete shifted slightly and they immediately ran to it. Hands grabbing underneath the piece of building and pulling hard to free whoever was beneath.

 Their hands felt wet. A hand reached out and they grunted as they moved the rubble to the side. What they saw made them gasp. It was only half a person. Torso was torn from the bottom half which sat under a piece of rebar. They had seemingly pulled themself apart trying get themself free. They started to hyperventilate, breaths coming in short bursts through the mask. Tears staining the leather. The world turned sideways as their head spun. They tumbled down the mountain of concrete and rebar and people. World spinning, head spinning. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. 

[sunshiline-writes]

Horror November 2024 #8: FREEZE

Word Count: 254

___

The man sat in the hospital bed with his head in his hands. He had just got away before the car hit him. Now he was in a locked room with no way out for now. His mind wasn’t clear. They gave him something that made everything feel foggy and made thoughts hard to come by. Joseph licked his lips, water seeming so far out of reach on the bedside. He stared at it with his cotton filled mouth and felt like crying. 

Too far away. Everything was so far away. Hopefully that thing was too. 

Joseph stayed like that for a minute or so before reaching out to the plastic cup fingers just curling around it when the cold hit. It slowly touched his fingertips then worked its way up his hand, elbow, shoulder. The water in the cup froze, ice spreading over his hand too. 

It found him. He stayed too long. Joseph screamed, dropping the water onto the ground. The cold slammed into his chest, filling his lungs. His back hit the bed with a loud thud as the breath was stolen from him. The room’s windows in his peripheral, cracked with ice. The metal guardrail on the bed turned blue with cold. His lips were blue, his breath wouldn’t come. He choked on cold air as the icy tendril shoved its way down his throat. 

He screamed but no one came. 

Joseph’s lungs were freezing. The room was freezing. 

He stayed in one place for too long. 

Cold was consuming. 

[sunshiline-writes]

Horror November 2024 #7: PINNED

word count: 285 Cw: gore, death

___

There is seven minutes of brain activity left when your heart stops. It is said that those last seven minutes are a replay of memories. I think that’s wrong. It’s not a replay of memories. It’s everything all at once. Like walking through a projector light that’s playing all the thoughts and feelings you ever had out of order in a hallway full of mirrors. 

The thing is, it starts before your body shuts down fully. When you’re still awake and aware. It's that phrase, “life flashing before your eyes”. Except it’s not your life, it's the life you wish you had. 

It is a strange thing to see all the choices you could have made differently when you can’t see the lower half of your body with the massive sheet of metal covering it. Slicing into your body. Pinning you effectively to your seat even though  you feel fine. Like you could just get up, you know its because your mind is ignoring it. That you’ve lost far too much blood and your body is slowly but surely shutting down. The car that crashed into yours had a sheet of metal that went through the windshield. Blood drips down the metal onto your car floor and all you can think is the blood is going to be so hard to get out of the upholstery.  Seven minutes left. 

Once you feel your hands go numb it’s over. 

Seven minutes.  

Fireworks of memories clog your eyes and it feels like seven seconds before nothing.

Your body was pinned between a sheet of metal and the car seat. It could not cut through your spine. Not enough momentum. You were dead before they even called 911. 

[sunshiline-writes]

November Challenge 2024 #6: BURROW

word count: 213

CW: bugs, gore

____

“Did you know that maggots eat dead flesh? They’re one of the most effective ways to keep a wound clean. Albeit, really fucking gross,” said the voice from on top of them. The gaping wound in their thigh pulsated and throbbed. There was the sound of a container opening. 

There was a wet, squelching sound coming from the container. Soft thuds as the maggots were dropped into their wound. It was the feeling of something squirming and writhing inside the wound. They jerked against the restraints, feeling closer to crying than anything else. A hand ran through their hair. 

“Hey.. hey..you’re okay… Shh it’s gonna help keep the wound clean okay?” The hand turned more firm as they pressed down on their forehead. “I won’t let them eat everything away, I just need them to keep you clean okay?” 

They screamed as they felt the maggots burrowing into their muscle, fat, and viscera. The feeling of something inside of them, digging themself into their thigh. It wasn’t painful necessarily, no. It just felt strange. Something living was too deep inside them to possibly feel right. 

“That’s right, you’re okay. Don’t worry.” 

Wet squelching of the maggots made them feel queasy and they turned their face to the side. 

“It’ll be over soon.” 

[sunshiline-writes]

November Challenge 2024 #5: Blood

Word Count: 327 

CW: Gore

_____

It was the fucking Shining hallway in this place. Red slathered on the walls, on the ceiling. Whatever sick freak did this, made sure that there was no part of the wall that did not have blood on it. It splattered over the picture frames, smeared on the walls. It smelled metallic and the whole hallway was warm. It was a wet warmth, as if the blood was radiating heat. The musty metallic smell filled his nose and threatened to gag him. It filled up his nose, his mouth, every fiber of his being. 

“God what sick fuck did this?” asked the forensic photographer next to him who snapped a picture of a family smiling. 

“I don’t know,” the detective answered honestly. It was barely human, the carnage that was spread around. It was so warm, his own sweat dripped down his neck. He stared at the picture for a few seconds more. Happy, smiling family, covered in blood. 

“Ey, Marlow, comere for a sec? You gotta see this.” 

The detective turned around to see his partner in the doorway to one of the bedrooms. His face was a ghostly pale color and he turned to retch. “Don’t fuck up my crime scene by fucking puking, go outside to do that shit.” 

Marlow made his way past his partner and stepped into a puddle. It made a wet, sloshing sound as he stepped through. It made his heart stop in its tracks. The room itself was red. For a moment, Marlow thought there was blood in his eyes. The light through the window was also red. Everything was red and slick with blood. There was no way a normal person could possibly have this much blood in their body. 

“What the fuck happened here,” he whispered to himself, before looking at the wall that the bed connected to. Written in the blood like a child playing with paint was a phrase. 

God can’t forgive me.

  Jesus Christ.

[sunshiline-writes]

[sunshiline-writes]

Horror November 2024 #4: SOFT

Word Count: 297

CW: uh.. creepy man? idk ___

The thing in the box was soft. Soft and hairy. Almost like fur but entirely too coarse to be so. Or maybe it was fur, they weren’t well versed animals. They never liked animals very much. Animals very much didn’t like them. They pulled their hand out of the box, staring up at the magician. 

“That didn’t feel like a rabbit, you said it was a rabbit,” the child accused, frowning deeply. 

“I said it was an animal. Never said it was a rabbit.” 

“What is it then?” 

“You couldn’t tell?” 

The child pouted, crossing their arms across their chest. Annoyance grew more and more as the magician smiled wider and wider. The magician took a knee, balancing the box on his thigh. His smile grew only wider. Suddenly, the child felt the chill of the night and the fact that they were alone all at once. Stepping backward. 

“Reach in again? Try to guess?” 

Shaking their head the child stepped back again, turning to go back to the parade. They should have never strayed to follow the magician. He said it was too busy to show them the animal. That all the noise and bustle would have scared it away. A cold hand wrapped around their wrist. Head tilting as they tried to pull away. 

“Stop, stop I don’t wanna see the rabbit. Just let me go.” 

“Reach in again,” commanded the magician, smile going so wide it looked like their 

cheek might split open. Their hand was forced back into the box. Soft texture rubbing against their fingertips. They whimpered as they were forced to put their hand in deeper. Fingers touching around a face and then something wet wrapped around a finger. “It’s not a rabbit,” the child said, eyes wide. “No.. it’s not.” 

[sunshiline-writes]

Horror November 2024 #3: BUZZARD

Word Count : 252

CW: GORE lots of gore.

____

The first thing she took a picture of was the teeth. Scattered across the asphalt, jawbone completely seperate. There were pieces of skull here and there. She took pictures of all of them. The blood was just a dark stain on the black road. Brighter on the yellow dashes of the road.

There were no brake marks anywhere. No one had even tried to stop for the body. The next thing she took a picture of was the chest cavity. Cracked open with bones splintered, organs no longer inside. It was just meat and visera and muscles. She took another picture.

The next part was the pelvis, piece of the hip still attached. This part was being eaten by the buzzards. Road kill. The comparison made her shudder. The buzzard picked at meat that hung to the bone for dear life. The sound of their beaks against the bone made her want to scream.

“Get outta here fucking vermin,” she grumbled, waving her hands close enough that the buzzards flew away, cawing around her angrily.

When she walked away from the scene, the buzzards came back. Happily eating their meal that was spread out for at least a mile along the road. Fucking scavengers. Couldn’t even let a dead person rest. She went to her car, looking back one more time, to see the scene before her. A buzzard that was near her car snapped its head toward her. In its mouth was a half an eyeball.

She vommited on the asphalt.

[sunshiline-writes]

Horror November 2024 #2: WHIPPED

WORD COUNT: 293

cw: cannibalism

____

The thigh is where the most bone marrow is stored in most animals. The chef hummed as he cut the bone in half with the bone saw. The dust settled around them as they inspected the inside of the bone. The hard tissue would soften in the oven. 425 degrees for 40 minutes. Usually it would be 30 but they liked to make sure that the marrow was really soft and tender before they scooped it out of the bone. The fat too had to be mostly liquid. Sometimes it was easy to forget that fat was also stored in the bone. But you needed both to make whipped bone marrow.

They refrigerated it for around 20 minutes, mouth watering. When out of the refrigerator it was the consistency of light butter. Then they whisked for about five minutes as fast as they could. It was an experiment really, seeing if it would work out. A new recipe. Simple enough as they added herbs and spices to it. It made a good spread for crackers and toast. 

The crackers crumbled in their mouth as they took a bite. Delicious. Soft and savory with the spices they added. 

They took a plate of the spread with crackers and carried it down to the basement, turning on the light for the current resident there. They stared at them with empty eyes as they knelt down next to them. Spreading the whipped bone marrow on a cracker, holding it up to their lips. 

“You know? You taste delicious. You should try it. I whipped it myself. I might take the other thigh tomorrow. I have friends coming over next week.”  

There was no response. The chef might have to refrigerate them soon. Meat goes bad easy. 

[sunshiline-writes]

Horror November 2024 #1: REST

Word Count: 277 

CW: Body horror ___

He can never rest. It always starts off slow. He wakes up with his eyes closed. Opens them toward the ceiling and he can feel himself breathing. Every inhale, every exhale. He can’t move, he can barely even blink. It’s like he’s frozen solid. Makes him feel cold too.

 A  shadow is at the foot of his bed. Its face is covered by a veil. Dressed in all black. It stays there for a minute even if it feels like hours. Then it places its hands on either side of his feet, leaning forward. There is a faint hissing sound before it starts to crawl. Limbs twisted wrong, head bent at an unnatural angle. It only gets more unnatural as it approaches him. Head turned upside down so the eyes are at the bottom. It crawls over him and he can feel the hands on either side of him, trapping him under it. Legs curled in, knees touching knees. 

It reaches up to touch his face and leans in real close. 

He can smell its breath. Like rot and shit and everything in between. One mangled hand goes under the veil and slowly lifts it. This is the worst part because he can feel every second it takes for the thing to lift the veil. Time swirls in his stomach as he waits. 

It lifts the veil finally and there is nothing. Just a black hole where a face should be. It leans forward even more, as if leaning in for a kiss. 

  The thing swallows him whole. 

He wakes up in the darkness.

He can still feel it’s breath on his cheek. 

He can never rest.

[sunshiline-writes]

Sunny's Personal Horror November 2024 Challenge

Hello everyone. I am doing a personal Drabble challenge with mostly horror concepts. It's 300 words a day and was suggested to me by my dear lovely friend @/crash-bump-bring-the-whump . The list will be posted here and the links will be updated as I write them.

Feel free to join if you feel particularly inspired and @ me if you do! I would love to see everyone's little takes in my silly little challenge. Enjoy my little drabbles! _____________

1.) Rest

2.) Whipped

3.) buzzard

4.) Soft  

5. )Blood 

6.) Burrow 

7.) Pinned 

8.) Freeze 

9.) Lightheaded 

10.) Sleep Deprivation 

11.) Delicious 

12.) Small Town 

13.) Silence 

14.) Bone 

15.) anticipation 

16.) Crucifix 

17.) Sweet 

18.) Absence 

19.) Objectify 

20.) Watching 

21.) Howl 

22.) Shatter

23.) photograph 

24.) Kettle 

25.) In the Woods 

26.) Jaw 

27.) Piercing 

28.) Parasite 

29.) Drained 

30.) Throat 

31.) Alone