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lets-try-to-be-normal-otakus · 2 months ago

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At a minute or two til two (Pt. 2)

[1], 2

Hi everyone! I'm back with the second installment of my To Die Today series! >:3c I already have an idea for part 3, so I'll do my best to update you. Comments and tags really help me know you enjoyed it and want more!! So let me know if you love it like I do; much love!

Trigger warnings: same as part 1, but with some throw-up, a panic attack, and a touch of deadly ideation. No beta, we die like Steve.

He doesn’t remember much, but he still thinks about that place he visited. He always yearns to go back to the absolute peace when things get too loud.

Sometimes, he just wishes he could fade into black. He can still hear the waves every now and then calling, and his soul yearns.

From the incident on, Steve had a faint scar; it rested on the back of his neck and wrapped around slightly to the side. It refused to fade.

He hid it with concealer.

He hid it with his hair.

He was still doubtful on whether or not he had died. Or, what it meant to him.

It had to’ve been a fluke…

… Right?

Maybe it just took him a little longer to… bite the dust?

The next time he died, he was 10.

His parents were away for the week as they did more and more often these days, and it was the start of summer.

The crisp bite of cold water reduced the sting of the sun, and there was really no other place to be. He spent his days poolside, enjoying ice pops and canned soda from his parent’s cooler. He’d run and jump and splash and play until his skin shriveled from water or split from the sun. Whichever came last.

This was the summer he learned a vital lesson.

See, there are rules when you go to the pool or pond or really anywhere to do with water. But Steve was just a kid; rules were put in place by adults because they didn’t like to have fun.

So he ignored them.

It was Thursday, midday, and he’d just gotten off the phone with his parents. His mom was checking in and making sure he was safe and being smart, and he reassured her he was. And he was, for someone who had yet to learn certain hard truths.

He ran to jump back into the pool, but there was just one millisecond where the traction failed under his feet, and his heart leapt in it.

And that was enough.

A puddle on concrete.

One second, he was pool-bound, and the next, everything went black. Color shot into his world again as his vision came back, yet left his eyes unfocused. Vague and unseeing. He experienced the sound and distant vibrations at the same time he heard an earth-shattering crack and bone-shaking rumble. His eyes opened again to see bloody concrete roll away, and he distantly felt like an egg being cracked open.

The ‘splash’ came second to the cool sensation crashing around him. Enveloping him. Eating him alive. What little oxygen he had bubbled to the top of his lungs, most slipping out in a silent but all-consuming exhale.

His eyes burned as chlorine forced its way in; sparks ripped their way around his eye socket and popped inside his skull.

His lungs were on fire - conflicted and stretched to the max to save what little oxygen they could. He wanted to scream. All he did was choke.

The heavy swish and weight of water in his nose and throat unsettled him, and he heaved. Body flexing and struggling as dark blues began to bloom with a soft black. He coughed. All he got was a lung full of water and the endless feeling of throwing up.

Something sharp catches on his throat and covers his flooded windpipe for a moment - something flimsy that bent with the water. Some brown debris coughs its way out of his system and triggers his gag reflex again. His tears are like lava.

His last thoughts are just how heavy and muted everything feels: the sound of water in his ear, the cold darkness that envelops him, and how his body screams.

He doesn’t know how long he chokes and burns.

Is this what dying feels like?

He just wants to go back. Why couldn’t it be like last time? With the beach and the waves? Instead of feeling hot water forced out his nose and back into his lungs?

–

There was no peace. No comfort like last time. Instead, he wakes up and feels his weak body burn, trying to suck in air while purging the water. After an eternity of choking, a warm static embraces him, granting sweet numbness as he drifts again. A few hours feel like minutes before he’s dragged into the cycle again.

–

Three days pass before his body floats to the surface. Three days of a small, infinite torture before he feels dry heat on his back. When he comes to, his body kicks fruitlessly again, and his arms swing around, desperately trying to find the surface. He chokes and vomits water back into himself. Something feels different. He doesn’t have time to investigate as he’s purely in fight or flight mode, his body out of control and flailing.

Things go black again.

–

Eventually, he finds himself floating over to the shallow end. He hits a wall, and when he scrambles back to consciousness, his feet hit the pool’s ground as he gags and expels water from his nose and mouth and lungs, flailing wildly. His hands find a ledge and pull.

When the sun sets, he comes to with snot, water, and blood running down his face and pooling on the concrete beneath him.

–

It took two days for the rot and swelling to go down. During that time, as his body worked to mend itself, half in the pool and half out, his mind drifted to that pleasant space. No more was this pain and fire. Instead, there was finally fuzzy peace.

His mind relaxed, and his soul just… floated. It was dark, the ocean. Rain clouded the sky in dark grays, rolling and tumbling onto each other like the very waves they kissed. It was cold.

The churning of the waves put him at peace. It could never be horrifying, despite looking into the mouth of some cosmic horror. Instead, it felt… outside himself. It was all simply a part of the universe as death and creation rolled onto itself, creating the peacefully roiling and vicious clouds. It did him no harm, and he knew it wouldn’t, so he existed and felt.

Everything ached. His head throbbed with dehydration, as it felt like every drop of water was wrenched out of him. Railroad spikes of pain hammered into the side of his skull, practically nailing him to the ground as he writhed. He felt nauseous and on fire. His mouth was dry, his skin burned, everything inside him ached, and the sun and water felt like needles on his arms and legs.

Water. He needed water. Water and shade. His body screamed as he used what little strength he had left to pull his torso up and roll himself out of the pool. His skin burned where it met the abrasive concrete, and Steve barely processed the blood stains beneath him. He could feel his tight skin stretch with the movement, almost as if it would tear at any second.

Minisculely, he crawled over to the patio door. When he reached up for the handle, that tight feeling in his skin came back in a warning, so he instead clawed the door open from the floor. Getting over the door track was like shuffling through barbed wire, but the cold of the tile instantly replaced the burning.

Catching his breath on the floor, Steve looked around while panting. The sink was his first thought, but he couldn’t reach it like this. He couldn’t stand, and he definitely couldn’t reach it, so the refrigerator it was.

Scooting himself along, he reached into the blissfully cold fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Sitting up as best he could, he twisted the cap, winced at the burn of his wrist, and downed the bottle. A blast of frosty spikes took over his mouth before moving to his throat and stomach. It hurt as much as it helped.

Gasping between swallows, he held the cold plastic to his face and breathed at the relief it brought. The second bottle he took slower to prevent the frigid pain, uncaring about any that escaped his lips. It was like a balm across his too-hot skin anyway.

His stomach cramped and heaved at the freezing intrusion while he fought down the urge to vomit.

Keep it down, force it down, you’re not going to throw up, you’re not- vomit surged up before he could repress it and left him shaking, freezing, overheating, and crying. The stench bloomed through the kitchen and stung his nose. Clutching his water bottle, he scooted across the floor, snot running down his face as he took hiccuping sips. His arms hurt as his shoulders moved with each cry.

Giving up, he laid down as far from the vomit as he could and rested his body against the cold tiles, sighing at the minor relief. Catching his breath, he quickly sank into a rough sleep, his mind replaying the sensation of falling and being unable to breathe.

He woke with a pounding headache, temples squeezing him and tile warm beneath. Spotting the forgotten bottle, he ripped it open and chugged the remains. The room-temperature water set right in his body and, thankfully, didn’t cause any cramping this time. Shakely, he got up on all fours, crawled to the fridge, and stretched over his vomit - ew - to pull another few bottles.

He eventually managed to stand up after what felt like hours of trying. By then, he’d already drunk his room-temperature water and was feeling somewhat better. Not entirely, but at least his headache had dulled.

Cold showers helped, and when he tried to put on a shirt, his body screamed in pain at the stretch and sensation of fabric. So he went shirtless and passed out face-down in his bed.

His parents came home the following morning. They bustled in with luggage and bags, his mom chatting happily to Steve from the other room.

“Oh, darling, you look dead on your feet!”

Steve didn’t have the energy or strength in him to find it funny.

His dad made a displeased noise. “Where’s your shirt? Did we raise an ignorant heathen? Put a damn shirt on - you’re not a kid anymore,” he rumbled.

His mom came around the counter and reached for his face, stopping short, and a worried look locked on her face. “Darling, your shoulders, what happened? They look so red. Did you get sunburned? Oh, I know I taught you to wear sunscreen.” The ends of her eyes scrunched up in an attempted smile.

“Did I stutter? Put a damn shirt on!” His father growled from the kitchen. Steve held in a sigh and resigned himself to the pain. He’d just have to get over it, as his father would say.

He turned around, and before he could get a step further, his mother gasped and dropped her bags.

“Steven! Your back!” She sounded horrified, and Steve tried to turn around and see what she was talking about, but his neck protested and burned too much. He could feel her body heat when she came up behind him.

His father’s footfalls even came closer. “What on Earth…”

“I’ve never seen it this bad before - ever…” His mother trailed off, voice a bit wobbly.

Dr. Goodmund, his pediatrician, took one look at Steve’s back and muttered, “Well, that can’t be good.”

They ended up going to the hospital.

On the way into the ICU, Steve was lectured by his parents and the staff on the importance of sunscreen.

It wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t just say that without his father seeing it as an excuse. He was already mad about how “it’s always something” with Steve or that “he must’ve been truly dumb to let it get this bad and not notice.” “It’s a visual thing, Steve.” He’d say. “How could you not see it? Or feel it, for that matter?” He gripped Steve’s upper arm tight - sunburn screaming as the swollen and blistered skin was squeezed, “When we get home…”

Richard didn’t have to finish that for him to know what was coming.

Steve wanted to go back to the rolling storm over the gray sea.

The nurses, already a step ahead, began bustling about getting things ready and set up. The doctor started talking with them and wrote some things down on the clipboard.

The doctors say he'll need a skin graft.

But if he can't feel it, is it really that bad? He says as much, and the doctor stays impassive. "That is a common misconception." They explained. "See, the damage here goes all the way to or through the hypodermis - the bottommost layer of skin, which is right above the muscle. Which means that with severe burns, it travels through all the layers of protection our body makes and damages the nerve receptors. When these are shot, we typically can't feel anything.

"Now, what we're going to do is administer a painkiller – looks like you've got some second-degree burns too, which I'm sure you can feel – and start you on an antibiotic. Looks like some of these lesions are already becoming infected, and we want to solve that. We'll also start you on an IV so that we can replace some of your fluids."

Steve liked them. He felt much more seen than with Dr. Goodmund.

When the doctors walked away, his mom approached his bed. His dad had opted to go home. Her voice was a whisper," It happened again, didn't it?" Steve was quiet, head hanging low. Mom reaches for him, something broken and defeated in her eyes. She stops right before touching him. "It happened again, and I wasn't there to help. What happened?"

Steve was instantly brought back to the sensations of drowning, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. All he could feel was water in his throat and nose and lungs. He coughed violently, trying to clear his throat from the sensation and failing.

A nurse was called.

It didn't help.

–

Using two mirrors, he eventually saw what everyone was talking about. The apex of his shoulders had black and deep red dimples that dug into his skin, all varying in size — some as small as a fingernail and others as large as a baseball. Ragged, torn, and infected flesh patched itself around the lesions in a red-and-black fashion. Yellowish but transparent welts the size of his palm and the girth of his fist littered his back and legs.

Instead of the red color he was used to when he got sunburned, he was met with waxy, white, and cracked skin.

The flesh was swollen.

The flesh was tender.

The flesh was going to scar.

–

The sight of it made his mother cry.

His father said it's what he deserves.

They eventually stopped looking.

–

The blood never did fade from the concrete, no matter how much Steve tried.

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