And waited.
And waited.
“… Aw, hell.” He sighed and reached up, then blinked and let the bread knife clatter to the floor before he reached up again to rub his aching forehead, this time without being at risk of accidentally gouging out an eye. “I can’t do this. I can’t, this isn’t… ”
A coward he was, maybe, but he wasn’t a killer. Let those flashy hero-types make the big decisions: he’d be happy to be their amusing sidekick, and to stand beside them and snap a grim catchphrase and be there, sure, but they would have to be the ones to get blood on their hands, because he sure couldn’t.
Regretfully, he let go of the notion he’d somehow gotten as a teenager and never quite managed to get rid of. Having a nifty coat really wasn’t enough to make you a dashing action hero.
He got out his phone and texted something vague to Steff – he forgot what it was as soon as he’d sent it, but the point was to feel in contact with his fellow human beings and not quite so insane. He felt a little shaky, a little unreal. Like he was the one who was a ghost.
This was so stupid.
He leaned back against the kitchen bench and ran both hands through his hair.
This was so stupid, he was so stupid, what the hell was he playing at? Sure, yeah, do let’s make up an elaborate fantasy world so you can play the hero, Saint, that is a totally emotionally stable thing to do. Christ.
It even made sense that his subconscious would direct his aggression towards his flatmate. Of bloody course it would. His flatmate who was kind , even if he made Saint uneasy – who made Saint uneasy because he was kind, more likely. Who definitely wasn’t the type of person who made up handsome ghost-men just so he could have someone willing to talk –
Hahahaha aaaaaanyway. Man was he hungry.
He went to the fridge hopefully, and fished one of his bobby pins out of his pocket. He was a bit rusty; it took him a couple of minutes to bust the lock open, which was fine, gave him something to do with his hands.
He’d always refrained from breaking into the fridge before, despite how the lock riled him, because he didn’t want to screw this up, didn’t want to prove himself undeserving of the basic trust that was implicit in being allowed in someone’s flat. It had been hard. People thinking the worst of him made him want to live down to their expectations. He paused before opening the fridge door, but hell, he was hungry. They’d had KFC a few days ago – maybe there was some chicken left.
There was one piece of chicken left in the crumpled red and white box, but it wasn’t exactly recognisable as chicken, not any more. He looked at it doubtfully, then withdrew his hand without picking it up. Maybe it wouldn’t get provoked if he left it undisturbed in its natural habitat.
His flatmate’s food was sealed in neat little Tupperware containers, all stacked up in rows. The moral quandary lasted about three seconds. Sure, stealing was wrong – “But so is hunger ,” Saint assured himself seriously, as he lifted one of the containers and pried open the lid and was faced with blood, lots of blood, entirely too much blood. He wrinkled his nose and scowled at the stench of it. What was this, mince? There was – wait.
Maybe his Flatmate didn’t keep the fridge locked to keep him from stealing, maybe it –
He was holding the container at a slight angle and so the blood was trickling thickly out one corner and onto the floor and splashing almost on his shoes, and beneath it was raw meat, shredded and stinking, unrecognisable as anything that it could ever have been and he dropped the container which splattered blood everywhere and he walked away but there was nowhere to go because there was blood and it scared him, the obscene redness of it, red red blood and it was on him it was getting on his hands get it off get it off get it off get away get away get away – he stumbled back into the corner but he couldn’t keep his eyes off
And waited.
“… Aw, hell.” He sighed and reached up, then blinked and let the bread knife clatter to the floor before he reached up again to rub his aching forehead, this time without being at risk of accidentally gouging out an eye. “I can’t do this. I can’t, this isn’t… ”
A coward he was, maybe, but he wasn’t a killer. Let those flashy hero-types make the big decisions: he’d be happy to be their amusing sidekick, and to stand beside them and snap a grim catchphrase and be there, sure, but they would have to be the ones to get blood on their hands, because he sure couldn’t.
Regretfully, he let go of the notion he’d somehow gotten as a teenager and never quite managed to get rid of. Having a nifty coat really wasn’t enough to make you a dashing action hero.
He got out his phone and texted something vague to Steff – he forgot what it was as soon as he’d sent it, but the point was to feel in contact with his fellow human beings and not quite so insane. He felt a little shaky, a little unreal. Like he was the one who was a ghost.
This was so stupid.
He leaned back against the kitchen bench and ran both hands through his hair.
This was so stupid, he was so stupid, what the hell was he playing at? Sure, yeah, do let’s make up an elaborate fantasy world so you can play the hero, Saint, that is a totally emotionally stable thing to do. Christ.
It even made sense that his subconscious would direct his aggression towards his flatmate. Of bloody course it would. His flatmate who was kind , even if he made Saint uneasy – who made Saint uneasy because he was kind, more likely. Who definitely wasn’t the type of person who made up handsome ghost-men just so he could have someone willing to talk –
Hahahaha aaaaaanyway. Man was he hungry.
He went to the fridge hopefully, and fished one of his bobby pins out of his pocket. He was a bit rusty; it took him a couple of minutes to bust the lock open, which was fine, gave him something to do with his hands.
He’d always refrained from breaking into the fridge before, despite how the lock riled him, because he didn’t want to screw this up, didn’t want to prove himself undeserving of the basic trust that was implicit in being allowed in someone’s flat. It had been hard. People thinking the worst of him made him want to live down to their expectations. He paused before opening the fridge door, but hell, he was hungry. They’d had KFC a few days ago – maybe there was some chicken left.
There was one piece of chicken left in the crumpled red and white box, but it wasn’t exactly recognisable as chicken, not any more. He looked at it doubtfully, then withdrew his hand without picking it up. Maybe it wouldn’t get provoked if he left it undisturbed in its natural habitat.
His flatmate’s food was sealed in neat little Tupperware containers, all stacked up in rows. The moral quandary lasted about three seconds. Sure, stealing was wrong – “But so is hunger ,” Saint assured himself seriously, as he lifted one of the containers and pried open the lid and was faced with blood, lots of blood, entirely too much blood. He wrinkled his nose and scowled at the stench of it. What was this, mince? There was – wait.
Maybe his Flatmate didn’t keep the fridge locked to keep him from stealing, maybe it –
He was holding the container at a slight angle and so the blood was trickling thickly out one corner and onto the floor and splashing almost on his shoes, and beneath it was raw meat, shredded and stinking, unrecognisable as anything that it could ever have been and he dropped the container which splattered blood everywhere and he walked away but there was nowhere to go because there was blood and it scared him, the obscene redness of it, red red blood and it was on him it was getting on his hands get it off get it off get it off get away get away get away – he stumbled back into the corner but he couldn’t keep his eyes off
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