Thoughthe tears had stopped flowing down his cheeks, sweat still trickled downChexxoâs bare torso as he sat there on his bed in an attempt to gather himself from the sight his mind had just played out for him. With all that heâd seen, all that heâd done, and all that he continued to do, one would think that he had by now gotten used to these nightmares. To these monstrosities. To these little things that made him feel as though there were still some part of him that called for home. Two fucking years had gone by! Was that not enough time for one to get used to all that? Was that not enough time for one to get used to the very things that scared them, to the very things that made them cower in fear and hope to die? Two years. Two long years. Two years of killing, two years of death, two years of trying to make it out alive.
Chexxo had grown numb to most things â but not to this.
These days, he did not flinch when he aimed a gun at someoneâs head. Neither did he hesitate before putting a knife to someoneâs throat, nor did he think of the consequences before beating a man to death. These things were normal â but, more than that, they were necessary in order for him to survive. In order for him to keep living. That was the justification behind all things otherwise immoral, the justification behind all things he would not have otherwise done had the world not gone to shit. Repeat such a justification for two years, and here you have the product: a man so numb to these things that cruelty became a badge, something to be proud of; and wickedness, an armor.
Chexxo Macapagal could numb himself out to death if needed be, to all the things heâd seen and all the things heâd done, and yet he could not, for the life of him, erase and numb himself to what happened. Or, at least, to what he imagined had happened, seeing as he was not there to watch it take place.
No, what he had not seen haunted him. What he had not done ghosted over him every day of his life. What he could no longer do traumatized him, filled him with if onlys. If only he had been there! If only he had stayed at home just like his mother had asked him to! If only heâd listened when she said she wasnât feeling well! If only he took care of his sisters when they said they were afraid! Now, these scenarios only ran up to him, filling his mind over and over and over, like the nasty plague that they were. In the quiet of the night, the false memories seemed louder. In the quiet of the night, the biggest if onlys only seemed to come to life.
And then, a voice startled him, pushed him out of the trance.
In reality, Chexxo should have been thankful for it. He should have been thankful for the voice that brought him back to reality. God knew that if he got in too deep, worse things could happen. Just like worse things had happened before. Just like when things got out of hand. So, if one looked at it at a bigger scale, he should have given his roommate his gratitude.
But Chexxo was not looking at a bigger scale now, wasnât he? He was looking at a path through the vision of a man with fear in his eyes and hatred for himself in his bones. Chexxo turned towards the direction of the voice, what with his eyes still adjusting to the dark, with a frown on his face so deep it was as though he was ready to kill. ( And, chances were that he was. ) His fists balled, and his heart raced â both from the nightmare, and from the woman that had spoken to him.
What right did this woman have to speak to him like that? Chexxo wanted her to see the death in his eyes; he wanted her to see that he could murder her. But the dark went against him; the dark was not kind to him tonight.
âFuck you,â he said under his breath. âAnd fuck Alex.â There was too much of a rush in him for him to go back to bed.
