rewatching backrooms I realized that Clark and Mary foil eachother when it comes to processing their trauma.
Clark is addicted to his grief. His struggles fuel him and give him purpose, and embracing his flaws served as a rebirth for him (he’s literally remembered in the backrooms as a manifestation of anger, grief, and despair though Captain Clark.) without the rage, the complaining, and the alcohol Clark doesn’t exist— I think that’s what scares him so much.
Mary, on the other hand, is adverse to it. Despite being a therapist and basing her life around others, she can’t save them just as much as she can’t save herself. She runs. She spaces out when she sees mother-daughter relationships, she distances herself from areas that remind her of childhood, and in the face of the same trauma and anguish Clark craves— she runs for her life. Obviously part of it is because she wants to survive, but another layer to that is she can’t cope with her own feelings.
It even shows up in how these two talk with eachother! Clark is ego-centered, even in his more self-deprecating talk during his therapy sessions. Mary repeats phrases from her book because she’s detached from the emotional aspect of her job for reasons she may not even understand yet.
For Clark, the “Window from Within” was a way IN (deeper into his grief, into isolation). For Mary, it was a way OUT (out of her grief, out of her struggles.)
Not to mention it appears in their still lives!! As I mentioned before, Cap’n Clark is everything horrid about Clark; his drunkenness, his hostility, and the fear he brings to the people around him— he embodies Clark’s emotional complexity. In contrast, Mary’s still life is unmoving and seemingly catatonic. Her still life doesn’t feel anything. Doesn’t do anything. Like her regular self, she’s detached from feeling anything and everything!!!
flame me if you want for not getting this sooner,, sigh,, overall— I love this movie. Everyone go watch it again if you can.
Hi guys first real post sorry if these are ooc ....... i tried my best .
1: Driving
This isn’t really a headcanon, because Javier Bardem said himself he doesn't drive, but Anton HATES driving. He’s extremely, extremely cautious about it, both hands always firmly on the wheel(as shown above), you will never see him running a red light or going even a mile past the speed limit(he always keeps at least 5 under). Part of it is also driven(pun intended) by not wanting to get stopped for a traffic violation, as that could easily lead to his other crimes being investigated and him getting arrested again. If he’s driving with anyone, he does not tolerate music or chatter under any circumstances, because he needs to be entirely focused on the road. As mentioned earlier, he drives annoyingly slow—it’s fine when he’s out on the open desert roads, without many other cars around, but god forbid he should ever go on the city highways. He gets tailgated, honked at, flipped off, all of which stress him out further and prompt him to go even slower to piss them off(or, as he likes to say it, teach them patience).
“If everyone drove like me, there would be fewer accidents.”
Whenever the two of you are paired together on jobs, it’s almost always going to be you behind the wheel. On the one hand, he’s grateful for it, since he hates driving, but on the other, he considers himself a much safer driver than you(which he probably is) and doesn’t trust your road habits, which tend to be somewhat reckless. Sometimes, just to get a rise out of him, you’ll briefly speed up really fast, or zig-zag your wheel around… he doesn’t find it amusing. He keeps a collection of extremely gruesome car crash pictures cut out of drivers ed textbooks to show to you whenever you run a red light or make an illegal turn; it’s not all that effective, since both of you are already desensitized to that kind of stuff from your work. Also, he can’t parallel park.
2: Humor
When he’s not planning on killing someone, he can actually be pretty funny, albeit unintentionally. He’s kind of a massive ragebaiter, and because of his flat demeanor you can never really tell if it's on purpose or not. He’ll often say really sarcastic and snarky things with a completely straight face. It’s the complete opposite when he does try to be funny, though. Since you two work together often, and he’s not planning on killing you any time soon, he doesn’t feel the need to intimidate you like he does everyone else. The first few jobs you did together, he tried to express that he wasn’t threatening to you by making “jokes”. Unfortunately, none of them landed, and everything got even more awkward...
In terms of what Anton finds funny, like Carson Wells said, he doesn’t have a sense of humor… he’s not much of a laugher, and when you make little jokes or quips he’s not often to pick up on them. The things he does laugh at are a little bit childish. Mostly practical jokes. Sometimes, when talking to you, he’ll randomly smile or chuckle, and you never know what for. It’s just one of the many ways in which he’s strange and off-putting, and for the most part you’ve gotten used to it.
3: Bad Habits(Of Others)
Ironically, despite the fact that his job is to take lives, he gets really irrationally irritated when he sees other people engaging in self-harmful behavior. The way he sees it, being alive is a privilege, so why would one not do everything they can to preserve it? He never feels guilty about anyone he kills, but he feels especially not-guilty if he finds out the person he killed was a smoker, or drug addict, or had terrible eating habits. If they don’t even care enough to look after their own bodies, he doesn’t see why they deserve to live anyways. The first time he saw you smoking, he went on this huge guidance counselor D.A.R.E. spiel about how unhealthy it was, how it led to lung cancer, how every cigarette was five years shaved off your lifespan, on and on. He didn’t find anything funny about the fact that he, a hitman, was lecturing someone about taking better care of their health.
4: Drinking
Related to the above headcanon, it’s safe to say he doesn’t drink at all. Obviously, there’s the adverse health effects, but Anton is also a man who must always be in control. He must be level-headed, rational, and alert at all times; it’s a requirement of the job. He hates the way alcohol dulls the senses and makes people weak and sloppy. He’s gotten drunk only a handful of times, and has never found it appealing. He doesn’t understand why anyone would intentionally handicap themselves by drinking, especially when, to him, it’s not even fun. He also just hates the taste. One time, after finishing a job together, you got a couple bottles of beer to celebrate—when you offered one to him, he looked at you with a mixture of bewilderment and disgust and asked, “...you expect me to drink this?”
As he doesn’t like to drink, he also doesn’t like it when people around him get drunk. He finds that it turns perfectly capable and respectable people into pathetic, stumbling losers. Sometimes, when you’re drunk, as a JOKE(!!!), he’ll say things like: “do you know how easy it would be for me to kill you right now? If I pulled a gun on you, you would be completely incapable of defending yourself.” He means it as a light reprimand, not a threat, but knowing Anton it definitely comes off as the latter. Actually, he gets pretty concerned about your drinking, and the vulnerable position it puts you in. He knows that he himself has no reason to hurt you, but what about other people? If you tell him you’re going out to a bar or honky-tonk, especially if it’s one you haven’t been to before, he’ll take it upon himself to be your ride home. It’s not like he wants to—frankly he has better things to do—but he sees it as his responsibility. Don’t think this means he cares about you…. the two of you are coworkers, acquaintances at best. He just knows that if anything happens to you, if you get taken hostage or attacked, it could be used as a lead to him.
5: Milk
Of course, he loves dairy products….. not just milk. Yogurt, ice cream, milkshakes, anything buttery. He frequently eats entire tubs of frozen Cool-Whip in one sitting. (I know that Cool-Whip was dairy free in 1980, but it still counts…) He also puts a ridiculous amount of milk in his coffee. His favorite meal of the day is definitely breakfast. He doesn’t really like cheese, though.
6: Children
He avoids killing children. This doesn’t mean that he won’t kill children if it comes down to it, but, if it can be helped, he’d always prefer not to. He has no qualms with killing adults because, in his eyes, they’re fully responsible for their deaths—whatever they might have done to lead them here is their own fault, their fate is their own consequence. Children, though, he doesn’t see as fully aware or responsible for their lives. It’s not like he has some moral objection to killing them. In most cases, he just doesn’t believe it’s their time yet. That’s why he didn’t kill those two boys after the crash, even though they were potential witnesses…
7: Attraction
(Kinda NSFW..) Although he doesn’t really feel sexual or romantic attraction, he’ll still get boners from time to time. He sees it as just another bodily function, the same as eating, or sleeping, or using the restroom. He’s had sex before(don't ask how), as in, he’s gone through the motions of sex, but it doesn’t really do anything for him, besides the brief physical sensation. He doesn’t get any emotional bond out of it, and, for the most part, it just makes him feel sticky and weird and uncomfortable afterwards. When he does get boners, he just patiently waits for them to go away. He doesn’t jack off, mostly because he never realized it was an option, but I don’t think he’d bother with it either way.
8: Music
Unsurprisingly, he’s not really into music. He’s not really into anything—he doesn’t have many hobbies. But you can’t drive without turning the radio on, so, when he’s with you, he ends up listening to a lot of your music. He likes instrumentals because he can’t emotionally connect to any lyrics, and just finds singing to congest the actual music. In particular, he favors classical piano pieces. The one exception to his no-singing preference is Talking Heads, which he heard once when you tuned into an underground FM station. He liked David Byrne’s voice, but thought the rest of the music was terrible.
ok, that's all for now . will post more when i think of more . let me know how these are ....... also, a lot of these headcanons are written with an oc/"x-reader" in mind . is that format preferable, or should I just write him standalone without interactions with the reader in mind ?
Vignettes of a disease progression Spencer never thought he'd experience with you.
sorry
Warnings! Mentions of mental illness, descriptions of symptoms (including psychosis symptoms such as audio hallucinations, and depressive symptoms), please avoid if that might be triggering!, a few mentions of self harm ideation, medical procedures (including needles!), intrusive thoughts, Spencer's traumas (including the drugs thing), reader is referred to with she/her pronouns
Very long I wanted to be detailed
°𓅪𓅪𓅪𓅪𓅪𓅪𓅪𓅪°𓅪𓅪𓅪𓅪𓅪𓅪𓅪𓅪°
The apartment is pitch dark, not a single switch flipped, every curtain drawn shut. Spencer trips over the rug you'd left wrinkled when you unlocked the door with the little energy you had that day. He only turns on the hall light to see himself through to your open bedroom, sure you've left the space this way for a reason.
You lay in crumpled, unchanged sheets, staring at the frame on your wall a few feet away, body stick straight, uncomfortable.
"Hey, sweetheart," Spencer smiles a light into the dull room, but you don't look to see it. "Feeling okay? Tired?" He looks around, but he doesn't know why-- as soon as he turns off your hall light, everything is swallowed by darkness again.
"Mmph."
He sinks carefully into bed beside you and lays an arm over your waist, covered also by a wrinkled T-shirt.
"Lazy day today?" His voice is a gentle vibration in the springs of the mattress. "That's good, you've needed the rest." He pecks the back of your head. "Hasn't seemed like you've been sleeping well."
"Not really," you finally voice a small mewl. He nuzzles at your neck.
"I know," he mumbles on your skin, "I'm sorry I haven't been here so much to help you relax."
"It's kinda nice to be alone."
"Everyone needs alone time, but I'm here now." He kisses your jaw, only because he can't reach your cheek. "That's nice too, right?"
You let out a deep breath. "Yeah."
"Yeah, no, it sounds fun but, um... I already have plans tonight, so-- next time, I guess," you speak into your phone, elbow propped on the arm of the couch, body curled in on itself. Spencer looks at you from across the room, fingers stuck mid-page flip. "Sorry, I know, have fun, though-- yeah I'll- I'll see you later."
"You have plans tonight?" Spencer's eyebrows raise a physical question.
You shrug, "No, I just-- I don't have the energy for it." He nods, silently dissatisfied.
"You haven't hung out with them in a while." His eyes return to his book, but he doesn't continue reading yet.
"Work's been... Tiring." Your eyes catch the cover of the book in his lap, something about Alaskan wildlife. "Y'know, I was just thinking about the bears in Alaska! They have a livestream in the summer to watch them catch fish, it's so cute." Just through his lashes, he's looking up at you. "It's like our brains are connected or something..." You smile. He chuckles with an eye roll. "And there's always some baby bears--" you stop as his eyes float back down to the splayed pages. "You're not listening to me- whatever." You shrug again and look away from him. His whole face lifts with something nearing offense.
"I'm listening, I always pay attention to you," he defends. Your gaze doesn't rise.
"It's fine, the book has better information than I can give you." His lips quirk, unsure how to proceed.
"If you wanna talk, talk, I'll always listen to you." You ignore him, his defensive request, his gratingly sweet voice. You pick up your phone again to scroll instead of having to look at him.
You sway in your seat, fingers tapping against the oak table, food long gone cold. Spencer stares at you the same way he has for far too long. Concerned, examinant. Holding something back from his tongue.
"You could call out sick," he suggests between sips of his coffee, "take another rest day." His eyes take up the expanse of your periphery, though your focus is on the nearly full plate in front of you.
"I'll get in trouble." He drops his mug with pursed lips.
"You barely slept last night, you're on the verge of throwing up from eating breakfast, you're obviously anxious, how much work can you really do?" His gaze, full of compassion, feels too observant, too close, too knowing, too much of everything he always has been.
"Stop doing that," you whine. He keeps staring at you expecting elaboration. "You're always looking at me like a lab rat- I'm not a lab rat, stop looking at me like one-- I'm not a rat." His face furrows. His hand slides across the surface, though it doesn't quite reach yours.
"I just don't want you going to work and making yourself feel worse when you already don't feel well," he argues softly. You run one of your hands through your uncombed hair.
"I feel way better when I'm not being dissected, I mean, fuck-- so I've been anxious, who cares?" He shrinks.
"I care," he begs, "I love you, I don't like seeing you anxious, it makes me worry--" it makes him remember. His eyes pierce you. You sigh.
"Fine, I'll take a sick day, but I'm going tomorrow." You grab the plate of cold, congealed, sickly yellow eggs to scrape into the garbage.
For the first time in a while, you allow yourself to sit under Spencer's arm, curled into him in his soft, warm, heavenly bed. The world is still, silent, apart from the rhythm in his veins and the steady flow of his lungs, and soon, a few mumbled words from his lips, so quiet you can't hear them in his chest. Your chin lifts to sit on top of his ribs.
"What was that Spencer?" He looks down at you with a sweetly confused pout.
"I didn't say anything." You settle back under his arm.
"Totally sounded like you did."
You pound on his door, hot tears already falling from your eyes like a broken faucet. You feel his eyes through the peephole, those needling, caring, scientific pupils.
"What happened?" He starts before the door leaves the frame, and his fingers emerge even faster than his words to pull you in.
"My coworkers keep talking about me, they think I'm not listening, that I can't hear, but I do, I had to hear it all day," you cry, standing off from his coaxing arms.
"What are they saying?" You rustle the fibers of the intricate rug under your feet.
"I don't know, exactly, but it sounds bad and I know I hear them saying my name, and they laugh, and they're complaining and annoyed, but it's funny, too--" you turn to find his leather armchair to crumple into. "I don't know... I think one of them said I might get fired," your voice shakes, but in spite of your flickering pupils, your face hardly shows the emotion you're otherwise obviously feeling. Spencer kneels in front of you, hands on your shoes that you've carelessly drawn onto the cushion.
"For what? I know you're having a hard time lately, but you've always been a good employee, right? Why would they fire you without taking to you?"
"I don't know," you insist, "They're not even in charge of that, so I don't know if they think it will happen, or if they just want it to."
"Why woul--"
"I don't know, Spencer! I can't figure it out, I don't even know for sure what they're saying half the time, I don't know why they would say it-- I don't know why they don't like me now." A few of your tears bloom into the weave of your neckline.
"Has this been going on for a while?" He finds your hand to delicately tap distraction at your fingertips.
"No- and I know you're thinking that's why I've been-- the way I've been, whatever it is-- I don't know if they can- can sense it, like they can read my mind or something-- 'cause I try so hard not to let it show at work, I'm trying so hard." Spencer's own eyes gloss over.
"I know you are, I... I know." His forehead falls against your folded knee. His fingers enwrap your palms to squish them, like a tight enough squeeze will make it all better. Get you back to normal, back to happy, back to his.
"I haven't even really been talking to them, so I know I didn't- I didn't say anything, I didn't do anything, I don't know why they're being so mean, now." He huffs against your pants. His eyebrows scrunch so tight they even grip the fabric.
"I know," he whispers his only offering. He never found a solution to this, even in all his experience of it. It was hard enough when it was only his experience.
Spencer wakes, the bed shaking rapidly, just enough to interrupt his cycle. With a heavy arm, he flicks on the lamp, and turns to your side of the bed. You sit, hunched, dangling over the edge of the mattress, scratching and wiping at your arm.
"Itchy? Or... or is something on you?" He grumbles at your bare back. Your hip turns, revealing the large red patch on your skin. He grabs your wrist with more energy than he should contain, to stop your nails digging any further into your irritated epidermis.
"There's like- a stain on me, I've tried soap, I put alcohol on it, I used the dish soap, makeup remover-- it won't come off... I can feel it there!" You turn your arm out to reveal... Nothing. Nothing but red lines over your skin.
"Baby I think you already got it," he grumbles into a yawn. "I don't see anything."
You scoff, and try to turn back around, muttering, "it's too dark for you to see it, you just woke up, your eyes can't focus yet, you don't believe me."
"I believe it was there, but I can't see any- stain, you maybe just-- just noticed a scab, or something, let it be, and come back to sleep." His own voice grows mumbled, lazier as his eyes sink back to rest. You grumble and pull, but he doesn't let your scratching fingers go until you lay down beside him, and your hand is rested safely on his chest.
Your hands slap against the fluffy steering wheel cover. "Can you believe that? Oh my God." You crane back to confirm what you saw, nose almost pressed against the side window. Spencer looks back to see what you're talking about.
"Believe what?"
"That guy just flipped me off!" He looks at the cars surrounding you-- in the opposite direction to the one you stare in through the rearview mirror.
"What guy?" You groan.
"The one in the white sedan!" He follows your thumb to find the offending vehicle.
"You mean the one going the other way?" His words are drawn out, while your confirmation is a short outburst. "You- you don't think it was for the car trying to overtake him?" You unfocus, to find the bright red car speeding ahead of him. Your tense shoulders drop.
"Oh-- m-maybe," you mumble.
"Did you sleep at all last night? Remember to eat today?" The dull darts in your pupils return.
"Can you not study me? Can I not be wrong once?" Your knuckles lighten again around the wheel. He shrinks into the seat.
A sick anger rises in his throat like an acidic burn-- not at you-- but at his past, for planting questions and suspicions about you based only on some bad days.
Bad weeks.
Bad months.
He was pulled away for two weeks, two back to back cases that forced him into two weeks of shitty motels, two weeks of worry, two weeks of ignored calls and messages you only read.
He raps as gently as he can strain against your door. What few noises he could hear before cease in an instant. Your hand sits on the doorknob, but doesn't turn.
"It's me, Spencer!" He calls softly, hopefully. With a shaking, squeaking turn, the door opens. He's left to follow you into the kitchen.
Along the way, he notes the pile of laundry strewn along your hallway-- all your work clothes, down to every pair of socks you wear when you go.
"Have... Have you been going to work?" He hesitates, eyes finding you standing at the counter, silverware spread over the surface, apparently reorganizing.
"They left a voicemail that I'm fired-- Fuck 'em." His brows lower, yet again examining you, your blank face, the way you inspect every piece of flatware before you put it in its spot in your drawer. But you don't place them together, like with like, instead a jumbled mess of stainless steel.
"Are you not... Worried? You- have to pay rent, buy groceries--"
"Thank you! I didn't realize that." Spencer shrinks into a child under your glare, standing at your feet, silent, helpless. You return to your task until you drop it again. "Do you ever shut up? Do people not just constantly tell you to stop talking?" He blinks.
"I wasn't- talking--"
"You're like two feet away! You think I can't hear you?"
Tears well and his feet are glued to the ground, stuck between wanting to run away or stay and figure you out. "I didn't say anything," he whispers, a dulcet few notes that you used to wish you could listen to on repeat, but now annoy you to no end.
"Just get out," you mumble. He tries to protest, to dissuade you, but-- "Go be with whoever it is you spent the last two weeks with." He's eleven again-- no longer a man, hardly an adolescent-- a child at your feet, staring at a never ending cycle in front of him.
"What?" His voice raises in volume and octave.
"Always leaving for days on end, so busy you miss my calls-- there cannot be that many serial killers in the country at any given time." Your face and voice remain flat despite the venom of your words.
"I- I wouldn- I could never," he hardly breathes. "Do you really think I'm cheating on you? I... I could show you every single case file we've ever worked-- I've never lied to you, I couldn't imagi--"
"Who is it?" It's like you haven't heard one word of his rambling grovel. "Do you work with her? That blonde one?" His stomach turns over, wanting to reach out to you but sure you'd just pull away. He's frozen anyway.
"I would never cheat on you," he tries his best to stop the quiver in his voice.
"Stop! I figured it all out, all the patterns, it all lines up-- and I was told you are!"
"By who?" You don't answer.
"It's fine, I don't even care, I get it, just be honest with me."
"I am," he begs.
At night, flashes of light keep you up, tumbling in the sheets while Spencer lays beside you in restless slumber. You scratch your thigh to get rid of whatever thread brushes you. In one ear is the grating sound of murmurs. Indistinct, inaudible, clawing mumbles overlapping one another.
"You deserve it. You deserve him cheating on you. When's the last time you put out?"
You turn to Spencer's still sleeping body. The voice sounds horribly like him, but it isn't. It can't be. He's asleep, his lips aren't moving, only his eyes twitch microscopically.
"He's a loser. You thought it could work? He travels every week and has beautiful coworkers. You're disgusting. He should hurt you. You'd deserve that, too."
You swallow, thick, and squeeze your temples until you're pinching the skin of your forehead. You blink away another flash. But it doesn't leave.
"You could hurt him first."
You shove out from the covers, rushing into the hall with no determined destination. Just away from Spencer.
You find yourself on your couch, doing nothing but staring at the black TV screen, scratching your leg, trying to hush the words infecting you.
"Someone's gonna hurt you. Maybe not him, maybe not you. But someone will. They should. You could do it first."
With enough scratching, staring, jaw clenching, the voice stops. Relents. Enough for you to return to your bedroom, Spencer still soft asleep, a bit more relaxed without your tossing beside him. His hand is stretched out to your side of the bed. Your suspicions subside for the moment, to let you grab his hand and place it over yourself.
"He's on drugs. He's using again. He never stopped. He lied to you."
Your eyes laser focus on the light scars in his arm.
"He'll drug you. He'll make you want it too. You won't be able to function without it. He'll take it away. He'll 'rescue' you from the withdrawal and then make you relapse."
You almost wish he would if it would turn his voice off. But it's not his. Not from his lips anyway. They're still, engrossed in the novel in his hand. But it sounds just like him.
"Your friends hate you. You've been ignoring them for so long, they forgot you exist. They hate you for it. Spending all your time with your boyfriend, turning down every invitation until you just stopped replying. They're gonna tell everyone how horrible you are. Your coworkers hated you so much you got fired."
You pound again at Spencer's door, until it swings open just enough for you to push in.
"You're not cheating on me," you state flatly, firmly, no relief in the words.
"I'm not--" you shut down his grateful sigh.
"You control me." You shove an accusatory finger in his face. "You want me insecure and anxious and thinking you're cheating, so you can play the perfect groveling boyfriend who would never hurt me and who can lick all my wounds, because you have some sick savior complex and you think you can solve all the world's problems so you don't have to deal with your own."
Resentment grows in him. Anger at his thoughts, at his memory. Because what could be diagnosed as disorganization, paranoia, and delusion-- could be much easier diagnosed as simple anxiety, insecurity, and sleep debt.
"You ignore my calls on purpose so I'm waiting by the phone all day, thinking of nothing but you-- and you always know what I'm thinking, it's like you're in my head with me, like you can pick what I think or say or do before I do it-- you just want me dependent on you so I can't leave like everyone leaves you." His eyes fall from your rambling mouth to your feet.
"I don't think this is a good time for you," he croaks.
You scoff back, "shove me away just to prove me wrong... but fine, I'll go, I'll talk to you when you're ready to admit you're an asshole."
In spite of your proclamation, you kept leaving him messages. Garbled, muffled, rambling voicemails, nothing to do with one another, hardly anything to do with him. He figured you missed him, that you needed an outlet for you stream of consciousness and were probably sure he'd be too busy to check his inbox.
Until the last one ended with the only clear statement in any of them; an invitation to come to your apartment without any apology.
The door was unlocked, allowing him to simply walk into your apartment where you stood reorganizing your bookshelf, between glances at the windowsill.
"Hey," he starts softly, hoping you've come to your senses or at least are ready to forgive him.
"That fucking bird won't leave," you grumble, white-knuckling the spine of a book. He looks to the empty sill. "I don't know if it wants food or water or- to come inside, it keeps chirping and pecking at the glass, it's gonna scratch it." He sets his bag down with a furrowed brow and a tense arm. You grumble something else, before dropping the book and spinning to the window.
You smack the glass to rid yourself of the mocking, nagging bird.
"Go away!" You yell.
Spencer freezes. Flashes of memories spanning his whole life. Shell shock.
He falls into the couch, hunched over, tempted to curl in on himself and pretend he can't see it.
"You're in psychosis," he admits, barely voiced. You turn around as if you weren't just yelling at a bird.
"What was that?" His eyes are wet, sorry, devastated.
"You're experiencing psychosis," he repeats, trying to push past the crack in his throat.
"Oh," you roll your eyes, "Mommy issues." He swallows the comment.
"I've tried for so long to think of every other explanation," he starts, tears forming blobs in his waterline, thick and unwilling to fall. "I thought you were just depressed, just anxious, just tired, insecure, I thought it was my fault for being away all the time and making you suspicious-- but you keep thinking I said something when I didn't, you flinch back from nothing, you think I'm controlling you--- you think I'm really in control of you, don't you? That I really am- picking your thoughts?" Your jaw tightens, clammed up, not wanting to entertain any part of his theory. "You've been scratching a lot, I can see the marks on you right now, you think there's a- a bug there, or something." You hold back your arm from reaching for the itching spot again. "There's not a bird there."
You mumble and look back at the window.
"Do you hear voices?"
"I hear your voice," you evade.
"Not just right now, right?" Your eyes answer for you. "Does... does it want to hurt you?"
"It says you should, or you will."
He falls, a childish puddle on his knees, arms wrapping around your thighs as his head nestles against your stomach. You unsuccessfully try to pry away.
"I would never do anything to hurt you," he finally cries, hidden in the fabric of your shirt.
"I'm not crazy, Spencer, you're projecting all the shit your mom did onto me." He keeps crying.
"Symptoms usually start in the late twenties," it's a foreign tone to the one he typically uses to tell you random facts. "It doesn't even have to be schizophrenia, psychosis can be caused by so many things, but you- you have to see a doctor to know." The prayer in his eyes dulls the voice in your ear briefly. "I know so many psychiatrists and doctors who can help, mom went through so many of them, please let me make you an appointment, I- I have to know." His face is curled, tangled, tortured.
"...If it'll make you believe me."
Turned away from Spencer, clutching a clipboard like it's classified, you sit in a cramped waiting room chair.
"You have to be honest," he implores, "I never have to know what you tell the doctor, or the results of all the tests they're gonna do, I only need to know what I can do next."
"What kind of tests?" He melts at the suspicion on your voice.
"They'll take blood, check your B vitamins, check for substances, there'll probably be imaging, see how your brain is working, might do an EEG, for the same reason, and they'll have to talk to you, probably a lot, we'll probably have to come back a lot to really... Figure it out." Your fingers drum on the back of the clipboard.
"They want to figure out how to take control even more."
"What happens if you're right? Do I-- Do I have to go to a hospital?"
"No," he shudders, eyes glistening, "My-- my mom only had to go because she couldn't-- there was no other choice." His voice drops with his head. "If it's-- what I think, then you'll just have to take medication, go to therapy, we'll figure out ways to tell what's real-- you'll be okay, no matter what, I'll be here."
"I think the doctor's into me," you pipe, staring at your phone.
"I doubt that," he draws, flipping through a manila folder.
"She asks about you a lot, like, why does she need to know I have a boyfriend? And why does she keep asking about you?"
"Because the way it affects your relationships is important information in finding your diagnosis and treatment."
"You don't wanna listen to me," you pout. He sets down the stack of papers he brought home to be with you instead of at the office.
"I'm listening, and if there's a real reason you think your doctor is attracted to you, then we'll find a different one, but erotomanic delusions are common."
"He just doesn't want you to leave for her."
"One time..." He sighs, "My mom became convinced that I only got good grades because my teacher was into her, she'd already known for years that I'm smart, but I guess-- I guess she stopped thinking I was perfect." The voice in your head has a thousand things to say, but you speak instead.
"I still think you are." He just stops to absorb the words.
"Thank you," he mumbles after enough, too much, silence.
Magnets beat loudly in circles around you, as you try your hardest not to squirm, trying to ignore Spencer's voice in your head, while he sits in the waiting room, with three books to distract himself. The intake nurse had responded with shock and amusement to the stack, and assured him it wouldn't take that long. But the three novels still weren't enough for the hour and a half separated from you.
The voice told you the needle for the contrast IV would break off inside you, that the machine is about to explode. You can't tell if the lights sneaking past your eyelids are from the equipment or your own head, now that Spencer has reminded you hundreds of times that lightbulbs don't typically spark at random.
"We need you to hold still," the technician says over your headphones, which do little to carry sound over the machinery and the voice in your head.
"They'll trap you in here. They'll say you got stuck and this will never end. They'll watch your brain die from their little office, while you're still stuck in the machine trying to claw out. They'll tell Spencer you ran off, he won't even care to investigate it. And you'll still be stuck here. With the creatures banging inside the machine. They'll eat you before you get the chance to rot."
You press the call button frantically.
"I can't do-- I can't-- get me out, I can't do it--" A nurse rushes in once the beating stops and pulls the bed out from the tube.
"What's wrong?" She asks, an evil glint in her eye that you doubt is really there, but terrifies you. "Is it the noise? A lot of people get frightened by the noise, you can turn up the music in your headset if it helps." Your head shakes, you attempt to sit up, but she stops you. "Is something wrong? Nausea, pain? I've got a bunch of stuff to help you, if it's just anxiety I've got a sedative for that too." You scramble faster.
"I cant-- I can't do it, I have to leave, don't--" Her hands are firm as they press your shoulders back down.
"Your chart says you're here for possible schizophrenia? I know how nerve racking this part is, but if you don't do it now, you'll have to come back... now, that sedative probably won't take away what's making you so distressed, but it'll relax you enough for us to get the imaging and you can be on your way, okay?" With terrible, painful reluctance, you let her take your arm to poke into your IV, even as you mumble protest.
"You're just letting her drug you. You want them to control you, you want to die in there. You should do it."
Finally, after being made to sit with the voice and the noise and the warm calm in your veins, you're pulled out again. You try to stand, and the nurse catches you as your sedated knees give way.
"That's why we make you come with a designated driver," she chuckles lightly, before helping you into a wheelchair.
After bandaging your arm, she wheels you out to where Spencer waits, fingers tapping against the top of his stack of books. He immediately notices the slowness in your wandering gaze.
"We'll send the results to her doctor, they should call to set up an appointment to discuss them," the nurse starts, stepping on the chair's brake. "She had a bit of a rough time in there, so we did have to sedate her, it happens a lot, she'll just be tired for a while, might need to nap it off, so, she can't drive, and you might have to help her on her feet."
"She's talking like you aren't even here. You're not here in their world. You're a dog. Below them. Made to obey them and only listen in to their conversations. You don't get to participate."
"You okay?" Spencer looks back down to you, scooting to the edge of his plastic chair to lay a gentle, warm hand over yours. You don't answer. "Ready to get out of here?" He's beyond ready to leave the sterile space. You give him a weak nod.
At the last appointment with your psychiatrist, she had requested to meet Spencer. His voice told you she was either scoping her competition or trying to steal him. But he was glad, though nervous, to accept the invitation.
She sits across from the two of you, pen ready to scribble down every word you say or move you make. But she also inspects him. It's sort of a nice reprieve from being under her microscope. His eyes are caught in the carpet, avoiding eye contact with her, or with you. He exudes nerves.
"Spencer, we've discussed that you have past experience with a loved one with schizophrenia, and that you were the one who pushed to come see me, I'd just... I'd like to hear from you why you made that push."
"She doesn't believe anything you've told her. They're conspiring a new story for you to live by. They're seeing if their control is working."
"I... I think I started worrying when she was acting, sort of, depressed, anxious, but I figured it was just that, and I was worrying too much-- and there'd be times where she thought I was speaking, and that didn't- help, but I still thought--" he sighs, "But then there was a day, I went over to her apartment, and she was so sure there was this- bird, outside her window, and it was really distressing for her-- and that's when it really clicked, I couldn't- deny it anymore."
"What was the bird doing to distress you? Was it just being there enough to cause this distress?" They both turns to you as you shrug.
"I don't remember."
"It was chirping, and pecking the glass," Spencer hops in, "It was bothering you so much, you tried to shoo it away by hitting the window back." She hums, and scribbles.
"She's gonna put you away. They're both gonna shove you in a hospital. He's done it before."
"Do you recall how long she was acting depressed? That's something we haven't been able to quite pin down." He tallies every day in his head.
"It was months, she lost her job..." He pauses, before a hit of realization takes his face. "She-- she said she heard her coworkers talking about her, that it started suddenly one day, she couldn't make out exactly what they were saying, but what she could make out was- upsetting."
"You think that was hallucination?"
"I didn't lie about that Spencer," you interject your plea.
"No one thinks you lied," she addresses, too calm, "I'm sure you've realize that hallucinations feel very real, and before they become strange or sometimes obvious, it can be impossible to even suspect it's not reality." The rooms goes quiet for a moment as Spencer collects his thoughts and you squirm in their sight.
"She couldn't understand why they suddenly disliked her so much, why they were saying bad things about her, like how they hoped she'd be fired--"
"But they were right!" He looks over you like he's afraid to say any more.
"You... you stopped going, when I left for Colorado you still had a job, and a full hamper, two weeks later your work clothes were still unwashed and you were fired." You look between them as if either is going to save you from the doubt. Tears prick at your eyes. "I'm not saying this to hurt you," he begs with a hand on your shaking knee.
"He wants to hurt you. Just not with words. He'll do so much worse. With all the cases he's seen, he's learned ways. He wouldn't even get caught."
At another appointment, you tune everything out after, "I think the right diagnosis for you... is schizophrenia." She rattles on about treatment or death sentences or therapy, you aren't sure, she feels miles away. You only come back when she calls your name. "I'm sorry, I should've given you some time to take that in, huh?" She gives you a pursed smile full of pity.
"I-- I'm listening now." She nods, and returns to the top of her notes, slower this time.
"First, I'm going to start you on some antipsychotic medication, these will treat the hallucinations and the other symptoms of psychosis, unfortunately, it will not treat the depressive symptoms, for that I'll refer you to a therapist, she does great work, she'll be able to help you in different ways that I can." Your attention drops to the floor again. So she pauses until you look back up. "You will likely need to take antipsychotics for the rest of your life-- along with the therapy-- and we'll keep checking in with how they're working, if they're causing any side effects, we can switch the specific medication until we find the right balance, some people experience side effects that interact with their daily life too much; movement disorders, drowsiness, anxiety-- I'll give you a printout of all the possible side effects."
Spencer sits on your couch, watching reruns of old Doctor Who. In spite of his colleagues, he's on leave for the next two weeks, to make up for the lost time when neither of you realized how badly you needed him, and to care for you with the start of your treatment.
You collapse into his lap with a yawn. "So tired all of a sudden," you mumble. His hand dusts over your hair.
"That's gonna be your medicine kicking in," he hums.
"Really?" You doubt, sliding a hand over your ear.
"It takes time," he reminds you with a softly stern voice, "If you keep taking it, it'll start working in a few weeks." You flip onto your back, watching his lips to ignore his voice. His warm finger traces down your cheek. "You're gonna be okay," he cracks, full opposition to the words in your ears.
You've sat at the dining table for hours, your fingers drumming against the wood the whole time. For a few months, you were restless, reorganizing your entire space because something told you it all seemed wrong. Now, you're back to... This. To nothing. Unable to even put on a show to watch. You don't want to be sitting still, you don't want to be in the dining area, but you don't want anything. So you're stuck. The only thing you can find interest for is finally crying over the last year. Over everything you've put Spencer through. But your tears won't flow. You know they should be in you somewhere, but it's been impossible to find them.
The jingle of Spencer's key rings from your door.
"Oh- Hi." He didn't expect to find you so quickly, sitting just a few yards from the door. He smiles, and you wish you could appreciate it. "How are you doing?" He slides into the chair beside you and places a soft hand on your shoulder. You shrug. He looks almost pleased at the vacancy of your face. "Are y-- are you hearing anything?" Your head shakes. "Hey!" He cups your jaw. "That's good!"
You breathe, "I don't feel good." His relation pauses.
"Is it just feeling depressed?" You think, and nod. "Yeah, the pills don't really touch that... We can ask your doctor about antidepressants? You'll also just have to keep going to therapy... It's gonna be a process." With a quick, internal debate, he leans in. Suddenly you remember the softness of his lips, the sweet warmth of his hand on your face. When he pulls back, you follow, the only thing to make you feel anything all day. When you finally fall back, you sigh.
"When's the last time I kissed you?"
"Almost a year," he answers immediately.
"And the last time we..." you ask as if you're afraid of the answer.
"Even longer." You slump back against the table.
"I'm sorry." He circles your shoulders in his arm.
"I don't care, not nearly as much as I care about you being healthy, safe." Your blank eyes meet his, filled with enough emotion for the both of you. For the first time since you can remember, no part of you feels suspicious of him, of his voice, of his hands. You lean fully into his chest.
It started when you missed the alarm to take the pill. Within hours, a few whispers in your head. Murmurings of mind control and the creeping suspicion that someone could mug you in the street. As soon as Spencer comes home, he asks if you took the pill. You lie. You don't know why you have to lie about it, he'd understand you forgetting. He should. Unless he doesn't. You've never seen him really mad.
In a few days, the prescription bottle collecting dust on the bathroom counter, his voice is back, the bird sits for the second time on the sill, not chirping, not pecking, just watching you. You'd tell it to leave again but Spencer would know, even from the office. He'd sense it and send you away. So you hide, you act normal, unafraid, unhearing, unseeing.
But even if he weren't the honed perceptive he is, he could still see the wild fear in your eyes.
"You haven't been taking the pills," he says, a fact not a fear.
"Yes I have," you scoff, "You're just looking for a reason to put me away, you did it before, it's all you do for a living, putting people away." It's more words than you've spoken in a month-- and that doesn't help your case. He chokes.
"Don't--" a tear falls off his cheek as he begs, implores, "Don't make me have to."
"He wants to so bad he can't wait for you to give him an excuse."
"I'd rather do anything else than do that to you," his voice is stuck on his mucous filled throat. He grabs your hand, loosely, and pulls you to the bathroom, to pop open the bottle and serve up a pill in the palm of his hand.
Though you're determined to hide the tablet until you can spit it out, Spencer doesn't let you out of his sight. The pill dissolves into a bitter syrup under your tongue.
You crash, just like you had the first few weeks of taking the medication. And now, Spencer calls every single day, staying on the line until he hears you gulp.
Leaned back on his chest, you look up, his content face watching the television on the wall, and all at once you feel the months of missing his touch. You crane up to peck under his chin. It took a long time to get used to your affection the first time, it takes longer the second. He glances down at you with his full-lipped smile. Before you can second guess yourself, you're on top of him, climbing to catch his face in your hands and his lips on yours. His hands float at your waist, before you melt him into allowing himself to hold you.
"Careful," he chuckles, so certain that you aren't doing exactly what you're doing.
"I don't wanna be," you jut. You scrunch the thick material of his hoodie, pulling it up to let cool air hit his stomach, send shivers over his skin.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, watching him pull his pants back into place and smooth down his hair.
"The pills do that," he shrugs, "just like antidepressants."
"But I got you all worked up." You lean forward to run a sorry hand down his arm. He clutches your hand.
"This is more than I've had in over a year, it's more than enough." Still with heat and humor in his eyes, he pulls you for a simple hug. "Don't ever feel like you have to fake it for me."
The sound of ocean waves are all you can hear. A steady yet changing rhythm that pushes water just over your toes, getting buried in a layer of sand. The sky is a diluted turquoise, the sun starting on its way toward the night. Your shorts are slightly damp from the sand underneath you.
"Do you think I'll ever work again?" Spencer's arm slips over your waist.
"It's possible, your treatment seems to be going well, it might still be difficult, but not impossible." His voice is comfortable again. "Could maybe just try part time, at first." He glances at you, lovingly, memories long in the past. "Or you could just be at home, find some hobbies, more ways to ground yourself." He pulls you in and puts his head on top of yours.
"I'm sorry for everything." He shakes his head but doesn't reply to the apology.
You have two wolves inside of you: "I should block everyone and isolate myself for half a year." and "If anyone I'm friends with stops talking to me I'm gonna slit my wrists." and both wolves are actually pathetic shaking puppies
