I move through the places she’s just abandoned, following the faint sway of air her body leaves behind—a thinning warmth that settles on my skin long after she’s gone. Walls peel open in soft wet seams along her path, their paint blistering in slow pulses, guiding me through their hush.
My need gnaws quietly, a raw ache threading through every thought, urging me to gather the smallest traces of her—an imprint on a railing, the shifting of fabric against a corner, the drifting heat where her hand once hovered. I carry these remnants in my chest until they throb against my ribs, until they become something heavier than breath.
The world around us keeps shedding its shape, peeling into new forms that want to keep her near—floors warping beneath her steps, vents sighing with a low fever, windows shivering under the memory of her passing. I move through it all, pulled forward by the soft gravity of her existence, hoping she won’t hear the doorframes moan or the wires hum my longing.
Somewhere ahead, she walks through the murk, unaware of how each footfall drags me deeper into this maze, where the dark leans closer whenever her shadow appears, opening slowly to reveal the fragile, aching thing I’ve become in her wake.
I know I should've been shocked when I saw the scrawl at the bottom of the television screen. It should have torn me open from the inside and left me searching for answers. Instead, I found myself in the ordinary face of consequence, written in tiny white letters. I saw it coming, as much as I pretended not to. Anyone with a shred of common sense would've stopped it long before it had the chance to start. See, it wasn't some sudden, unforeseeable tragedy—This was the conclusion of a long, slow infection that I allowed to fester. What the hell does it matter now, though? At least I can say I tried—And I really, really did.
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“Not going to say good morning?” A slick, roughened voice scraped through the stagnant air that choked the room I found myself in each morning. The Delsan’s lobby was more corpse than structure. Its walls wept with dark stains of mildew, the ceiling sagged, and beetles made their home where the carpet met the baseboards. And in the center of it all was Mr. Phaylen Keenan Schultz—Tall enough to look hinged wrong, and thin as wire. A man who had dedicated himself to harassing me on a daily basis. He had a way of filling every inch of space I tried to claim for myself. Not that I had much room to complain, as I, in an act of pity or loneliness, was the one to seek him out and befriend him. I wanted to hate him just like everyone else did, but… that wasn't in the cards for me.
“Hi, Phaylen,” I responded, the words bitter on my tongue in a silent show of my reluctance for conversation so early in the morning, but sanded down just enough to appear civil. He ignored this as he always did and crept closer to peek at the utility bill I crumpled in my fist.
“Hi, Whore-in!” he sang into my ear, the nickname wet and sweet on his tongue, despite the anger he knew it carried with it. That was always the point.
“Call me that again and I'll rip your teeth out,” I bit back before folding the envelope in half and slipping it into the back pocket of my jeans. Even in my anger, my words were tired. There was no real weight—No expectancy of anything, except amusement.
He leaned in close with breath soured by sleep, and a chuckle that found no purchase within the room. “I hope that's a promise. Now, tell me—What are you doing today?”
“I'm—”
“Great, I'll come with you,” he cut in. “What's for lunch?”
“Why would I feed you?” I scoffed.
“Because you… love me?” Phaylen retorted, before shifting the conversation when my eyes began to crawl downwards. “Oh—” he tapped a gloved finger against the hard silicone encasing his face, acknowledging a new divot in the shape of a waning moon. “—Someone thought it would be funny to try and steal my face! People can be so cruel.”
“S-Sorry about that—” I started, hoping to find a place for sympathy, only to be met with irritation at his quick dismissal.
“Oh, it doesn't matter. C'mon, let's eat!” He didn't give me another chance to respond before he was already pushing me towards the dimly-lit stairwell with the flat of his palms. This was our only passage to the upper floors until the elevator was fixed, which felt more like an empty promise the building manager gave us to keep us around, rather than something within the realm of possibility.
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I feel like I should say this plainly—Of all the million different things I found peculiar about Phaylen, the mask wasn't the strangest—It was, in my opinion, the most honest. He slept in it, ate beneath it, hell—he probably showered in it. It was as if the flesh beneath had long since died—It was his face, in my eyes. I'd only caught glimpses of what he hid beneath it, but never in its entirety. I wondered if he might have a scar, a disfigurement, or something worse. I'd never looked long enough to really discern what it could be. I didn't really care. Everyone has their thing, and I was always one to respect the peculiarities that made a person. He never stared when he caught me adjusting the stretched binder I'd often wrestle with while my shirt was hugged by the hard bottom of my chin, nor did he look away when I braved the dull sting of a needle that left my thigh sore as I failed to master the simple practice. I was exactly who I made myself out to be in his eyes, and he rewarded me with a blind loyalty someone could mistake for love, if they were lonely enough to need it. He arrived like the weather, and came and went without ceremony. He carried himself with the confidence of a man oblivious to borders, lines, and boundaries. A nuisance most days, but genuine—and that was all I needed.
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“When's the last time you went shopping?!” he asked with his head stuck into my refrigerator, echoing off empty shelves.
“You went with me Monday,” I said, turning fish with a melted spatula. “Then you… proceeded to scarf down ninety percent of it. Seriously—Are you secretly homeless? I feel like you're here more than you're not.”
“I like your place,” he sighed out, letting the door shut on its own. “Plus, who else would keep you company?”
“Who said I need it?”
“The scars on your arms tell me you really appreciate it!” He shot back, delivering tenderness as cruelty to save us both the embarrassment.
“You're a dick.”
“Jealous I have one?”
“...Eat shit.”
“You always flush, there's nothing for me to eat!”
“That—That's disgusting!” I laughed, annoyed at the fact that I did so. I hated how he could pull it out of me like a magician reaching into a pocket to pluck the coin he'd planted himself. He always seemed to make it his mission to cheer me up, even when I didn't need him to.
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Phaylen knew just about everything there was to know about me, because I handed it to him. Despite how standoffish and withdrawn I tended to act most of the time, there were many times where I allowed myself to let down my walls and just talk—It wasn't always deep and personal. It could've just been about my day at work, but he always took it as if I was revealing my darkest secrets to him. He was so enthralled by every little thing I had to say. I guess I never realized it was me who always did the talking. I didn't really know anything about him, except for a name, an apartment I had never entered, and a schedule that always matched mine. It's stupid now, thinking back on it. I mean, he could have been a serial killer for all I knew. Hindsight, right?
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“Sorry if it's burnt,” I mumbled through a lethargic sigh as I sat down two plates of overcooked fish, tacky rice, and a handful of vegetables from the back of the pantry—the kind that could survive an apocalypse alongside the roaches. Phaylen flopped down beside me on my beaten couch before snatching the small black remote that sat upside-down on the old wooden coffee table that now held our dinner.
“Are you kidding?” he said around his first bite, as he'd snatched his plate like a carnivorous animal. “You know I love your food, I'd eat it every day.”
“You do,” I said through gritted teeth before letting my annoyance slip away from me.
“Take it as a compliment!”
We chatted about our days as we always did, while I politely kept my attention directed forward to keep myself from catching the scruff of his jaw as he ate with an obnoxiously loud smack—one I unashamedly matched. I was much too lazy to pick myself up and retrieve the silverware I'd forgotten to grab, so the two of us came to a silent agreement to eat with our hands instead. And I'll admit, it tasted better without the metallic interference of a fork. He seemed to feel the same, judging by the gentle, quick bouncing of his foot against the carpet—a tell I had learned to translate as pleasure.
We watched a show neither of us cared about, and the silence thickened into something companionable. Some time after our emptied plates had returned to the table, he said my name.
“Hey, Orin…”
“Yeah?”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure..? I mean—You can tell me anything.”
“...Anything?”
“Yes,” I assured with a smile I didn't feel but meant.
“Well…” he started, loosely threading his bony fingers together like a churchgoer preparing for prayer. “I was thinking—”
“That's a first,” I interrupted with a small smirk.
“Har, har—Now quiet!” have hissed, giving my foot a small kick before continuing. "I just… You're my best friend, and I feel like you get me—More than anyone else. So…" he tilted his head towards me and leaned in close, as if meaning to put his lips to my ear. Then, he screamed. Not a word—just sound, a blaring siren of delight at my instinctual flinch. My heart punched my ribs, and he collapsed into laughter so complete it seemed to rearrange his bones.
“You're such an asshole!”
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Phaylen's 'jokes' were less humorous as they were violations he curated, with a punchline occasionally stitched on—Screaming into my ear, dousing me with ice water while I bathed, dangling rotten animal carcasses in my face, anything he could think of to get a reaction out of me. He wanted the world to rupture around me so he could be the one to show me its pieces. And I'll admit, most of it was pretty funny after the fact. Of course, I'd gotten him back more than enough times to save my dignity. Salt in his coffee, a foot stretched in his path to try and topple him—gestures that proved, to me at least, that I hadn't surrendered. Still… Some of his jokes, I didn't always get.
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I sank into my worn but welcoming bed, its tired foam still managing to hold me with a fair amount of comfort. Another day at work gone, another evening left heavy with exhaustion. I'd known Phaylen for some time now—Two years, give or take. Long enough to know his patterns, and what counted as normal. Disappearing wasn't unusual for him. Sometimes just a day, other times weeks—There was never any telling. However, the man who returned was always lighter than the one who had left. His darker spells came and went, but never lingered. We all needed breaks in a place like this. If I had the drive, maybe I'd follow in his footsteps and step outside the cycle I chained myself to. I let the thought remain a daydream, soft and unreachable, as I let the weight of sleep pull me under—
Tap…
Tap…
Tap...
…
What the hell was that? My body lay heavy against the mattress, but my head snapped upright, eyes sweeping across my room. The cold moonlight spilled faintly through the open window. I hated leaving it open, but the thought of mold crawling through my walls—like some tenants warned when I moved in—was worse. I tried, at first, to chalk it up to exhaustion, or the city outside—I was situated directly in the sleepless heart of Lindstall, after all—but something in me refused the excuse when that gentle tapping came again, steady and deliberate.
Tap…
Tap…
Tap…
…
This time, I knew. It wasn't outside, but in here. Anxiety coiled tight in my chest as I quickly propped myself up on my elbows, scanning my eyes along the walls, corners, and every shadow. “Is someone...?” I started, only for my words to catch in my throat when a dark blur shifted in the corner behind a chair that held a heap of laundry I had neglected to put away. I convinced myself someone had broken in and I was about to die, but…
“I wanted to tell you goodnight.” Phaylen's calm, almost tender murmur slid out from the darkness. My whole body reeled back, confusion and anger flooding in at once.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” My voice cracked, sharp and panicked. “Why the hell are you in my room? It's two in the morning, you asshole! How did you get in?!”
“...You left the door open for me,” his tone was matter-of-fact, as though it was something I should've already known. “Goodnight, Orin.” He gave a small wave, only to slink out of my room and out through the front door, the echo rattling through the hollow of my chest.
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It wasn't until morning that a detail returned to me—Phaylen had been holding something. Not one thing, but rather, a collection of things gathered in his hands like offerings. That evening after work, I confronted him about it. He admitted to sneaking into my apartment, yes, but he swore his hands had been empty. He insisted he'd only wanted to see me before retiring for the night. He even promised he'd give me a warning next time. I knew better than to believe it—it was just something to pacify me to keep me from lashing out in the moment.
And yet, like everything else with Phaylen, I adjusted. His late-night visits stopped feeling like intrusions and started becoming routine. From an outside perspective, I can see how it looks. A grown man creeping into my apartment while I sleep? An obvious red flag. But for me, it never felt threatening. Strange, yes, at first—but it wasn't wrong. Not for him.
I never sensed malice in his presence. After all, on a few occasions, I'd wake to gifts waiting on my kitchen counter. Sometimes it was food, sometimes jewelry. Occasionally, something stranger—an animal skull, a pelt, oddities I cherished. They were always modest in size and nothing I couldn't keep. I found myself oddly touched by the gesture. I thought it was sweet that he was too embarrassed to give it to me face-to-face. It felt like a softer side of him, something vulnerable that he couldn't bring himself to show outright. So, I accepted them. I never questioned where he found them, or why he chose to leave them like secrets in the night. I certainly wasn't going to throw his offerings back in his face, I wouldn't do that to him.
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“Whore-in~!” Phaylen's sing-song inflection rang through the hall as he jogged up behind me. “Did you get your breakfast?”
“Uh—Yeah, I did,” I yawned, still clawing my way out of sleep as I shuffled toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. “Thanks, man. I really didn't feel like cooking today, so…”
“I made it all by myself!” He announced, practically glowing with pride. “So what's the plan for today?”
“...The plan?”
“It's Saturday! You don't have to leave!”
“...I was just gonna grab my mail, but I guess—”
“Boooring!” Phaylen whined theatrically, cutting me off. “You deserve to have some fun! Come on, let me take you somewhere.”
Despite my crabbiness, his insistence cracked through, and I relented with a sigh. “If I say yes, will you shut up long enough for me to go downstairs, grab my mail, and come back up to get dressed?”
“Deal!” He chirped, then immediately broke it as he continued to chew my ear off all the way down and up the stairs until I gave up fighting and followed him into the parking lot.
To my surprise, the day itself was… pleasant. He dragged me to the city's south mall, weaving us through stores I'd never noticed. He bought things faster than I could object, and beamed with each small acquisition as if I were a house he was furnishing—Mostly things my eyes lingered on without realizing he was watching. At lunch, he told a story about a man who might have been a coworker or maybe a stranger—his life was a deck he shuffled with names and places until none of the cards matched. By the time the sun dipped low, I was worn thin, but sticky with the sweetness of our day. He read my fatigue, and offered to cut the day short and drive me home. The only sour note came when I asked about the bags in the back seat, stacked openly instead of tucked in the trunk.
“It's full,” he said flatly.
“Of what..?”
“Dead bodies,” he joked, but the smile I assumed he now wore didn't reach his eyes. “It's where I keep my work stuff.”
“Work..?” I frowned. “What do you even do? You're always around.”
“I work when you do, ” he said. “Is that not enough?”
“I guess?”
“Someone's worried about the wrong thing.”
“Should I be worried about something else?”
“Probably the bodies.” He dissolved into laughter, leaving me grimacing and sinking back against the headrest as the radio hissed between stations. A faint coppery scent lingered in the car, sharp enough to curl in the back of my throat.
Before I could dwell on it, the sensation of cold fingers slid across my hand. I glanced down, then up, then down again. He wasn’t looking at me—his eyes stayed on the road—but his hand had wrapped around mine. I watched the creases on his glove as he traced and retraced the same small path.
…Did he think this was a date? Surely not. He practically dragged me out—
“I had fun with you, Orin,” he said at last with an unusual steadiness. “Thanks for letting me take you out.”
“I should be the one to thank you,” I muttered, heat creeping onto my cheeks, “You're… a good friend.”
“Hm,” he nodded once, withdrawing his hand and returning it to the wheel as the gentle tapping of his foot ceased.
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I liked Phaylen—I really did. He was everything you could ask for in a friend, and then some. But that's all I wanted. Just a friend. I suspected, sometimes, that he might have felt differently. Gifts without occasion, the way he’d occasionally slip his hand into mine—it suggested something more, but never something he put into sentences. His words were always safe. Gratitude, reassurance, nothing that crossed the line. I let myself believe it was just one of his many quirks. It could have been just that, or my own mind feeding me lies. My life until now has been nothing but heartache and upheaval and misery—I’d carved out this space for myself because I wanted solitude in a more personal way. Sure, I complained, but truthfully? I was happier than I’d ever been. Self-sufficient, free to do whatever the hell I wanted, whenever I wanted to do it. Phaylen was just a perk of that freedom. Something special I got to enjoy without asking for it. Why risk ruining a good thing?
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Years slipped by, and the steady rhythm of Phaylen's strangeness evolved with everything else. He made a habit of dragging me out on my days off, and little by little, he nested himself in my apartment like a cat that had decided which lap was permanent. I didn't mind, not after the waves of panic that had gripped Lindstall. In a city built on interplanetary trade and tourism, unrest was inevitable. Having him around felt… grounding.
At some point, though, he changed. Or maybe I just finally started noticing. The shift was subtle and easy to miss, but I welcomed it anyway. He was the same erratic, off-beat man I'd always known, yet there was a new openness between us. Long talks stretched into the night—about our feelings, about our lives, about everything and nothing. I learned more about him than I'd ever expected. He confessed to therapy since his teens for what he only called 'unsavory thoughts'. He said the phrase like a joke and not a confession. I told him I was proud of him, and he wore the praise like a medal. His mother became a story he told in fragments. Their meetings were a secret she had withheld from her newest husband. Phaylen wanted to see her, to keep her safe from a man he'd deemed unstable. But then came the news that she was gone. Her death reached him like a letter misdelivered and opened too late. It hollowed him, just as my sister's passing had hollowed me. And I did my best to comfort him, as he did with me. When my sister died, he sat on the floor by my couch and recited everything he knew about grief. I pretended it helped because sometimes pretending is the only mercy you can give the person who is trying. When the ache dulled, we simply existed… together.
I tried dating briefly, but Lindstall specialized in people who were interested in beginnings and bored with middles. Every attempt ended the same—It hurt, but Phaylen was always there, steadying me, keeping me from sinking. And I returned the favor. That's how it worked between us.
Things weren't perfect. Cracks formed. Small ones, at first. A strange look in his eyes when I disappointed him, a sharp edge in his words when a stranger drew too close. He waved away suspicions, and I let him—at least outwardly. I told myself it was protectiveness, the kind that flatters until it doesn't. I enjoyed being wanted so fiercely.
“Orin…”
But protectiveness turned into a suffocating presence. Phaylen pushed little by little, day by day. More denial, more fights.
“Orin, please… I'm sorry.”
I wasn't afraid of him, not for a moment. But sometimes…
“Orin, open the door.”
“Get the fuck out of my house!”
“Please don't do this to me… Orin, I need you—Please don't shut me out, I'm sorry!”
…
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG!
“Orin, you open this door right now! Orin!”
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG!
…
Silence in the eye of it. Then, his voice became small. “Please… I didn't mean to—I really didn't!”
“I watched you kill Daniel's cat! What part of that was an accident?!”
“I didn't mean it, I didn't! Orin, you have to believe me, I wouldn't lie to you—”
“Yes, you would! You lie to me all the time! My clothes, my money, my food—”
“Okay! Okay—Yes, I take things from you! But I always make it right, don't I? I always make it right!”
“That isn't the point!”
“Isn't it?!”
“No! You shouldn't be doing it in the first place—it's fucked up! You shouldn't be doing any of this!”
“I know that, I do! I just… O-Orin, I'm scared… I'm scared of myself, of screwing things up with you, of ruining my life—I'm getting help, but I need more than just some stranger who's only in it for a paycheck! You… You know I'd never hurt you, don't you..?”
Of course he wouldn't. He never laid a hand on me, not once. This was inexcusable, yes, but it wasn't him—I knew Phaylen was a good person struggling against himself. We all were.
So, I opened the door.
I saw him on his knees in the hall. His mask streaked wet, shoulders trembling like a beaten animal. He looked so small, so ruined, that my chest ached. He was my friend. My only friend. If it were me on the floor, he wouldn't abandon me, so neither could I.
We talked for hours after that. We talked until I thought I knew him better than I knew myself. I felt a lot of things—Frustration, pity, confusion, all knotted into one. His life had been stripped from him, simply because of the way his mind misfired, because of compulsions he couldn't control like the rest of us could. It was hard for him, harder than I knew I could understand. But he was trying—God, he was trying. And so, I decided to try too.
It was a terrible choice, but I helped him dispose of poor Mr. Ham Sandwich. He was a good cat and he didn't deserve what happened to him. I gave him the best burial I could manage in the patch of grass behind the complex. I broke the news to my neighbor, Daniel, that his cat had escaped. His devastation was immediate, and the missing posters he hung in the halls watched me come and go with a look I didn't deserve to wear. But what was the alternative? I knew with a sick certainty that if I ratted Phaylen out, Daniel would have literally murdered him. Violently. And being an accomplice, he would have come for me, too. And so, the secret was buried with the cat.
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I know what you want to say. I said it to myself a hundred times. It was stupid of me not to tell someone or call the cops on him. I did none of those. My villainy was not in what I did, but what I failed to do, all in the name of compassion. I knew he needed help like he said—but not the kind I could give. What did I know about saving someone from themselves? I wish I could say we moved on from it, but ever since that day, Phaylen changed. Or maybe it was just me who changed, knowing what I knew, having seen what I saw. Either way, something was fractured between us. It wasn’t his usual strangeness anymore—the way he carried himself, the way his silences lingered too long, the way his eyes clung to me like he was waiting for me to turn on him… It was foreign. It was obvious that catching him wringing that cat's neck was something I was never meant to see. And I wish that had been the worst of it. But somehow, it wasn't. Somehow, that was nothing compared to what I saw that December. I should have kept my head down. Minding my own business might have saved me.
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“Where the fuck is it?” I hissed under my breath, scouring through the clutter of my dresser drawers in search of my well-loved sleep shirt. I tore through the dirty laundry, checked the washer, the dryer, and even dug through the trash—but still, nothing. A suspicion crawled into my chest, sharp and ugly. Did he steal from me again? I marched back into my bedroom and snatched my phone from the nightstand. I scrolled through my contacts in search of Phaylen's number—However, my thumb froze over the call button. What was the point? He'd been on another one of his absent streaks. He practically lives with me now. He eats my food, leaves his things wherever he pleases, but he still refuses to tell me when he's leaving or for how long. He just leaves for days at a time with no warning, no explanation, and returns with whatever mood had been on sale.
My frustration boiled over. I shoved my shoes back on and stormed out of my apartment towards the stairwell. Breaking into his apartment wasn't legal, but after all the times he'd slipped into mine unannounced? He had it coming. Besides, I wanted my shirt back, and I knew he was hiding it somewhere. If not his car, then in his apartment. He was gone anyway—it's not like he'd ever know.
“Which one was it..?” I muttered, dragging myself up the spiral of stairs. “Six… Seven… Eight..?” My steps slowed as I neared the landing where a single door was situated on the center wall. It was the top floor, with only the stairs to the roof access above. The number he gave was hazy, being told to me only once over half a decade ago. But I knew I remembered—806. However, the door separating me from the hallway was decrepit to say the least, like it hadn’t been touched in decades—rusted metal, corroded handle, paint peeling in long curls at the frame. The other floors in the building were shitty too, but this one… this one looked forgotten.
Had he lied to me?
My stomach tightened. No—Lie or not, I was already here. If this turned out to be a dead end, I promised myself I'd confront him when he came home. I braced myself and pushed against the handle. It groaned, but held fast, swollen in its frame. Gritting my teeth, I drove myself into it, and it cracked open with a low yawn. The hall that stretched ahead was illuminated, but only by a few fluorescent bulbs that clung desperately for life with a loud buzz, casting a sickly light that left more room for shadow than illumination. The floor ahead was buried under a thick layer of debris—dust, plaster, fragile insect husks that crunched under my shoe. Still, I moved forward, counting each door I passed. My pulse ticked faster with each number until at last—806, situated less than halfway down the stretch. I tried the handle, expecting resistance. A cold ripple ran down my spine as the knob turned too easily. Relief and unease fought in my stomach when I opened the door.
“Phaylen..?” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the crunch of grit beneath my shoes. My fingers dragged along the wall, rough strips of something flaking beneath my touch. I thought it was the wall showing its age, but the texture clung to my skin, brittle and curling like old paper. The silence pressed back down heavy, thick and patient. Still—I couldn't shake the compulsion to announce myself, as if acknowledging my presence might soften whatever waited in the dark. Ten feet in, my foot snagged on something hard, sending me stumbling forward with a sharp gasp. My heart hammered in my throat as I abandoned my blind search along the wall and fumbled for my phone. The flashlight beam cut through the black, and for a brief second, I wished I hadn’t turned it on at all.
Holy… fucking… shit…
The walls. The floor. Even the ceiling. It wasn't peeling paint I had felt on my way in. I whipped my phone from side to side, up and down, letting my heavy feet carry me deeper inside while the bare wood beneath groaned—pleading with me to turn back, to not look. Every surface was plastered edge to edge with photographs, sketches from a hand that didn't sleep, bodies diagrammed like machines, names, newspaper clippings, scraps of writing—thousands of them. They overlapped, curling at the corners, some yellowed and tenuous, others crisp and new. The glue that held them in place dripped down in gummy streaks, catching the light like veins. My throat tightened with nausea as I swept the beam around. The living room was suffocating with it, the kitchen too—even the bathroom mirror was rimmed with taped polaroids. Every wall was alive with faces. I reached my hand forward and picked off one of the photographs with trembling fingers. A woman I didn't recognize stared back at me, caught mid-step in a crosswalk, laughing at something outside the frame. It was ordinary, harmless—too ordinary. My hand quivered as I picked another at random. This one was darker. A man hunched at a bus stop at night, staring down at his phone, completely unaware. A third—a child on a playground, half obscured behind the edge of a slide. None of them posed, none of them looked at the camera. Every photo was stolen, every moment taken without consent. “What the fuck is this?” I whispered, my words as unsteady as my hand. My voice sounded too loud here, like it didn’t belong. My skin crawled with the certainty that these walls weren’t decoration—They were obsession.
I couldn't… I didn't know what I was looking at. Was this really his home? Or some kind of shrine or hunting den? The thought made my stomach lurch. I wanted to run, to turn back, to shut the door and scrub this entire place from my memory. My body begged me to flee. But then, I saw it. One door, untouched, sat at the end of the hall. All the others stood open, their secrets spilled out into the ruin of the apartment. But this one remained closed, silent, and waiting. My chest tightened as my eyes fixed on it. I didn’t need to wonder what it was. I knew. The bedroom—his bedroom. What does someone like this even keep in their room? “F-Fuck, fuck, fuck…” I mumbled to myself, each word a shaky exhale as I reached for the knob. It felt… sticky. And when my hand recoiled, I saw—
“ORIN.”
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I didn’t even get the chance to turn my head before the world cut out. One second I was standing there, chest heaving, sweat stinging my eyes. Then the next, black—heavy, smothering black. The sound of my own body hitting the floor never even reached my ears. No noise, no air, no light—Only sharp and blinding pain, like my skull had been cleaved open from the inside. It wasn’t the kind of pain you grit your teeth through—it was the kind that swallows you whole, strips you down until you’re nothing but a raw nerve screaming in a place beyond sound. Every throb rattled my bones and sent stars bursting behind my closed eyes, fractured into shapes that made no sense. My body no longer felt like mine. I floated in it, or maybe I sank. It was impossible to tell. I don't know how long I was stuck in this state, but I do know… When I woke, I begged any god that listened to take me back to it.
──────────────────────────────
“...did you come here?” Phaylen’s voice pressed into the ringing void in my skull, low and raw, vibrating more in my bones than in my ears.
“Ph… Ph-Playl… len..?” The words stumbled from my swollen mouth, slurred and broken. My hand drifted up, and came away slick with the copper taste already on my tongue. When I forced my eyes open, the corridor spun, and my body sprawled flat to the floor like a carcass. My phone was now flung far out of reach.
“Why did you come here?” His tone sharpened, punctuated by the heavy stomp of his boot beside me. The thud rattled through my chest before his knees bent, and he brought himself down level with my broken gaze.
“M-M… My sh-shirt…” My throat stung as I forced it out. “My s-sleep shirt… You took it…”
“Your shirt..?” His pitch cracked with disbelief, followed by a mirthless scoff. “Your shirt… Your little cow shirt.” A hollow laugh burst from him before shriveling in his throat. “I shouldn't have… Orin, I'm so sorry. I didn't want this to happen.”
“Wh-What is this..?” My lips barely moved. “The… The p-pictures…”
“You weren't supposed to come here.”
“Phaylen… I-I hurt—”
“Don't you know I can't let you leave now?”
“N-No–I won't tell—I won't… You c-can trust—”
"NO!” The word tore out of him, snapping apart like glass. “This isn't how this works, you can't go—You can't…” Phaylen shook his head violently, like a dog flinging off water. He then loomed over me with his feet braced on either side of my ribs and his shadow consuming me. “You—No.” He broke into quick, jagged gasps. “You made me do this, Orin, you made me. Y-You just had to be good, that's all…”
My lungs burned, each breath smaller than the last. “Wh-What… are you gonna do to me..? I didn't mean to… Ph-Phay—” A sob cracked out of me, my head splitting with the weight of fear. My arms shook as I tried to lift myself, but I collapsed back down with a pained whimper. “...I'm scared…”
“You don't need to be. I wouldn't hurt you, Orin—I've told you that so many times, haven't I..? I…” His voice broke into something softer, but far more dangerous. “I love you, Orin.”
The words stabbed deeper than any wound.
“I—What..?”
“I love you–I've loved you since the first day I saw you.”
“No, that's…” I heard fabric shift, and metal clink faintly. His movements were frantic, almost reverent. My vision swam—but I could feel the air change, and I could feel him close in—too close. His hands pressed against me and dragged me back into his orbit no matter how much my body screamed to get away. My limbs were leaden, weak, my pleas silenced by a broken rasp. The way he clutched my shoulders hard enough to bruise, the way he buried his face into my neck with ragged apologies, it felt like drowning. I just wanted it to stop, I wanted to be in my bed, with my sleep shirt, and my friend. I didn't want this.
I yelped as the sudden pressure of my pants being tugged startled me into alertness. My mind splintered, and any clarity I had left dissolved into static.
“I need to show you how much I love you, Orin. I need—I need you. I know you need me, too.” His voice dropped, rough and urgent, almost feral with need and guilt. “I'll make you feel good, like you deserve. I love you so, so much.” He knew what he was doing and what he was about to do, and he was so sorry—But he didn't stop.
I tried to scream, tried to plead, tried to claw my way away from the searing hot pain that forced itself into me. But my dear friend—my best friend—struck me with a force I never thought he could muster, silencing me in an instant with a numbing impact that ripped the words right out of my mouth. A pulsing roar blazed through my skull and lights danced behind my eyes, harsh and unforgiving. Through it all, his cries broke through, trembling, raw, and frantic. It was a litany, repeated over and over, echoing in my mind long after it left his mouth. His sorrow was a physical weight pressing down on me, suffocating yet demanding, pulling me into the center of him as though I were the only anchor in a storm he could not control. Yet, even as his sorrow echoed in my mind, he did not relent.
His hands, once gentle and familiar, transformed into rough, invasive claws that tore into my flesh with an urgency that left me reeling. They explored parts of me they had never touched before, ripped away the fabric that shielded my body, exposing me to a chilling air that almost felt alive. I was laid bare, stripped of my defenses, and transformed into a grotesque centerpiece to the nightmare I had unwittingly stumbled into. I wanted to call him back from wherever he’d gone. I wanted to believe in the version of him who had once pressed a jacket into my hands, who had once laughed so hard he cried at my stupid jokes. But there he was, above me, the weight of him like wet canvas, heavy and compliant to its own gravity.
Every sound he made slid from sorrow into something sweeter, and the sweetness was worse. It lacquered the walls, glossed over the names and eyes that bore witness. His hips struck me in blunt, metronomic bursts—the rhythm felt like a carpenter's hammer beating against the wall. He gave me a special part of himself—a piece that forced me to warp to its shape with no room to breathe, nor any unoccupied corner where my name might hide. Surrender seeped in like smoke under a door. It was too late to fight back, too late to scream loud enough for anyone to hear. My body went slack, surrendering not from choice, but from the sheer futility of resisting him. Yet, I knew this wasn’t the end—not with Phaylen. He wasn’t the kind of man to stop once the heat of adrenaline faded. He told me he couldn’t stop, that he wasn’t in control—but I knew him too well. He was slow, methodical, precise, and chillingly deliberate. The steadiness of it undid me more than any frenzy could—And I just laid there, and took it.
I felt his leg begin to tremble as he tightened himself around me. And then, with a suddenness that shattered the thin veil of my thoughts, I felt the sharp bite of a blade glide across my throat.
──────────────────────────────
And that was it. That was the end for me, I guess. Raped and murdered by my best and only friend, the one I had fed, housed, and enabled. Like I said before, everyone saw it coming. Deep down, so did I. I was furious, of course—at him, sure, but mostly at myself. If I had just listened to that gnawing instinct, to the quiet voice of reason in the back of my skull, I’d still be alive—or at least partially intact.
Death wasn’t what I thought it would be. There were no blazing lights, no welcoming ancestors, no divine hands reaching down to cradle me. Just a moment of black, like a curtain falling, and then—stillness. No pain, no weight, just… absence. But then, I was right back where I left off. Except, it didn't hurt anymore. In fact, I remember the stark sensation of feeling absolutely nothing at all. The hard floor, the burning in my groin, the wetness on my neck, Phaylen's embrace—all of it was gone, but I was still there.
For hours, I lay there, if “lay” was even the right word. I listened to Phaylen’s sobs as they softened the quiet of the home. They were sharp and jagged at first, then low and broken. He begged my corpse for forgiveness. He pressed his face into me as though grief could reverse what he had done. And yet, even as he crumbled, his words clung to that same selfish tether, “at least now, he'd always have me, and I'd always have him, and we'd never be apart”, which was true in some sense.
Eventually, he stopped. A silence flooded in, thick as damp wool. Then, the long process began—the tidying, the careful rewinding of a life he’d ripped open. In the slab of light from my phone, I watched him lift my body and cradle it as if it were a feverish child, then kiss it with a devotion that should have sickened me. He dressed me in clothes he had pilfered from me over the years, combed his fingers through my hair, whispered his apologies and promises into the shell of an ear that no longer heard him. And I followed him because I couldn’t do anything else—I couldn't stop myself. Some tether bound me to him, though whether it was loyalty, hatred, or some cruel law of the afterlife, I still don’t know.
He took me to his room—one of the mildest rooms—which, admittedly, disappointed me. There, he stayed with me for hours, which fermented into days. When the bloat began, and the bugs made their home in my chest, he still gazed at me with those practiced, kind eyes—the ones he’d used to tap the well of my trust. He poured love over me the way a gardener waters a stubborn yet faithful stump, giving me his life over and over until it pooled and varnished the sheets and sank into the mattress. Heat, salt, sugar, and rot ripened the room. When my organs softened into a tepid slurry and the bed took a permanent outline of me, he started saying his goodbyes to the body he’d worn thin. He stripped himself from me with the professionalism of a man who’d done this before—each hair captured, each print prayed over and erased.
He then returned what was left of me to my apartment… and left me there. Days, and days, and days, before the air curdled and my smell learned to crawl under doors and into the throats of my neighbors who called for help—As ironic as it sounds now. He was questioned, of course, just like every other person in the building. But he was a surprisingly cunning and charismatic man when the time called for it. He smiled, he charmed, he lied with ease, and they believed him. And while my vessel was hauled away, never to be seen again, I lingered by his side.
I don’t know how many times my heart tried its old trick of breaking as I learned him in reverse. He did eventually leave the apartments like some of the others, but he remained in Lindstall. Over time, I realized many unsettling truths. I wasn't his first victim—Far from it. Animals were his warm-up, his practice, his pastime. People were rarer, like confections to be savored. He made connections when it suited him, or when it amused him. But never like with me. With others, it was quick and detached. A thrill, maybe—or a game. They were prey. But I was different. I was the one he chose to keep, the one he loved enough to break apart slowly, so he could make me stay forever. I don’t know what that makes me now. His ghost? His secret? His shadow? But I do know this much—death didn’t free me. It bound me tighter.
The biggest blow for me was realizing he wasn't who he said he was. He had a nasty habit of changing his name as frequently as people change their clothes—slipping into one, discarding another, like skins he shed when they grew too tight. They were always spoken with such confidence that I almost believed him every time.
I thought I understood him. I told myself that he was broken and trying, that I was kind and compassionate, that secrets could be buried clean. I told myself I wasn’t the kind of person who would betray someone he loved. I told myself all of these things until the night I learned what love meant to him. I told myself, and I lied to myself, and that lie was the thing that killed me.
I think of all the lives that had to stand still so yours could keep moving. Do you know I'm still watching? Do you care that I'm still here? Do you forget about me when you smile with someone else’s name on your lips? Is this what you wanted me to see?
I love you. And I’ll be here long after you’ve run out of names to hide behind.
He is the noise after the world ends. Not chaos, but the soft hum of something still trying—pulling light from the mouth of broken hours, repairing what he didn’t break. He gives with hands that have never known return. Only ruin, only me, curled in on myself like a secret I shouldn’t have told. Still, he listens, still he touches my hair like it’s not crawling with failure.
He deserves to love someone with a pulse that doesn’t stutter, someone who knows how to stay clean, who doesn’t rot through everything they hold. I should be behind a locked door—I should be erased by kindness so complete it doesn’t leave enough air for my name. And him—He deserves a shoreline that doesn’t drag him under every time he steps forward. But he keeps stepping into my mess, into my noise, into the burning wreck I’ve convinced myself is a personality.
I want to say, “go.” I want to say, “run before I stain your lungs too.” But I keep lying with my mouth wide open, and he keeps feeding me mornings, soft words, and comfort I never earned. He says, “I love you,” and it sounds like a promise. I say, “I love you,” and it sounds like a crime. Still he kisses me, still he reaches, still he holds the part of me I would’ve buried long ago—and I think, “if I loved him enough, I’d disappear.” Instead, I linger, a ghost with teeth, gnawing at the edge of something too beautiful for my hands. He stays anyway. He calls me whole and beautiful, even when I crack in his arms.
And maybe, that’s the cruelest part about love—being seen this fully and still allowed to breathe.
She wakes up and the world owes her an apology, but she forgives it before eight. The air clings to her, wants to be better just for being near her skin. I watch her move through rooms I’ve stained with my noise, my fog, my poor excuse for a heart and I think, “this is what makes a man sick.” Not love—proximity to a creature made entirely of effort and aftermath, who works harder than any god I've ever begged, whose hands are maps out of hell, and I keep folding them.
She deserves a clean house, a clear sky, a body that doesn’t twitch with guilt every time she breathes too close. I deserve a ditch. I deserve teeth in my stomach. I deserve the silence she would never give me, because even when I am nothing, she still offers everything, still shows up with her hair tied back and a list of things to do and a mouth that says, “it’s fine, ” and means, “I’ve carried you again.”
If I loved her properly, I would not exist. I would become mist. I would vanish into her peace and stop dirtying the air. But I love her the way rot loves wood—clinging, pulling, hollowing. She deserves light without a witness. I deserve to be stepped over. Still, she comes home. Still, she works. Still, she pulls me from the wreck I made of myself and says, “tomorrow,” and says, “okay,” and says, “what do you need,” and I cannot answer, because the truth is I need to be buried under the weight of her goodness until the hunger shuts up, until the shame turns to soil, until I am nothing but a past tense she doesn’t have to drag anymore.
The home on Fifth still hums in my throat, though no one lives there—I couldn't say for certain if anyone ever did. I once kissed someone on the rotting porch and tasted drywall and dust. In every room, a version of me is starving or praying or begging not to die so quickly. The ceiling gave up before I did. My shadow crouches in the crawlspace and whispers old secrets to the house that is haunting me.
He followed me out of the rot, past the rats gnawing through drywall, through the long, flat ache of the South where the air hung heavy with the ghosts of everything I never said nor ever did again, the road splitting open beneath us. The northern plains were a bruise we pressed on just to feel something, the sky above blackening until it swallowed the horizon and left us blind to the longest half of the ride.
He watched me come undone—First my childhood, then the ceiling, then my name—And still he stayed, staunch and faultless, wading the countryside with me. I could feel his belief in my bones, the hunger of it, the way it curled in his throat when he said, “go,” and I went.
When we hit the state line, the rain came down like it meant to baptize us new, but he refused erasure—He clutched my past like a crumpled map, dirt-roaded and water-warped. Said, “this is how I find you again.” Now, we live in a shallow bowl where the wind doesn’t beg to be let in, it commands. He holds me still in this uneasy quiet, this aftershock of survival, peace earned by devouring our way west, paid in blood and miles, by refusing to die in a house that thought we should. And I love him not because he stayed, but because he never needed to be told to. Because he made the staying look like flight. Because he is the last disaster I would ever run from.
We walked the road that that was a spine of the world, gravel grinding its teeth beneath our feet, a sun too generous to trust. The wind tore through us—An old god starving for daughters. One side, the earth sloped into thirst, rocks falling toward the lake’s open mouth, swallowing the sky in slow increments, the other side lifted into the pastures that could never quite forget they were once stone.
Her hair was a burning flag, a prophecy too soft to hold. I took a photograph to trap the spell, the back of her head the whole gospel I could bear. She didn’t see it—What her neck did to the light, how her body called me forward with every labored step. I dreamed of drowning in her, not water, but the dark wave of someone who has already chosen the horizon.
There is a silence you enter with someone, walking shoulder to shoulder, that feels like grief with its sunday-best on. She said something about the light and I said nothing because I was thinking about dying, about the good kind, where someone holds your name in their mouth and won’t let it rot. In the distance, the mountain grew larger in its refusal, blue vertebrae blistering against sky. There is a road in this country that eats your intentions and spits out your shadow. I walked it with a woman who loved the wind, and I have not forgiven the weather since.
I dreamt I hanged myself from the ceiling fan in my grandmother’s kitchen, the wood-carved angel watching, too polite to intervene. I sloughed down onto tile and it replied with a hymn I heard late one night on the television sung by a woman with lacquered hair.
I drifted then—no jolt or break—into the hush of a field beside the house of my father's sister. The grass tall, forgiving, the light wrong for any real hour. There was a hum in the trees, low and droning, and a broken swing that turned at the wind’s discretion. I sat beneath the elm where I once buried a piece of my future wrapped in resentment and an old scrap of cotton. In my lap rested a revolver, cold as the winter that nearly killed me before I turned ten. I didn't flinch, only listened to the cicadas hissing like static through a radio tuned to an empty station.
And then, I was gone. Not with a bang, not even a sigh. Just a thinning—A fade, like the time I watched my reflection dissolve in the lake by the campground I left after I promised to come home closer to God. No one finds me there—No one will. The soil never takes attendance, and I am not missed by the pine or the old screen door that claps in the wind, calling no one home.
They come home blood-wet with the dull ache of labor, bodies still humming from the unkind and incessant foundry of the world, their service an act of defiance against a system that would grind them into meat. I watch—half-feral, half-devout—as they peel off the day like sloughing skin, still managing to summon tenderness from the wreckage.
They light the stove with hands blistered from holding up everything I can’t, like it might unbury us all from the endless mouth of want. I want to scream how much it means, how it splits me open, that even with the weight of my stillness, they laugh in the kitchen, unremarkably radiant, a small revolution in a world that does not make room for softness unless it can be sold back in pieces.
I am starving not just for what they give me—laughter, warmth, their impossible grace—but for the future they haul on their shoulders like wet lumber. I want to build them a cathedral out of my breath—my useless, grateful breath. I want to name every callous like a psalm, I want to sew their names into the lining of the moon, and when they fall asleep at the end of the world, I sit with the wreckage of language and try to build a word big enough to hold them.
I want to build a house with you where the windows are just holes punched into the skin of the world, where dust licks the floor like a wound, and every nail I drive into the frame is another lesson of gratitude that I’ll never unlearn. The hunger is loud in me—It carves your name into my teeth. I drag it through each breath, a whispered gospel, an anthem for the ache.
I don't want peace—I want permanence, even if it means dying slow under the weight of your scent soaked into the drywall, even if it means growing old in the same sweater I first kissed you in, unraveling thread by thread until it’s a noose I thank for cinching my throat into the shape of your name.
There's no god here. Only you, and the way your hands ruin me into something worth keeping. I’ll eat the hours with you, let them rot sweet in our mouths, feed the walls our secrets, let mildew write our story across the kitchen ceiling. We’ll never leave—We’ll become part of the decay. A new kingdom with a door that only opens inward.
Every morning I’ll wake with your shadow curled beside me, your breath painting fog into the cold, and I’ll pray to the things we’ve buried in the crawlspace—our mistakes, our mothers’ ghosts, the night you almost left and I almost let you. This house will be a body—yours, mine, ours—and I’ll crawl through its veins on my knees if I have to, whispering every filthy vow into its pulse.
I want to live in the kind of love that peels skin, that fills every crack with fire, that makes even silence bruise. Give me years. Give me decades. Give me a grave with your name carved next to mine in the wall. I swear I’ll make it home.
I call her lamb, though nothing in her is meek—only the myth of mercy draped over bones older than grace, a reckoning folded into flesh. Her mouth is a wound that sings, her voice bruised with thunder. Her eyes, the color of death when it freezes—still, sharp, waiting—and they study me like a mourner dressing the dead, tender but terrible, love folded into the final act of letting go. For now, she wears her hair the shade of turned soil, of rot just beginning to dream of resurrection, and when the light catches it, something ancient wakes—something that refuses to stay buried.
Every movement is a liturgy of caution—Don’t follow, don’t feed, don’t kneel—But I kneel. I crawl. I whisper prayers in a dialect made only of her name, letters scorched into my bones where no one can read them. I breathe her in like the scent of a house still smoldering, like something holy burned too long. When she smiles—and she does, fleetingly, with teeth like newly-written commandments—I feel famine tighten its belt around my ribs.
She is hunger without appetite. I am thirst forgetting water. We are beasts shaped like people, and only one of us pretends otherwise. She stands in the doorway of my ruin, neither entering nor leaving—just watching, a quiet judgment before the flood. I move to her with all the grace of a ghost dragging its own grave, too in love with the weight to let it go. She speaks in silence—a silence that pulses with mold and memory, the thick rot of things buried and never quite dead.
I don’t want to kiss her—I want to bleed out in the shape of her shadow, to crucify my want until it becomes worship, until every ache is a prayer and every wound a hymn. She is the breaking of dawn through cracked glass, the whisper of winter inside a closed room, the unsaid that pulls at the edges of my skin like smoke that won’t dissipate. I carry her like a secret I’m too scared to speak, like a sin carved deep beneath the surface where no light reaches. In the dark, I trace the geography of her scars, memorize the places where pain and love collide, and wonder if salvation is just another name for surrender. But she is not mercy—she is the reckoning, the slow collapse of everything I thought I knew, and still, I fall toward her like gravity, like desperation, like the last flicker of a candle refusing to die in the wind.
She speaks my name and the floor sags beneath us like a mouth about to open. The boiler room is already a tomb—the walls remember screams better than they remember silence. We arrive like rot, inevitable and patient. Her voice, all gravel and furnace-hymn, razes the air between us. Her undead arm stirs—it doesn't hum, it warns. She presses me into the steel and it weeps around us.
There is no foreplay, only offering. I spread like scripture across her knuckles. The ash clings to my knees, soot thickens in my lungs. I cough prayers against her neck, hot and stuttering. Her touch is doctrine, unrelenting—no permission, only commandment. When she moves inside me, the room shifts. The walls don't hold—they bear witness. I fracture like gospel rewritten in bone. Her breath is brimstone. Her grip, covenant. She splits me open with fingers that never beg, only conquer.
The pain is not pain, it's transfiguration. Her mouth leaves bruises in the shape of psalms. My spine arches, a cathedral on fire from the inside. Each bruise, a hymn. I speak in tongues, all broken vowels and cracked teeth. She presses her thumb into my throat and I swear I see the face of God.
There is blood—of course there is blood. It slicks her hand like anointing oil. She tastes it, paints it across my chest like sacrilege, like a warning scrawled backwards in smoke. I am the altar, the lamb, the flame. She takes without asking. I give without limit. There is no sin here—only ceremony. Her laugh rattles the pipes, holy as a plague. She calls me filthy, and I crawl through my own ruin to prove her right. I am feral beneath her, baptized in ache.
When I come, I come as reckoning. My mouth floods with copper. She drinks from me like chalice. Her hand—war-forged, brutal—cradles my jaw as if I’m already a ghost. “You survived,” she murmurs, and my ribs rattle like bells. This is not love. This is something older. Something holier. She didn’t fuck me, she exorcised me—And I walk away limping, flayed, and born.
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