summary: a rerun of my own private snuff movie, a memory of my corpse, echoed in your head as you stuffed the bleeding ghost of a man into your car.
author's note: @cannabis-snake : #people should draw more of their self inserts hugging/comforting max#it's good for your mental health but what if. what if i also wrote about it
on ao3
your shoulders squeezed in a death grip. a bloodied body on the pavement. the skeleton of a man lying in your bed. everything today was about death, you mentally concluded.
you couldn't just leave him here, in the snow (bile rose to your throat), buried. lucky this time. leather and denim caked with blood and grime and fucking pills on the floor of the car and now you smelled like gunpowder – the man whimpered. "oh, sorry." you lifted the hands from his freshly scratched back.
how has he survived all that at all? he was surprisingly lightweight. you felt like scolding him in the morning for relying a bit too much on the car's warmth. you couldn't ignore the possibility of the skull fracture. you didn't want to think about cuddling with a corpse.
how he ended up like this? beaten to half-death and starved to the other half. you could imagine him tied to a chair, enduring several rounds of bat swings. maybe, the last one was too little to kill him? what he would think when he wakes up? you only read such things in the cheap crime novels you wasted your time with on the shift.
will he try to leave to faint at the door? or maybe stay and let you nurse him back to health. or you could kiss and live happily ever after, you snorted.
you rolled on your back to turn off the nightstand lamp, the body tagging along with you, now lying on your chest. he was crying. in awful, terrible shape in general, he was trembling, muttering something under his breath (nauseatingly familiar). you smoothed his spiky hair, again and again, till the shiver eased, even if just for a little.
"it's okay honey, i'm home." you slurred, slipping into a deep slumber.
