You’re Just Soaking In It
I'm sick of all the games I have to play. I’m tired of being careful, tiptoe, trying to keep the water warm. Let me under your skin.
TRIGGER WARNINGS:
Swearing [] Rape [] Self Harm [] Eating Disorder [] Drug Use [] Suicide [] Abuse (p, m, v, s) [] Kidnapping [] Death [] Racism [] Mental Disorder [ ✗ ]
It’d been weeks since Jackson had taken any form of his medication. He couldn’t trust them, 42 always warned him that they were bad, they were poison. 42 was the black, oozy mist that always floated around. Whenever 42 wasn’t talking to Jackson, 42 was on the ceiling. 42 was genderless as far as Jackson knew, and preferred to only be addressed as 42, no other pronouns. Jackie made the mistake once of calling 42 a ‘he,’ and once a ‘they.’ He had scratch marks all over him when he awoke the next morning. 42 was special, 42 was more trusting than any other hallucination Jackson had. Whenever he’d hear someone say ‘there’s a car, speeding towards you!’ he’d always here 42′s voice reassure him there was nothing there, that they were lying. There was a bond made early in Jackson’s life, so it was hard for him to abandon it as he got earlier. 42 literally became his voice of reason, earning a trust, and when 42 asked Jackson for a favor, Jackson did it. It might’ve been a bit odd, maybe putting a truck on top of the stairs and running down, trying to slide down on it, or see how far he can hang himself out the window without falling, or anything like that. He did them all, because 42 always had his back. Sure, he broke a few bones and got grounded quite often, but he did them nonetheless.
42′s voice rang out among the quiet solitude of Jackson’s kitchen. “You look dirty, little bird. Why not go take a bath?” 42 cooed. It was sinister, but the kind of sinister you’d see in a kid’s movie. The one the kid trusts for some reason. That’s how Jackson was to 42, he just listened as if 42 was above him; and it felt that way most of the time. So, he thought nothing of it. It was to help him, right? He couldn’t see himself anyways, he probably did look dirty. So, he folded the corner of the page of the book he was reading up on for work, then heads to the bathroom. Jackson doesn’t bother locking the door, no one was visiting and he had no family left that could be there, there was no reason to. Besides, Jackie wasn’t known for his modesty, even if there was. He lives alone, he could pee with the door open and not care. He starts up the water for a shower, before he’s stopped, “No no, a bath. To relax you.” Once again, he abides without questioning. He starts up the bath, and begins unbuttoning his shirt, before the entity manifested physically to stop him yet again. “Keep your clothes on, you fat fool.” He was used to the insults. “You can be get clean without showing me your beached whale self.”
So, Jackson agrees silently. He’d probably should’ve thought of that himself. He waits for the water to raise before stopping the faucet and sitting in it, back against the wall of the tub. He sits in silence, listening to the water hit against the walls of the tub and his body, waiting. He liked silence he savored every second off it. That was, until the whispers started again. They weren’t new, the same people; Jenny, Terrance, Benny, Shannon, Blink, and a few others less prominent. They were all hissing the same things, about his weight or his job or his craziness or lack of family. He ignored it and focused on other sounds, but it was hard. It took him a long, long time to realize he had this outlet to tune out the voice to the best of his ability, but it took so much time to focus that most of the time he never bothered and just took it.
Minutes, maybe even hours went by. Jackson’s face was twitching in concentration, his throat was closing, he was still trying to focus on the lapping sound of the now-cold water. His body was freezing, his teeth were chattering. Whether that was a tactile hallucination or real life, it didn’t matter. Jackie couldn’t tell anyways. That was, until a little tapping of nails against the floor rang out, breaking the attention, and the voices quieted a bit. It was Edgar, his black pug. He scratches at the door to open it, peeks his head in the bathroom, sees his owner, whom he’d been looking for for hours, then runs up to the tub. His tongue was out, his eyes were big, he was excited. Jackson didn’t even have the energy to tell him not to, he just let Edgar jump in the tub. Nuzzling himself in, Edgar sits in Jackie’s lap, wiggling around to get comfortable. He begins lapping at the water, as the mumbles grow louder. “Kill it. Squeeze the creature hard.” “You can do it. Kill it!” “Kill yourself or kill the beast.” “Squeeze it!” “Drown it!”
Jackson did squeeze Edgar. Not tight, not hard, just lightly to his chest in a hug as Edgar’s attention is brought from the bath to lick under Jackson’s face at the top of his neck. Jack doesn’t react other than lightly stroking his thumb against Edgar’s wet fur. What if one day he lost control and listened to the voices? Would it be best to give up the pugs and lived alone? What if he went crazy and hurt everything in sight? What if he woke up one day, scratches amok, and everything he cared about was dead? What if 42 did it and the people, the beings saw him as their killer? What if he became the monster he feared in his head?
He couldn’t focus on that now, thoughts like that only lead to the voices encouraging them. Maybe he’d have to play werewolf and tie himself up every night, but that was certainly an idea for a different time. The blond boy pulled the drain and stepped out, clothes sticking to his skin. He dried off his dog first, then himself, got changed and locked himself in his house for the day in complete silence.
