Is there thinking past a point of consciousness? When you dream, even in the sleepiest parts of your brain, can you snap back to reality? When becoming aware you're in a dream, why choose to wake up?

Questions without answers hurt Trophy's brain.

When his weepy eyes finally blinked open, he spotted the form at the other end of the room, a head of shaggy tissue paper sticking out of a pile of blankets. Light travels faster than sound of course, so just to confirm, he heard the struggling, shaky breaths of air he made, slowly, painfully. A deliberate effort to something that should've been a thoughtless routine. He almost felt pity. Almost.

He braced himself, feeling dizzy the moment he sat up completely. His thoughts were now running at a snail's pace, far removed from the freight train they were before he'd been taken by sleep. Upon throwing the blanket off himself, he felt the cold, freezing air hit him, though he felt it's cold bite gnawing at his legs the hardest. He brought his legs closer to himself, hugging them tight. Trophy rocked back and forth ever so slightly.

Surely, he had to check to be sure. And yet, he was sure he'd already checked. He must've made sure a million times, and hoped a million more it wasn't true.

He was definitely dead.

How hard could it possibly be to be mistaken about something like that? If you don't move, don't blink, don't even breathe, how are you still alive? How can a heart beat so quietly as to not be heard?

Trophy stared at the ground.

Blanket on the floor.

He was sure he'd kicked that off before going to sleep. When did he pick it up again? Who covered him?

Apparently he wasn't sure of a damn thing.

He flinched as the mutt let out a sleepy cough, tossing and turning in its nest of used tissues and tear-stained covers. Trophy looked on in disgust.

His mind tried to convince him to lay back down in bed, let the sandman shut his eyes and pull him back into a semi-permanent slumber. The sheets and pillows called to him, like a sweet lover sounding so right, yet so wrong at the same time. He wanted to roll back into bed and cover himself in the blanket, draping over him like a beautiful Victorian dress, swaying at his every movement. He had the right built for it, and if he so desired, the blanket could serve as a perfect runway display. A glistening, gorgeous thing meant to be seen and admired. He needn't trouble himself with going back to that horrible, cold place, where his only company was a pair of glassy eyes attached to something so clearly removed from life, there was no room for error. None at all. 

There was a tad bit of dirt on his pillow.

Trophy wandered through the halls carefully, only making a run for it when he was out the door. It was horrendously cold yet again, and his legs faltered, almost tripping several times on his way to the dreaded destination.

For once, he wanted to be wrong. He wanted to shake his head and kick himself for being such an idiot. Once he was sure that was the case, he could take his sweet time returning. Nothing had to matter again. His life was an unremitting walk through obnoxiously orange halls and carpeted floors, listening in on meaningless conversations he so badly wanted to be a part of. He didn't have to aim so high, a hotel room was more than enough compared to a cabin in the woods. Plus, Rome wasn't built in a day. There was no harm in asking for help to build it. Pickle was good with his hands. Surely he could help create some plans for the outside. Paper was the one to choose the hotel's furniture, so he could lend a hand with the interior. Bomb was the one to plant all sorts of sweet arrangements in the dirt, so he could lend a hand with something as well.

And why not? Why not ask for help? If it gets results, it makes sense. It's still his cabin. OJ's hotel was no less his despite not building it.

He felt so strangely longing for another person's touch, so much so he almost forgot the very reason he ventured out into the cold and dark.

What a stupid things to long for.

What a crybaby.

He stopped between a row of trees, just barely able to see his handiwork. The bright light of the moon cascaded over the gravesite like a spotlight. A beautiful, gorgeous, glistening blue light. Each crack and divet of the wooden plank was very much visible beneath the disturbed clumps of soil used as a cover. Yes, his hard work had been completely undone, shifted around and moved without a care, as if some rabid animal had gotten hold of it. Despite this, most everything looked just the way he'd left it. He nodded, approving of mother nature's disguise, working in cohorts to conceal his secret. Despite whatever animal got into it previously, all Trophy had to do was shovel some dirt right over it again, perhaps with less disquiet and speed. No rush. This was between him and the earth, his only witness. Trophy made to walk forwards, but halted dead in his tracks. Something made him stop point blank before reaching the tomb. At first he wasn't sure what cut him short, as if it was some involuntary reaction. It took his eyes less than a second to reevaluate the scene scanning it up and down, left to right.

Something was sticking out from either side of the plank, both just barely visible from his current position. He cocked his head just a teeny bit to the side, trying to get a better look.

Trophy covered his mouth with both hands to silence the scream that nearly escaped, shooting out of him like a freight train. His blood ran cold and knees weak, eyes bugging out, only able to focus on the tiny, teeniest details he'd just noticed.

For just a split second, he thought one of them was a spider, crawlings its way out from underneath the wood, long legs protruding from the opening. They were not legs. They were fingers, digging into the dirt, trying to claw themselves free from the crude sepulture. They were bent in an angry, desperate manner, remaining frozen in their last attempt to secure freedom. That was the right appendage.

The left hand, mocking him in all his infinite stupidity, staring back at him like his own twisted reflection. It stuck out of the ground, reaching up to the heavens. It too was frozen in that gesture, clearly having lost the strength long ago to keep up the fight. And yet it did not fall, it stood strong, towering over its prison in muted defiance. A pair of hands that so madly wanted to touch the night sky, to feel the cold air one last time. The hands that belonged to a man that was still alive whilst they made their daring escape.

He could feel them staring right at him. The terrible, horrible recognition that his assumptions were correct.

You buried him alive, didn't you?

Didn't you?

Didn't you?

Didn't you?

Trophy doubled over, biting down on his fist. His stomach was tied up in knots, and he did his best to avoid wretching all over the forest floor. He shut his eyes, trying to avoid its gaze.

He didn't know a damn thing.

All he did know is he had to hide it again. Like a machine, Trophy made an attempt to shut off his mind, taking a leap towards this creepy crypt.

Focusing his attention on the right hand, no, on the fuzzy little insect, he approached it from above, lest it jump upwards. He wouldn't let it have the advantage this time. Using a stick nearby, he pried each and every little leg off the wood, cringing as they creaked and cracked apart. He could have sworn the last little stubborn leg twitched upon being engulfed by the soil, but what did he care? Tiny putrid bugs were all stomped until they were nothing. Just a bug. Only vermin. And he was the gallant exterminator, freeing the forest of their slimy, creepy-crawly infestation. He had to really jam the stick into the ground to shove the arachnid beneath the earth, but he knew the job was done when it stopped screaming obscenities towards him. The only other abhorrent noise was the incessant hissing of the other parasite. It appeared before him like a snake, striking out at him from above the wooden plank. He couldn't quite wrap his head around how it managed to stay elevated above him still, but it was just another pest to dispose of. It wouldn't be a problem. Though Trophy would be lying if he said its presence was not alarming, how the light of the moon reflected off its razor-sharp fangs, spitting their venom in his general direction. But he was braver than that. Trophy would not falter in the presence of this stain. He wacked it with the stick, only for it to hiss back louder, towering even higher above him. He lunged forwards, grabbing it by the neck. Trophy's grip was unrelenting, hoping upon hope that he could drain the life from it. He was the best exterminator this side of the island, in this corner of the country. He'd get that raise the boss was promising him if he could just wrangle this beast, and he'd serve its head on a silver platter just for proof. A shiny new promotion. Another shift would be done. He had a warm house and a Saint Bernard waiting for him when this was all over. He didn't liberate his grip on the beast until his hands stung from the effort, feeling numb upon release. He was panting hard, mind dazed and eyes confused. Trophy turned his head to face the direction of the viper once more, only to see it still standing tall and proud. Mocking him.

With another breath, he silently reevaluated the situation. He was going about this all wrong. If it was violence that led him here to begin with, the opposite would have an effect here.

With shaking hands, he reached out to it, wrapping both hands around the vermin, gently this time. Trophy put pressure on the creature, bending it forwards in his direction.

"Why?"

He asked in a voice resembling a frightened child. With another pathetic snivel, he growled as he put pressure on the creature again, hearing an audible crack.

Why don't you die?

He said, just in his head this time.

The vermin slowly began to obey, moving in the direction he forced it into. At last it lay flat on the ground, slightly covered by the grass and soil. He let out a sound resembling cry and a scoff, or perhaps it was the vermin. Whatever made the sound produced it once more, just as he lifted the wooden plank above the parasite. He still held it gently with one hand, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to let go. Even stranger, he felt tears stinging the corners of his eyes. Holding it a little bit tighter, Trophy rubbed one finger against the side of it. Slowly but surely, he moved it underneath the sepulture.

Safety, security. Familiarity.

He gave the hand a little squeeze.

It squeezed back.

With a guttural scream, Trophy pulled away from it, slamming the plank down hard on it before turning on his heels and bolting away from it.

Unsure of what direction he was even going in, Trophy would crash into bushes and clip the sides of trees in his mad dash, eventually making it to the clearing with minimal damage.

The job was done well enough, thus his pace slowed once again, walking with a gentle step. The hotel was in sight. He hummed quietly to himself to fill the quiet of the night, lest his mind wander again. He assumed the lack of sleep and nerves were making him see things again, as it would explain a plethora of what just occurred. He exhaled sharply, feeling the cold set it. One foot in front of another, one two, one two, one two, he kept the rhythm in his head.

One, two. One, two. One, two.

And one, and two, and one, and two, three, four, one, and two.

One, two, three, four, five. One and two and one and two.

Something wasn't quite right, but he was sure his count couldn't be off.

I'm an exterminator, not a mathematician.

And one, and two, and one, two, three, two, three, four, one, two.

Two more steps, two pairs of feet.

I'm really bad at counting.

He chortled, speeding up his pace ever so slightly.

He threw the front door open, shutting it with a slam. He slid down it in an overly-dramatic manner, exhaling slowly.

He felt winded, though still had the breath to laugh at his inability to count properly. He sat by the door with his legs crossed, breathing still impaired. Despite just having come from the cold, he felt like he was overheating, only growing worse the harder he inhaled. What a bother.

He closed his eyes, pressing his hands hard against them. The darkness wrapped around him, and soon after the fuzzy lights and colors danced behind his eyelids. Trophy felt a bit like a child, finding whimsy in such a thing, but as a hard working man, he could enjoy anything he pleased.

A set of loud footsteps knocked him out of his daydream, and with a click the lights kicked on. He hardly had time to register it, fumbling to stand but couldn't quite get his footing.

"What's all the noise?!!"

The hotel manager protested in a tired voice.

Trophy finally got to his feet, dusting himself off.

"None of your business."

He replied as casually as possible.

There was a slight crack in his voice.

OJ brought a hand up to his face, exhaling and looking back with a weary expression.

"You're going to wake people up with the noise..."

"...Yeah."

"...So please stop, alright?"

"Sure."

A few seconds of silence passed.

"...Are you...Gonna move?"

OJ asked, a bit bemused.

"What?"

Trophy mumbled.

Another moment passed where neither spoke. He nodded his head slowly.

"...Right. Right, fine! I got it done. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

The award said with a chuckle.

"Excuse me?"

The manager raised an eyebrow as the other one stepped forwards, giving him a hearty pat on the back.

"I fixed the pest problem. You owe me a raise."

He said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Huh???"

OJ reiterated his confusion, watching the other man leave, skipping up the steps with a little enthusiasm. Or maybe it was a frantic speed, as if he feared the ghosts and ghoulies of the dark would snag him by the legs and drag him back down the stairs.

"...Friggin...Hotel...Full of weirdos..."

The exhausted hotel manager mumbled under his breath before heading back to bed.

Huk vul, huk adv, huk vul, huk adv.