[ dedicated to @blankinks 
for her immeasurable support. ]

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ONE ;
WATER LIKE AGONY

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Jonathan

As a child, listening to soft, humiliating and dying sobs behind the once familiar doors felt like the most terrible form of cries. Watching the dark timber door with rectangular carvings reminded him of the days when his Mum used to be sitting behind the similar looking locked doors. He would slide down against the other empty end of the door with his knees sequestered in his chubby stomach and head looking down at his palms with utter helplessness. The helplessness used to be etched and carved all around his diminutive form with the slumped shoulders, lips puckered in half resentment and half the urge to cry. His neck would twist and turn, sometimes staring at the sweaty ravines on his hands and the other time to arch his ear against the wooden carvings to listen closely.

He could have sworn as a child, that he was in fact capable of feeling every sob wracking through his Mum. And he could have sworn that he also couldn't and didn't do anything other than pathetically sit (more like wanting to melt) with his back to the wooden material, letting the carvings dig uncomfortably in his back as some twisted form of punishment.

One side for his cries. The other side for his Mum.

As he stares at the door, he can't help but look at his palms again. Sweat forms a layer on his skin, he stares at it as to how one would watch dust reimburse on an all too familiar vase that you keep cleaning, all the while knowing tomorrow there will be dust embracing it again and again. A perpetually demented cycle. Thus he gets an insane urge to slide down his side of the door. To just slide down, stare at his palms and maybe pretend to feel her body shaking and tears streaming pathetically down her stained face.

He closes his eyes as the image pops up in his mind again. Her face supported dirt, crusted tears and the unmistakable smattering of dried blood. Everything on her face had crusted to a mask of pain and helplessness. The only things alive were the fresh tears leaking like a goddamn wound and the whimpers escaping her also-dry lips.

Her body had been the same. It adorned the undismissable stench of urea, the intensely popular scent of blood which also made him almost retch his dinner, and the underlying smell of alcohol as always.

He opens his eyes as bile threatens to finally escape his mouth. But he gulps down saliva and then the water left in the glass.

The water cleans down the passage and yet his throat dries up faster than it got wet. It feels like a mine shaft left to rot in the blistering heat. Hot, stuffy and like death.

Death.

Bloody Hell.

He looks up at the timber door again. He steps forward and touches the wooden surface with an unintentional hesitance. His fingers shake as if drenched in the coldest rain.

The wood feels normal under his touch. But he doesn't. In fact, he feels miles from normal. Normal sounds like a far fetched dream in the midst of a blurring and constantly tripping world. Anytime, any fucking time, he would fall.

His fingers spread on the surface and he leans in further.

This time, he doesn't even have to arch his ears against the door to listen. Unlike his Mum's, her sobs are not wanting to die. Instead, they want to be louder and scarier and an outlet but they come out as choked and whimpers of a person being strangled. He looks down at his other limp hand. He turns it over and sees sweat glistening over it.

Fucking pathetic.

Clack.

His head whips up at the sound of something hitting the tiles.

"Is everything alright?"

His voice is no more than an already fading whisper which he knows she can't even hear above the sound of the running shower.

Really fucking pathetic.

So he does something else then. Something his years of self didn't do or couldn't have conjured doing ever. He opens the door and steps over, and finds himself at the other side of the timber barrier.

In the midst of the running shower, her absorbing cries and the steam, she neither hears nor sees him enter. He knows that even if she had, she wouldn't have reacted to his presence. At the moment, he thinks she wouldn't react to anything that would shatter her current bubble of reality.

Her head is bent down, supported by her knees bunched up beneath. Her arms are conjoined over her wet hair, wrists clasped around her ears in clear prevention of being perturbed by any other sound in her world. Her own cries are weak and extinguish faster than they come out. They sound cut-off, as if something prevents her to fully cry out.

In a way, it's fortunate for him. The lesser people know about this, the better.

He walks forward with shaky steps and stops as soon as he's met with the entrance of the shower cabin. The glass door is still open as he had left before, in fact everything is the same except for her body bunched up under the shower. Even her clothes are still on her. And they cling to her body like molten skin.

He had hurriedly left the loo with the shower open, a fresh grey towel neatly placed on the metal stand and an extra toothbrush (without being properly placed) on the edge of the counter. Five minutes later, the toothbrush had clattered on the floor and her previously awkwardly stood body sat under the shower.

"Louise?"

As his timid voice escapes, he's uncertain if it even got heard.

"Louise?"

This time it's louder and it gets the work done.

Her face whips up and he steps back unconsciously.

"I'm sorry. I just-"

But her face vanishes from his sight as she bends down again and continues to cry in her dark and wet embrace.

He can already feel his palms become slick with sweat and he just stands and watches her. Or more like absorb her presence.

This feels worse than just leaning against the door and listening on someone crying. This feels too real and too in the face.

His hands wipe down against his gym shorts and he walks in and by the open glass door. He walks even further until his shadow is shrouding her shivering and trembling form.

As the water makes its way around his feet, the touching parts scald and it hits him how hot the water is.

Christ!

Instantly, he turns the tap to the left side and adjusts it to lukewarm. He then settles down in front of her with his heart in his throat and it's constantly fast beat singing a symphony of fear and hesitance.

His arms remain dangling at his sides and amidst the hurricane of thoughts, he doesn't know which thought to grapple on.

Should I touch her?

Should I hug her?

Should I leave her alone?

Would she even want to see anyone right now?

Fuck.

What the fuck do I do?

His thoughts with their infectious nature spread like the steam around him and everything blurs into a kaleidoscope of water, blood and dirt. So he closes his eyes. Letting the eyelids become a barrier.

Fuck.

But Images slide in between the crevices and hang in his mind with an unignorable and fierce ugliness. He could've swore the stench was still as palpable and scary as it was when he had found her.

Don't think about it. Fucking don't.

The smell clings to him like an ugly mole, very much present and not capable of being removed.

It won't fucking go away.

But most of all, the moment unfolds in front of his irises like a reenactment of a badly filmed-

"Jon."

He hears her but he doesn't move away the barrier of his eyes. He knows that she's the biggest trigger to the reenactment.

"Jon please."

But fuck him if he could actually resist her. Especially Her voice that currently is raspy and cracked. She sounds utterly broken and in pain. A lot of pain.

So he opens his eyes again.

And his heart tears apart and drains down his body as rivulets.

Her fingers are wrapped around her throat, her body still hacking with sobs and her eyes bloody and pleading.

Pleading for what exactly?

He knows that he can't know what exactly she says. It always has been an enigma and this certainly isn't a time to think about her conundrums. It is time to make decisions, solely on his part.

So he lets his idle arms grasp her wrists. He feels her blood pulse. Or maybe he doesn't but she feels so lively and warm and pulsing. Only then does the world around him stops whirling. And then just one thought gets grappled.

"Let's get you cleaned up."

Her eyes stare at him on such a daring move. She looks something akin to wild, raw and wholly capable of being harmful. Or being harmed? He disregards any opinionated words and focuses on the task at hand. So he moves closer to her and draws away her arms with hesitance. The fear of being lashed on or being pulled away from keeps him from assuring to his actions, which are palpable in the shaking of his hands and tears threatening to leak.

Focus. Fucking focus.

His arms then land on the first button of her blouse, he looks up at her to find nothing but the same expression. An amalgamation of a broken mask and reality. His eyes flit away and his fingers starts unbuttoning the white blouse sticking on her epidermis like second skin. He peels off the tattered piece of cloth and flings it away before he can see what marks it. Her brassiere is a little torn and the skin coloured material can only be distinguished by the ghoulish maroon coloured substance outlining the fabric.

"Can you stand?"

Her head moves in a barely observable shake to mark a nod. But he sees it and he stands up with his arms positioned on her shoulders to assist her.

When her body is stable, he simply stares at the mess it is. The water had washed away the grime, leaving pale tattoos of her original state. He then looks up to find her staring at his chest. As soon as he makes contact with his chest, he realises what's caught her attention. So he bunches up the blood stained shirt and peels it off him.

His feet move closer and his hands land at the zip hidden at the side of her skirt. Upon making contact with the plastic zip, he pulls it down and loosens the skirt downwards causing it to fall on the tiled floor. Soon his gym shorts join the mess. He picks it all up and walks out of the cabin to dump them all in a plastic bowl. He fills it up with hot water and then adds bleach.

"Jon...I'm feeling cold."

The urge to clean the mess is there. It's strong and it itches his fingers to start cleaning it all off. His spiking fear and anxiety doing anything but helping.

"Jon."

Sod it.

He hurriedly walks back to the cabin. He avoids her eyes and grabs the loofah to sprinkle it with his shower gel. He then starts rubbing it against her belly. His movements awkward, hesitant and confused.

"Jon. Can you please listen?"

He squeezes his eyes shut to only open them again quickly as the mess stares back at him behind his eyelids, causing a scorching trail of tears down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I'll-"

His words drown away as his cries replace every sound. Every ounce of him, every air in him, it comes out in tears. In miserable tears, uglier than her timid sounds. His knees buckle under a weight none can see and he joins the dripping water on the ground. It feels like hours, him on wet tiles with tears and water mixing homogeneously as if they weren't meant to be separate since the start. He sees her bare knees join the floor too. And then he feels her arms move around his waist and her body melt against his own. She feels warm. She feels alive.

Her heartbeat against his own anchors him.

She's safe. She's here.

He moves away from the embrace and sets the water temperature to be warmer.

"Let's get this done with."

And they try to erase every trace of the forest ground. Of soil, of blood, of alcohol and of death. They certainly try amidst the shaky breaths and deranged emotions. They certainly want to with every trail of tears. But agony rained down freely and fluidly, like the water rolling down on both of them.

_____

The hour feels colder and harsher. Despite the sheen of perspiration to suggest otherwise, his hand trembles and he moves rigidly rather than his usually fluid manner. His hands feel like meat left to dry in a freezer. They're even colder and drier than ever, caused by the incessant washing of hands after the shower and obviously the cleaning.

As soon as her eyelashes had touched her skin, he had gone back to the loo to finish the washing. He had washed the knickers, bra, blouse, skirt, gym shorts and t-shirt with a buzzing energy and desperation that bordered insanity. Then came their shoes and the trail of dirt in the Vogel House.

And now the nail beds hurt because of it. The fingers ache for rest and moisturiser. But all they are getting is the harsh winds of a night by the roads of Savernake Forest.

But he doesn't let his pace slow or cease. The blurring world continues to whirl around him in a mixture of dusky hues shaping the sky mingling with the forest green skyline. Winds whip around him as his feet run farther and farther, his breaths and heartbeat the only constant to keep him senile amidst the perpetual hurricane of dirt, pain and blood.

As his heartbeat spirals and muscles wrapped around his femur protest in exhaustion, something tight and hot coils its way around his calves and it's the old familiar pain that he embraces as he reaches his peak for today. He comes to a halt and let his lungs draw out fresh air as heat expels from his body and he bends down to catch his breath as his legs will to give up and settle down.

But he knows better.

He opens the water bottle cap and let water run down his dry oesophageal. As he remains bent and draw out fresh air, his gaze settles at the view resting in front. At the rather sleepy and dead county with the biggest happenings being divorces. Or these are the only public scandals everyone here allows to leak. The rest of the real dirty laundry remains buried beneath suits, smiles and reflecting jewels.

The world of smoke and mirrors.

Now broken and shattered. One death, one strike and the bubble burst open. He wonders how people would take to blood smattered on their ties and pearls. And especially, which hand would hide behind grandiose, the one with real blood.

He stands up and then and with only one man on mind, he runs faster and faster. This time as his image blurs, it happens as tears gravitate down and moisten his cheek. His hands wipe away at the skin-- only in vain.

Finally, despite the constant blurring, his eyes make out the big burly structure. A structure made of Oakwood, time and a little alcove for his sanctuary.

His feet feel like lead, the surroundings feeling auspicious. This hadn't been the case seventy minutes ago. But now the threadbare clouds hanging over in gloomy shades of grey, the haunting sounds of the wind whisking away leaves and pieces of him, the one place that had been his sanctuary and the looming dilapidated wooden structure feel ominous to him. The only missing thing being wisps.

It feels like death has gradually blanketed the very atmosphere of where it had struck.

He takes a step.

Crunch.

He looks down to see a crisp leaf buckle under his sole like frail bones.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunchcruncrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunch.

A sob escapes his lips.

The stench had somehow aggravated to being unbearable and as soon as his eyes adjust to the atmosphere under the still dark sky, his stomach contents, grief, agony and helplessness come lurching out in breaks of puke and tears.

A few minutes later, he splashes water at his face from the bottle and with a lethal grip on the bottle, goes to look at the boy on the ground.

His face looks pasty, as if made out of ghoulish grey clay. His hair matted with blood, the dark strands look sticky with the scarlet liquid that had seeped from beneath his scalp. Blood swirls around him like paint splattered on the ground, staining his shirt and drenching his collar.

The boy looks like a cruel joke from death.

As sobs steam out of his mouth in between weak exhales, he takes out his cellphone and punches a single digit thrice in succession and places it against his ear.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

"Hello, you've reached the Emergency Operations Center. How may I help you?"

"It's my freind. I..I-I found him dead."

_____

Mornings are distortions, ones that he feels uncannily similar to a newly birthed infant's first moment. Of course he doesn't remember how it was for him to arrive in this world. But in his mind, he thinks it to be waking up in the morning and trying to make sense of everything dripping on his slate. Everything feels far away, bordering on nonexistent.

And those moments are bliss until everything drops down on the slate and bam!

It's only a morning. As temporary as one intake of breath. Lasting for as long a moment as an inhale. Being crushed down in a single exhale.

And just like that, events of the past hours dawn on him. He turns around with fervent hopes and prayers that she's not here. That it didn't fucking happen. All that matters to him is having to know what a big and terrible nightmare it was. That Louise was never in his bedroom in a state that was beyond thinkable. Found from a place that might mark to be a graveyard for him.

But it feels too real.

The call, the distant sirens, the ambulance, deathly pale corridors and the strong smell of disinfectant. He remembers a nurse, a dark complexioned smiling woman who had handed him two pills and a styrofoam cup with water. He remembers them being clattered to the ground as the doctor officially pronounced him dead.

The policemen had arrived shortly, blue colours milling around and then the interview he doesn't even properly remember. The policeman had let him off with two pills and a water bottle. He had thrown away the pills and the last thing he remembers is the smiling nurse and distant screaming. He had then come back home with the desperate need to just curl in his bed and transit to a less real world.

But as his body finally shifts, the first thing he sees is wet platinum hair peeking from the fringes of his sheets.

No. No. Nonono.

Fucking no.

Jesus Christ! Please don't let it be.

As if hearing his screaming body, she moves and then she turns and stares at him with a face that dashes away all the possibilities of denial.

Her head shakes and tears spill out of her eyes before she can even make another sound. Her head shakes in slow movement and he feels his hope slipping past with every shake of her head. He feels fear crawl over him with every shake and slither deep inside his chest with a heaviness not comprehensible.

"He...I-Declan?"

Her voice breaks and he looks away and up at his ceiling.

Did the last thing he see was the sky? He thinks as those familiar eyes dance in his mind. Ones that as quickly as ever, turn into phantoms of what once saw. How do dead blue eyes look?

As he drags his hands over his hair, the wet strands remind him of the shower. Every drop of water that now rolls down his head feels like a fucking hurricane. Each more agonising than before.

He could've never thought that agony could've come so easily. So fluidly. So cruelly.

_____