2020-02-18 - Ugly Cry

Alexander checked the restraints, and laid a cool, wet cloth on Bennie’s forehead, ignoring the pounding headache that soothing her into sleep had triggered. He was still in his Valentine’s Day ‘date’ clothes, although they were damp and chilled from his walk home from the Lighthouse. His hands were still shaking, and he told himself it was the cold.

It was so fucking cold.

He closed and locked the door behind him when he left the room, and shed clothing absently as he made his way to the bathroom. Closing that door put two solid pieces of wood-like material (it was a cheap house, built cheaply) between him and the only other human being in the house, and it was only with that barrier that he felt comfortable in letting go.

He closed the lid on the toilet, sat down heavily, and tried not to sob. He didn’t try not to cry - that was impossible at this point. He just tried to do it quietly, bent over with his elbows on his knees, his face cradled damply in his hands. Isabella’s face flashed in his mind - the cracked neck, the way her skin had felt under his hands as he grabbed and he twisted until things inside broke. The bruises she’d carried into the real world. Bruises he’d made. Bruises that could have been so, so much worse.

And all because he didn’t know what was real.

He was a broken thing. Dangerous. Whatever he touched, he’d break in turn. Hadn’t that proved it? He hadn’t stopped to try and reason through the inconsistencies. He knew the Hotel’s history. Isabella had even told him. It’s this place. He’d known that, and he’d hurt her anyway.

He’d killed her anyway.

The image was a festering, rancid thing inside of him. It hurt to think about, but like an infected wound, he couldn’t resist poking at it, as if it might break and drain. You did that, a dark, gleeful voice hissed inside of him, She fought back and you beat her down and you broke her neck and when you felt that snap, oh, it felt right, didn’t it, Alexander?

“No,” he whispered against his hands, cold salt slipping into his mouth from his tears. “It felt terrible.” Nothing but an ugly, knowing chuckle in response. “Shut up. You’re not even real. Shut up.”

It did. But somehow that was even worse, because he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was silent because it’d won the argument, not because it didn’t exist. Alexander was never going to know what did or did not exist, and as long as that was true, he was nothing but a risk. He’d hurt Zachary. He’d hurt Isabella. And yes, some of his friends would say it wasn’t his fault, that he was still a good person. But Alexander knew those were just words.

He’d never been a good person. Could never be a good person. He’d always break, and break, and break, anything that he touched or liked or loved.

He tried not to sob.

Like a lot of other things in his life, he failed.