The Longest Nightmare
It was Tuesday night -or was it Wednesday morning?- when Murdoc lost the fight against the pills and the vodka and fell asleep in Stu's arms. It was warm and comfortable and he was so tired. He knew he was making Stu sad again, but this would be the last time. He hadn't expected to wake up. He also hadn't expected to dream.
The first day the nightmares were vicious and ever changing. It was all horrid and violent and far too mixed up and dark to even know who was hurting him. It took the doctors twelve hours to get the reoccurring seizures to stop. By then, his blood pressure was far too low and his respiration was weak. The I.V. gave him nourishment and medication and the respirator helped keep his lungs from collapsing and keep him breathing.
After what seemed like forever, the dreams became far more empty. It was all dark corridors and long, endless walks. He was looking for something -someone- but no one would help him. Everyone hated him... and why wouldn't they? Muds was cold and he found a place to hide behind a dumpster. It was just like that time he ran from home when he was ten. He was violent and awful and better off alone. The only thing that came near him was a cat. He was glad for the company, but it started screeching and scratching him. Stupid cat. He trapped it under a cardboard box and set the box on fire. It smelled awful, but at least now the cat knew how Murdoc felt... No one was ever coming to help it, no matter how much it screamed.
Muds tried so hard to scream -to get someone to wake him up- but no one would help. Maybe this was hell. It was lonely more than anything. He'd never expected that.
Sometimes he was sure he heard his brother, but there was no way to get to him. There was no way to get to Han, and no way to get to Stu. At least that meant Stu was safe. Murdoc was told what he did wasn't his fault. That's what everyone said. Maybe it wasn't. But how he felt while he did it and how he still felt afterward, when he would dream about it, was his own fault. Or, at least, it was part of him. A horrible part he didn't know how to fix. He liked hurting people ... and he liked hurting Stu best of all.
Still, even in death -and was Muds dead? Would someone at least come and tell him ...please- Even in death, Stu was constantly on Murdoc's mind. He needed to see him again. He'd screwed everything up so badly. He at least needed to let Stu know he wanted for him to be happy. Muds needed to see Hannibal again. He needed to apologize for leaving his brother alone, but at least Han could live his own life with no one to take care of now. In the endless, sprawling black trap of his mind, Murdoc was lonely and he missed everyone. Missed them more than he had thought possible.
The nurse who came to check M. Niccals' I.V. drip and heart rate didn't even notice the tears running down the boy's cheeks or the slight tremor in his hands. It was late and her shift would be over soon. She checked off on the clip board and continued her rounds.
The first day the nightmares were vicious and ever changing. It was all horrid and violent and far too mixed up and dark to even know who was hurting him. It took the doctors twelve hours to get the reoccurring seizures to stop. By then, his blood pressure was far too low and his respiration was weak. The I.V. gave him nourishment and medication and the respirator helped keep his lungs from collapsing and keep him breathing.
After what seemed like forever, the dreams became far more empty. It was all dark corridors and long, endless walks. He was looking for something -someone- but no one would help him. Everyone hated him... and why wouldn't they? Muds was cold and he found a place to hide behind a dumpster. It was just like that time he ran from home when he was ten. He was violent and awful and better off alone. The only thing that came near him was a cat. He was glad for the company, but it started screeching and scratching him. Stupid cat. He trapped it under a cardboard box and set the box on fire. It smelled awful, but at least now the cat knew how Murdoc felt... No one was ever coming to help it, no matter how much it screamed.
Muds tried so hard to scream -to get someone to wake him up- but no one would help. Maybe this was hell. It was lonely more than anything. He'd never expected that.
Sometimes he was sure he heard his brother, but there was no way to get to him. There was no way to get to Han, and no way to get to Stu. At least that meant Stu was safe. Murdoc was told what he did wasn't his fault. That's what everyone said. Maybe it wasn't. But how he felt while he did it and how he still felt afterward, when he would dream about it, was his own fault. Or, at least, it was part of him. A horrible part he didn't know how to fix. He liked hurting people ... and he liked hurting Stu best of all.
Still, even in death -and was Muds dead? Would someone at least come and tell him ...please- Even in death, Stu was constantly on Murdoc's mind. He needed to see him again. He'd screwed everything up so badly. He at least needed to let Stu know he wanted for him to be happy. Muds needed to see Hannibal again. He needed to apologize for leaving his brother alone, but at least Han could live his own life with no one to take care of now. In the endless, sprawling black trap of his mind, Murdoc was lonely and he missed everyone. Missed them more than he had thought possible.
The nurse who came to check M. Niccals' I.V. drip and heart rate didn't even notice the tears running down the boy's cheeks or the slight tremor in his hands. It was late and her shift would be over soon. She checked off on the clip board and continued her rounds.