[story] shot through the marrow
author: cracklikeabone (cracklikeabone)
email: eyelinerkisses [at] hotmail.com
He doesn't blame Reever for having him locked away. He's dangerous. He knows the taste of human flesh, raw and still warm but cooling, blood spilling down over his lips and chin. He knows how it feels to scrape his teeth against bones, bones that he's sometimes broken in a struggle. He's too dangerous to go to a prison and they keep him in an isolated white room, arms wrapped tight around himself (not tight enough to constrict and crack but tight enough for the pressure to be constant) and he curls up on his side and sleeps for as long as he can. He doesn't know if he dreams or not, pumped full of drugs given to him by terrified nurses, but he wades through toxic biohazard sludge, black and red and grey and the closer he gets to wakefulness, the sharper it all becomes.
But he can't always sleep. (He wants to, oh god, he wants to.)
When he's awake he twists onto his back and plants his bare feet on the floor and lies with his eyes shut. Usually he situates himself beneath the bare bulb with its pure fluorescent glow, red glare of membrane and veins and he shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't force his eyes to stay open until they sting and water because the red, the scarlet, the crimson, the vermilion it makes him remember all the things they're trying to make him forget. The pills bury it but they never keep him on anything long enough for him to settle into a comfortable haze. (He's not meant to be comfortable: undeserving, sinner. He does bad awful wrong things for the ghost in his head.)
The worst thing is when they touch him. When he's alone he can ignore the ghost because it lies curled in on itself, moaning, a miserable wretch of a thing. But when someone touches him it whirls like a dervish, snarling and snapping and gnashing its teeth in hunger and in fury. And that's when he snaps, lunging towards the person and he doesn't know why he isn't made to wear a muzzle like an animal. He doesn't manage to grab hold of them here though. He is lurching and awkward with his arms bound to his torso so he staggers and stumbles or even falls. He's always quickly restrained and drugged, lying wherever they leave him while the spot where the syringe punctured his flesh throbs and stings. The drugs make him feel sick (these are different drugs, special drugs reserved for this occasion) and his stomach roils like maggots at a carcass. More than once he has fervently wished for the drugs to make him physically sick so that he might roll onto his back and choke on it.
It's after such close encounters -- missed opportunities but that's the ghost, not him, why won't they believe? -- that the ghost talks to him. Rebukes him. Taunts him. It crawls out of his mouth, faint turquoise tinge and it always makes the scars cut into his cheeks hurt, scars it put there when it first found him but everyone else says that he did it, that he disfigured himself so badly. He almost wishes it had been him. But the ghost had taken hold of his hands, all cold and clammy and had smiled at him in the mirror, slash slash and horrible pain that had made him yelp and cry, the tears mixing in the deep cuts.
"It will make life so much easier," the ghost had whispered, the knife clattering into the sink, staining it red as the ghost had slid its fingers along the edges of the cuts, pulling his face up into a smile that had burned and stung. "Look, look how happy you are! How happy you're going to make me!"
Reever had found him. Had found him with a hand braced on the mirror, whispering and sobbing. He wonders what had gone through Reever's head when he'd taken him to the hospital but they never did talk about that night. Which is perhaps a little strange because it was the start of it all, the start of the ghost wearing him like a glove but maybe that was what the ghost had done, had made him forget it all or neglect to bring it up. Reever had lied at the hospital. Reever never used to lie. Not until all of this when he took Gryffe home, saying he'd take care of him for as long as he had to and at first it had been fine and Gryffe had wondered if maybe he had gone crazy for a while until that first horrible night when Reever had left to go buy some food and then he'd been falling out of bed, the stitches pulling and popping and ripping as he'd sobbed and gagged, coughing and spitting saliva and blood to the floor as the ghost had crawled out and had dragged fingers through where the stitches had been, just like the first night.
"You need to do something for me, ssh, ssh, don't cry, the quicker you help me, the quicker this will all be over for you. Don't you want that Gryffe?" It had pulled him into its lap, stroking his hair with those spindly fingers. He'd nodded, there had been nothing else for him to do other than to agree and it had laughed with a horrible scratching noise, not nails on a chalkboard but something, something not human, not how a laugh should sound. "I need you to help me find my name. Can you do that for me?" He'd nodded again. "Good, good, you're a good boy aren't you?" It had crooned, rocking him back and forth, stroking fingers through his hair and down over his cheeks where the blood had stopped flowing and then he had been pulled up by invisible strength and lead out of the flat and into the night.
And then, months later, he'd been locked away.
So many bodies. Poor people and the ghost screaming and shouting, moving his hands and mouth. Bones cracking, blood bursting through the skin and into his mouth and horrified screams that had trailed off into wet gurgles and groans as he'd bitten and clawed.
He hadn't been right. Not once. Never the right person, never the right name.
It's why he's in here. Why he's locked away with the ghost in his head and the doctors and the slow slip into madness. He licks along the inside of his cheeks feeling where the knife cut and he hasn't touched or seen those scars in so long that he's starting to forget what they look like, starting to forget that they're there. But no, tonight out it comes and why can't they see it? Why is he the only one who has to deal with this monstrous awful thing while they treat him as though he's crazy? The pain in his jaws has him howling and screaming, jerking around as much as he can, kicking and beating his heels off the padded floor ineffectually. The doctors call them 'episodes'. They're not. He rolls onto his front, pushes himself off the floor as much as he can, head bowed and he watches with sick fascination as the turquoise steam starts to seep out, droplets of blood staining the floor as the pressure builds and one day he is sure his jaw is going to tear off with this as his cheeks tear open. A bony knee -- and how can a ghost be so many awkward angles when it's made of steam and air and intangible things? -- sends him reeling, flat back on the floor, blood and saliva and snot everywhere and it screeches, a sound that has him cursing and swearing even as it feels as though his eardrums are going to explode.
The next thing he's aware of is that he's flying through the air, wall meeting his back with enough force to knock all the breath from his lungs as his locked up arms meet his stomach and chest, hard enough that he imagines his ribs breaking (they crack like crab legs with the right application of force, he told Reever that).
"Why are you doing this to me?" The ghost moans, seizing a handful of his hair, wrenching his head back, nails scrabbling under his chin and throat, "Why do you want to hurt me? It only hurts you. You're the one who said you'd help but you don't. You never help. You lock me in and it's so painful, so lonely. All I want is a name." It sounds like a lost little girl when it talks like this and he wonders if it was ever human, if it's a lost soul who needs to be released but he isn't the one who reads books, that's what Reever does, Reever surrounded by his books in the flat. A maze, all different levels and teetering, tottering piles, books and pages everywhere. Maybe it's to keep him safe somehow. Gryffe doesn't know.
A foot presses down on his face and he yelps, wishing his arms were free.
"Listen to me. I said listen to me!" He looks up into that wretched face that stares down at his, malice in the eyes and around the mouth, drawn into a feral snarl. "Are you listening?" He nods as best he can and then it crouches down on top of him, sitting on his pinned arms and it feels insubstantial now, rocking back and forth like a small child, walking careful fingers across his face and neck, reminding him of a spider. "Okay, good, I'm going to let you out. Out of here. Because I'm a good friend, aren't I?" It leans forward and the smell comes from it, the musk of dead flowers. "Yes, I'm a good friend because," then suddenly the straitjacket is opened and he can free his arms for the first time in months, able to feel his fingers and his face and run his fingers through his hair at least until the blood rushes back to them, jagged, heated pinpricks but he knows that his scars are still there, that his cheeks are more gaunt than they once were and that his hair is much longer, lank and greasy.
The ghost hauls him up and to the door and he wonders why it never did this before, why it's wrenching it open somehow and maybe he's snapped, maybe he's really crazy, maybe he's just lying and staring at the fluorescent flickering above him, drooling and senseless as this all plays out in his head but he follows, taking the ghost's hand until it's merging into his skin and he knows this, he knows this means that the ghost thinks that it's going to find its name tonight because this is when it feels so much stronger, when he feels so much stronger, as though he could take on the world and when the first of the nurses runs he brings his palm up under their chin so hard that he knows they're dead before they hit the floor.
You see, Gryffe knows the sounds of bones crunching, knows what all those little hisses and gasps and jerks mean, knows what it is to see the life drain from someone and knows how they fall. He has a dead thing that lives in his head and curled in the marrow of his bones and all his flesh and tissues and fluids. So he runs through the hospital and out, feet slap, slap, slapping on the floor, still in the remains of his straightjacket and then he is out into the night, sweating and bloodied, bare feet on pavement and it's rained recently and the puddles are freezing and his thin hospital issue trousers are soaked but he stretches his arms out and runs as the ghost guides him, keeps him moving until it's safe to stop and catch his breath.
And then nothing but blackness and ice sliding into his veins.
The city spreads before him, glistening and glittering, all promise and sleaze and sin and it isn't hard to find real clothes, real shoes, not with the ghost guiding his hand; no, it's all so easy to get what he wants and to look like a normal, functional member of society. It's time for the pubs to let out and there are staggering, swaggering drunks and girls falling out of their high heels and their tops and he flinches past them, the ghost making various interested noises as he mutters to himself.
"Not here, not here, not in front of everyone, not now. Don't want to be caught, don't want to, don't want to, don't want to," and then he pauses, sucks in a shuddering breath, "don't want to hurt you."
The ghost seems satisfied and contented and he continues his search. If he can keep control then maybe he can finally find the right one, find this name and be free. The ghost can crawl out and leave him alone and he can try to figure out what to do with his life even though he doesn't have a clue because he'll be locked away somehow and left to rot and he doesn't want that even if he knows that he deserves it. Maybe Reever can hide him away forever. But that's not fair to Reever. Reever needs to have a life too. Harbouring a fugitive isn't a life.
No, back to the matter at hand. Shiny flashing neon lights and music spilling out of doorways, hustle and bustle and it's as though the place never sleeps, as though the day and night have been inverted because it's just as busy now as it is in the middle of the day, maybe busier because it rained earlier or recently, puddles reflecting everything back at him as he takes a turn up a side street, pausing with his back to the wall. Where to go, where to look, a whole whorish city ripe for the plucking.
He doesn't have to wait long -- a girl is sashaying up to him, hips swinging wide, heels clicking on the concrete and he can smell her perfume as she approaches and she smiles. Her lipstick is smeared and starting to fade and her eye makeup has left a long line across each eyelid. She's definitely drunk judging from how glassy and unfocused her eyes are and when she finally does speak, her words are slurred.
"Hello darlin'," she croons, hand on his chest, aiming a look at him that's probably meant to be coy but it doesn't work, not with her three sheets to the wind with her caked make up practically melting off her.
"Go away," Gryffe croaks, trying not to look, trying not to breathe, trying not to feel, trying not to listen, "Please." He wants so badly to melt into the wall because the ghost is making his fingers twitch and if it weren't back inside his head he would swear it's forcing him to look at this girl, wrenching his eyes wide open so that he cannot escape.
"Oh don't be that way sweetheart, I'll make it worth your while," she giggles at the end of that and the ghost growls in his head and he's losing his tenuous grasp on control. It's happening, he's going to do it, he can see his hands moving up her sides as she presses right up against him, lips on his ear as he smells the stale alcohol on her breath. Up, up, up go his hands and then they're on her neck and he's squeezing. Her eyes go wide and she scratches at him, rakes against the leather of the jacket he's wearing but he presses harder.
"I'm sorry," he whispers as her struggles become more desperate and panicked but ultimately futile, "I have to do this. I have to."
A tear slides down her cheek taking black mascara with it and he can feel when she's done, when she's gone limp with her eyes rolled back in their sockets. He slings one of her arms around his neck and holds it there as he takes her waist and if anyone looked up he'd just be a guy taking a drunk girl back to his place but he's looking for somewhere hidden, somewhere quiet and private where he can dump the remains of her body once he's done with her, as despicable as it is. The ghost screams and gnashes its teeth and he can't concentrate on what he has to do and he can feel tears of frustration stinging at his eyes as he casts eyes about for some dark spot. He finds one, full of huge skips and bins -- some sort of communal bin area for businesses and it's dark and it stinks and he's bound to find something to help him because he hates having to do this next part with his bare hands.
It's one of the few things the ghost can't help with. He doesn't understand why and the shrieks echo off the inside of his head if he asks so he's given up on doing that and instead he just does as he's told which generally involves taking some part of the victim, some organ or a bone or a limb, whatever the ghost thinks will help and he has to eat it as soon as possible, even though it repulses him, makes him heave and retch and gag and vomit green bile everywhere. Tonight it's one of his least favourite parts; the ghost wants the eyes. He swallows back a mouthful of vomit and brushes back the hair from the girl's face, stroking her cheeks and under her eyes where her eyeliner and mascara has smeared and pooled. It's easy enough to do. Press with his thumbs and ignore the soft squelching sounds and there they are in his hands, one quick tug enough to do the trick and he scrambles back and away from her.
She doesn't even look human now. He pities whoever has to find her after this.
"Do it." The ghost is commanding now and it's moving his hands up and to his mouth even as he whimpers, lips trembling and wobbling the way they do when he's about to cry. "Do it!"
He forces them down and clamps his hand over his mouth to keep them there.
He already knows that it won't be right. That it's not the name the ghost is looking for. He's proven right when it starts howling and clawing; he falls back into a bin bag of rubbish, twitching and jerking as it possesses him completely in its frenzied rage. He sobs when he gets the control to do so, rolling over onto his hands and knees, digging his hands so hard into the ground that he bends the nails back and scrapes his fingers badly enough to leave them bleeding, skin ragged and stinging.
He doesn't know how much time passes before his body is his again and he can stand but he has a destination in mind and it's not far, never is far.
Reever.
Gryffe is sure that even if stripped of his senses and sense of direction that he would be able to find his way to Reever's flat, feet trodding along a well worn path past the same garishly lit shops and greasy spoon cafes every time, no matter what route he happens to take. Their old school isn't too far from here either - if he turns left at the lights, keeps walking and then turns right he'd be there and he can see it, still as grey as ever, reminding him of a prison. He shudders and pulls his clothes tighter to ward off the chill but his teeth still chatter and his hands still shake but it's unlikely that's from the cold alone. A drizzle starts and even if it numbs him further, he's thankful for it. Rain will wash away any evidence and, as he carefully frees his hands from the pockets of his jacket, it washes him clean.
Physically at least.
He rubs his hands together and he's almost glad that he did what he had to do tonight because it wasn't so very bloody and it wasn't messy and Reever is going to be unsettled and rattled enough when Gryffe knocks on his door at whatever time it might be.
He was able to tell that once. Not exactly or accurately but when he had real daylight he could guess, roughly, at the hour or how long he'd been out. He can't now. Late and creeping up on early is his best guess and he wonders if Reever is home but that's a stupid question. Reever is always home with his books, perpetual shut in, more so these days.
He's scarred Reever. He hasn't hurt him physically but he's scarred him, twisted him into something that's only a shadow of what Reever used to be and that hurts because Reever has never deserved any of this but he is all Gryffe has now.
At least he reaches the right building and just like every other time, the outside door lock is broken meaning that a good sharp shove gets him inside without him having to ask the ghost for help as it lies inside him, sleepy and sated, full and satisfied. It's better this way because it means he can concentrate on what he wants to say, how he's going to explain all of this to Reever who will probably reach for the phone and as contented as the ghost seems to be right now, the ghost might object considering that it only just helped him to escape and the ghost might make him hurt Reever.
He won't let that happen.
His shoes squeak on their way up the stairs and it still stinks of urine at the bottom and he has never understood that and maybe never will. There are families in this building and he wonders if their sixth senses have kicked in, if they are clutching a loved one close or suddenly checking on their children as a murderer climbs up the stairs. An insane murderer. He got to see some of the papers at the start, read all about the accusations and allegations. He even saw the news, his mug shot flashed up as people debated furiously about what should happen to him with some asserting that it was a pity this wasn't the United States because there he would surely have received the death penalty which is just what he deserved. Others said it was better to let him live with his actions for the rest of his life. And still others said that he didn't have a capacity to feel guilt or remorse and that he should be put down like a dog that attacked a child.
But then the lawyer stopped him from having contact with the news as he hammered out a deal to let him be sent to an asylum where he could be treated and possibly given another trial in the future. The lawyer thought that seeing more details would affect how he appeared in court. All the stories did was make the ghost laugh at the speculation.
He's outside Reever's door now and it's just how he remembered it, flat fifty-seven and he clears his throat before knocking softly at the door because loud banging might frighten Reever because this is the time of night (or morning, he still hasn't seen a clock) where knocks or phone calls only mean something bad has happened. Hell, maybe they've tried to contact him already because Reever is the closest thing Gryffe has to a next of kin now which is probably the only reason he hasn't abandoned him entirely and tries to do the right thing. Reever was the one who agreed that it was better to let him be locked away in a mental institution instead of rotting away in prison in solitary confinement until he died and the only reason he would do such a thing is because he cares. Gryffe has done nothing to warrant such loyalty and friendship from someone as intrinsically good as Reever and he doesn't quite know what to do with it.
Before he can think any further though, the door opens and before he can open his mouth to speak, Reever is swearing and dragging him inside, the exhaustion -- Reever must have been asleep -- vanishing from his face to be replaced by a look of disbelief that is tinged with horror. Reever says nothing though and when Gryffe opens his mouth to speak a hand is held up to shush him as he's lead through the short and narrow hall and into the living room, books stacked all over the floor and furniture, glasses and plates and empty take away packaging mouldering away and making it difficult to breathe through his nose at first. It feels damp too but it feels more real than anything has in a while and he takes a seat, listening to Reever puttering around in the kitchen. He doesn't hear the phone yet, that's a good sign. Nothing has changed since he was last here beyond the level of clutter and decay but that is a work in progress that builds and builds until Reever finally cleans or when there are complaints or a pile of something topples over prompting tiny landslides. Sometimes, he thinks that Reever is going to end up as one of those old men who dies buried under a pile of whatever they've hoarded.
"How did you get out?" Reever asks when he eventually reappears and perches on the edge of a dilapidated armchair across from Gryffe, ready to flee if he has to because even if the question seems reasonable if the circumstances are ignored, what Reever means is 'how many people did you kill?' It doesn't even sting anymore.
"The ghost let me out," Gryffe answers simply which causes Reever to sigh heavily. He doesn't believe in the ghost any more than the next person.
"Gryffe..."
"You asked."
"I was expecting a real answer."
"But that is the real answer. It's the reason I got out."
"You need to tell me what you did now."
"But that is what I did!" He gets to his feet, agitated because why won't anyone ever believe him when there is no plausible explanation for how he escaped? It's not like he's the Joker or some other deranged comic book villain. He doesn't have gangs and weapons and endless resources. He is one man with a ghost in his head.
"I was trying to help you," Reever murmurs quietly after Gryffe has spent several minutes pacing around stacks of books and he wonders if the words were even meant for his ears given how softly they were spoken. "I thought that was a better place for you. The people there were meant to care."
"But there's nothing wrong with me that they can fix," Gryffe sits down as he talks, leaning towards Reever who jerks back from him.
"Yes there is. Some delusion. Schizophrenia. Multiple personalities. I've read books about that, there's just something wrong with your brain, maybe they can fix it and you can stop being like this. You can be normal again!"
"Why won't anyone listen to me when I say that there's nothing wrong with me that you can diagnose?"
"What, you think it's something an exorcism could fix? You think that makes more sense than modern medicine?"
Gryffe stares at his feet for several minutes and nods. "Yes. To me. You don't know what this is like."
Reever tuts and shakes his head, bringing his hands up to rub his temples. "Did you hurt anyone?"
"I...I hurt some of the staff on the way out."
The problem when someone has known you for years is that they know when you're lying or covering something up and when he falls silent he can feel Reever's eyes on him, the evaluating look and he's sure that if his hearing was better, he'd hear the cogs and gears turning over in Reever's mind as he pieces it all together.
"What did you do Gryffe? You son of a bitch," Reever is on his feet and he shoves Gryffe back onto the couch sending a burst of fusty odour up into the air and it catches in Gryffe's throat, "Tell me what you did!"
"I didn't have a choice! It made me. It told me to! And I tried to warn her, tried to push her away but she wouldn't listen and she just kept getting closer and closer and then suddenly the ghost is telling me what to do and...and...and," he heaves out a shaky breath, bile rising up his throat, scalding and making his eyes sting and he could almost laugh here, "I had to take her eyes. It made me...it...it..."
He can't continue on but he doesn't really need to because Reever is well versed in his habits and he knows that he'll have had to eat them and then it's time for Reever to pace, tearing at his hair as he mutters to himself, talking too quickly for Gryffe to have a hope in hell of catching what he's saying.
But that's okay because the ghost is talking. The ghost is making his fingers twitch and jerk and he knows why it wanted him to be out, wanted him here. It wants Reever. He takes a clumsy step towards Reever, trembling, cold sweat and why, why now? Why after all this time does it want his friend? A pile of books tumbles when he bumps into it and that makes Reever pause and look up sharply, eyes wide.
Want, the ghost thinks, want, rip, tear, slice, pull, all of him, every part, kill kill kill.
"I think I'm going to be sick," he chokes out, fleeing from the living room to the tiny toilet where he bangs the door shut behind him, just about managing the lock because the ghost has never appeared to Reever and Reever can't see it, isn't allowed to see it, not yet, not yet, not yet. He hunches over the toilet bowl and retches and gags and coughs and heaves and spits and lurches but nothing comes up.
And then the nausea passes as soon as it descended and a strange weight settles in his gut as well and he knows the feeling of the ghost taking over control of his limbs as he calmly stands and faces himself in the full length mirror and notices that something wholly wrong is going on with him.
He trembles in front of the mirror. What is he? What is happening? He tries to scream but nothing comes out and unbidden by him, his hands come up to claw at his face and it's as if he is melting, the scars at the edges of his mouth peeling apart and open but there's no blood this time. Nothing. There isn't even pain as he manages to gain a second to think.
Something isn't right.
More and more starts to fade and his skin seems to boil and bubble and burst as his bones erode and the sudden lightness - who knew a body really was so leaden? - takes over, seeps through him warm and liquid like honey, molten, fluid and the tension drains from him, all that pain he has carried with him since the ghost first crawled its way inside. He doesn't know how he's still standing up though because it doesn't feel as though he has limbs anymore because he can't feel them although, strangely, he can still move them. He can move them better now. Before there was only fluidity and grace when the ghost was in control but right now it's just him in his head and he is so light now.
Then it hits him. It hits him and yet he doesn't feel it when it does when he knows that he should be on his knees, perhaps sobbing because this is one of those moments when control has been so cruelly wrenched away, when the world has been tipped on its axis and yet...nothing. Only awareness, something retaking rightful possession as it peels away the mask to face itself for the first time in so long.
Because Gryffe is gone now. Gryffe is just a ghost.
"I always knew," the ghost says in Gryffe's voice, "I always knew what I was. I could just never admit it." It reaches out, touches the edges of its reflection in the mirror as Gryffe peels away completely, leaving just an indistinct spectre standing where he once did, no evidence of a human being save for the pilfered clothes lying in a heap. "All this time."
The ghost touches itself cautiously, feeling along limbs and torso and touching a face with fingers that disperse when they make contact with its own form.
It's hungry.
So hungry.
Starved. Famished. Ravenous. Empty-bellied. Esurient.
It won't stay that way for long. Oh it never does but it had it so good but now that it knows...it's time to take a host. A real host.
There's a hesitant knocking on the door and when it looks back it can see itself smiling in the mirror, a smile that splits at the seams and it licks its lips or tries to. So hard when it keeps disappearing like that.
"Gryffe?" Reever's voice. Nervous, yes. It can smell it, it can feel it and it knows Reever so well now. Reever, Reever, Reever.
"J-just a second," it answers in Gryffe's voice, readying itself to strike and pounce. It's so hungry but thanks to dear, sweet Reever, it won't stay that way for long.
Its eyes go black and the cavernous void of its mouth fills with needle teeth. It's going to savour the look on Reever's face almost as much as it will savour him.
email: eyelinerkisses [at] hotmail.com
He doesn't blame Reever for having him locked away. He's dangerous. He knows the taste of human flesh, raw and still warm but cooling, blood spilling down over his lips and chin. He knows how it feels to scrape his teeth against bones, bones that he's sometimes broken in a struggle. He's too dangerous to go to a prison and they keep him in an isolated white room, arms wrapped tight around himself (not tight enough to constrict and crack but tight enough for the pressure to be constant) and he curls up on his side and sleeps for as long as he can. He doesn't know if he dreams or not, pumped full of drugs given to him by terrified nurses, but he wades through toxic biohazard sludge, black and red and grey and the closer he gets to wakefulness, the sharper it all becomes.
But he can't always sleep. (He wants to, oh god, he wants to.)
When he's awake he twists onto his back and plants his bare feet on the floor and lies with his eyes shut. Usually he situates himself beneath the bare bulb with its pure fluorescent glow, red glare of membrane and veins and he shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't force his eyes to stay open until they sting and water because the red, the scarlet, the crimson, the vermilion it makes him remember all the things they're trying to make him forget. The pills bury it but they never keep him on anything long enough for him to settle into a comfortable haze. (He's not meant to be comfortable: undeserving, sinner. He does bad awful wrong things for the ghost in his head.)
The worst thing is when they touch him. When he's alone he can ignore the ghost because it lies curled in on itself, moaning, a miserable wretch of a thing. But when someone touches him it whirls like a dervish, snarling and snapping and gnashing its teeth in hunger and in fury. And that's when he snaps, lunging towards the person and he doesn't know why he isn't made to wear a muzzle like an animal. He doesn't manage to grab hold of them here though. He is lurching and awkward with his arms bound to his torso so he staggers and stumbles or even falls. He's always quickly restrained and drugged, lying wherever they leave him while the spot where the syringe punctured his flesh throbs and stings. The drugs make him feel sick (these are different drugs, special drugs reserved for this occasion) and his stomach roils like maggots at a carcass. More than once he has fervently wished for the drugs to make him physically sick so that he might roll onto his back and choke on it.
It's after such close encounters -- missed opportunities but that's the ghost, not him, why won't they believe? -- that the ghost talks to him. Rebukes him. Taunts him. It crawls out of his mouth, faint turquoise tinge and it always makes the scars cut into his cheeks hurt, scars it put there when it first found him but everyone else says that he did it, that he disfigured himself so badly. He almost wishes it had been him. But the ghost had taken hold of his hands, all cold and clammy and had smiled at him in the mirror, slash slash and horrible pain that had made him yelp and cry, the tears mixing in the deep cuts.
"It will make life so much easier," the ghost had whispered, the knife clattering into the sink, staining it red as the ghost had slid its fingers along the edges of the cuts, pulling his face up into a smile that had burned and stung. "Look, look how happy you are! How happy you're going to make me!"
Reever had found him. Had found him with a hand braced on the mirror, whispering and sobbing. He wonders what had gone through Reever's head when he'd taken him to the hospital but they never did talk about that night. Which is perhaps a little strange because it was the start of it all, the start of the ghost wearing him like a glove but maybe that was what the ghost had done, had made him forget it all or neglect to bring it up. Reever had lied at the hospital. Reever never used to lie. Not until all of this when he took Gryffe home, saying he'd take care of him for as long as he had to and at first it had been fine and Gryffe had wondered if maybe he had gone crazy for a while until that first horrible night when Reever had left to go buy some food and then he'd been falling out of bed, the stitches pulling and popping and ripping as he'd sobbed and gagged, coughing and spitting saliva and blood to the floor as the ghost had crawled out and had dragged fingers through where the stitches had been, just like the first night.
"You need to do something for me, ssh, ssh, don't cry, the quicker you help me, the quicker this will all be over for you. Don't you want that Gryffe?" It had pulled him into its lap, stroking his hair with those spindly fingers. He'd nodded, there had been nothing else for him to do other than to agree and it had laughed with a horrible scratching noise, not nails on a chalkboard but something, something not human, not how a laugh should sound. "I need you to help me find my name. Can you do that for me?" He'd nodded again. "Good, good, you're a good boy aren't you?" It had crooned, rocking him back and forth, stroking fingers through his hair and down over his cheeks where the blood had stopped flowing and then he had been pulled up by invisible strength and lead out of the flat and into the night.
And then, months later, he'd been locked away.
So many bodies. Poor people and the ghost screaming and shouting, moving his hands and mouth. Bones cracking, blood bursting through the skin and into his mouth and horrified screams that had trailed off into wet gurgles and groans as he'd bitten and clawed.
He hadn't been right. Not once. Never the right person, never the right name.
It's why he's in here. Why he's locked away with the ghost in his head and the doctors and the slow slip into madness. He licks along the inside of his cheeks feeling where the knife cut and he hasn't touched or seen those scars in so long that he's starting to forget what they look like, starting to forget that they're there. But no, tonight out it comes and why can't they see it? Why is he the only one who has to deal with this monstrous awful thing while they treat him as though he's crazy? The pain in his jaws has him howling and screaming, jerking around as much as he can, kicking and beating his heels off the padded floor ineffectually. The doctors call them 'episodes'. They're not. He rolls onto his front, pushes himself off the floor as much as he can, head bowed and he watches with sick fascination as the turquoise steam starts to seep out, droplets of blood staining the floor as the pressure builds and one day he is sure his jaw is going to tear off with this as his cheeks tear open. A bony knee -- and how can a ghost be so many awkward angles when it's made of steam and air and intangible things? -- sends him reeling, flat back on the floor, blood and saliva and snot everywhere and it screeches, a sound that has him cursing and swearing even as it feels as though his eardrums are going to explode.
The next thing he's aware of is that he's flying through the air, wall meeting his back with enough force to knock all the breath from his lungs as his locked up arms meet his stomach and chest, hard enough that he imagines his ribs breaking (they crack like crab legs with the right application of force, he told Reever that).
"Why are you doing this to me?" The ghost moans, seizing a handful of his hair, wrenching his head back, nails scrabbling under his chin and throat, "Why do you want to hurt me? It only hurts you. You're the one who said you'd help but you don't. You never help. You lock me in and it's so painful, so lonely. All I want is a name." It sounds like a lost little girl when it talks like this and he wonders if it was ever human, if it's a lost soul who needs to be released but he isn't the one who reads books, that's what Reever does, Reever surrounded by his books in the flat. A maze, all different levels and teetering, tottering piles, books and pages everywhere. Maybe it's to keep him safe somehow. Gryffe doesn't know.
A foot presses down on his face and he yelps, wishing his arms were free.
"Listen to me. I said listen to me!" He looks up into that wretched face that stares down at his, malice in the eyes and around the mouth, drawn into a feral snarl. "Are you listening?" He nods as best he can and then it crouches down on top of him, sitting on his pinned arms and it feels insubstantial now, rocking back and forth like a small child, walking careful fingers across his face and neck, reminding him of a spider. "Okay, good, I'm going to let you out. Out of here. Because I'm a good friend, aren't I?" It leans forward and the smell comes from it, the musk of dead flowers. "Yes, I'm a good friend because," then suddenly the straitjacket is opened and he can free his arms for the first time in months, able to feel his fingers and his face and run his fingers through his hair at least until the blood rushes back to them, jagged, heated pinpricks but he knows that his scars are still there, that his cheeks are more gaunt than they once were and that his hair is much longer, lank and greasy.
The ghost hauls him up and to the door and he wonders why it never did this before, why it's wrenching it open somehow and maybe he's snapped, maybe he's really crazy, maybe he's just lying and staring at the fluorescent flickering above him, drooling and senseless as this all plays out in his head but he follows, taking the ghost's hand until it's merging into his skin and he knows this, he knows this means that the ghost thinks that it's going to find its name tonight because this is when it feels so much stronger, when he feels so much stronger, as though he could take on the world and when the first of the nurses runs he brings his palm up under their chin so hard that he knows they're dead before they hit the floor.
You see, Gryffe knows the sounds of bones crunching, knows what all those little hisses and gasps and jerks mean, knows what it is to see the life drain from someone and knows how they fall. He has a dead thing that lives in his head and curled in the marrow of his bones and all his flesh and tissues and fluids. So he runs through the hospital and out, feet slap, slap, slapping on the floor, still in the remains of his straightjacket and then he is out into the night, sweating and bloodied, bare feet on pavement and it's rained recently and the puddles are freezing and his thin hospital issue trousers are soaked but he stretches his arms out and runs as the ghost guides him, keeps him moving until it's safe to stop and catch his breath.
And then nothing but blackness and ice sliding into his veins.
The city spreads before him, glistening and glittering, all promise and sleaze and sin and it isn't hard to find real clothes, real shoes, not with the ghost guiding his hand; no, it's all so easy to get what he wants and to look like a normal, functional member of society. It's time for the pubs to let out and there are staggering, swaggering drunks and girls falling out of their high heels and their tops and he flinches past them, the ghost making various interested noises as he mutters to himself.
"Not here, not here, not in front of everyone, not now. Don't want to be caught, don't want to, don't want to, don't want to," and then he pauses, sucks in a shuddering breath, "don't want to hurt you."
The ghost seems satisfied and contented and he continues his search. If he can keep control then maybe he can finally find the right one, find this name and be free. The ghost can crawl out and leave him alone and he can try to figure out what to do with his life even though he doesn't have a clue because he'll be locked away somehow and left to rot and he doesn't want that even if he knows that he deserves it. Maybe Reever can hide him away forever. But that's not fair to Reever. Reever needs to have a life too. Harbouring a fugitive isn't a life.
No, back to the matter at hand. Shiny flashing neon lights and music spilling out of doorways, hustle and bustle and it's as though the place never sleeps, as though the day and night have been inverted because it's just as busy now as it is in the middle of the day, maybe busier because it rained earlier or recently, puddles reflecting everything back at him as he takes a turn up a side street, pausing with his back to the wall. Where to go, where to look, a whole whorish city ripe for the plucking.
He doesn't have to wait long -- a girl is sashaying up to him, hips swinging wide, heels clicking on the concrete and he can smell her perfume as she approaches and she smiles. Her lipstick is smeared and starting to fade and her eye makeup has left a long line across each eyelid. She's definitely drunk judging from how glassy and unfocused her eyes are and when she finally does speak, her words are slurred.
"Hello darlin'," she croons, hand on his chest, aiming a look at him that's probably meant to be coy but it doesn't work, not with her three sheets to the wind with her caked make up practically melting off her.
"Go away," Gryffe croaks, trying not to look, trying not to breathe, trying not to feel, trying not to listen, "Please." He wants so badly to melt into the wall because the ghost is making his fingers twitch and if it weren't back inside his head he would swear it's forcing him to look at this girl, wrenching his eyes wide open so that he cannot escape.
"Oh don't be that way sweetheart, I'll make it worth your while," she giggles at the end of that and the ghost growls in his head and he's losing his tenuous grasp on control. It's happening, he's going to do it, he can see his hands moving up her sides as she presses right up against him, lips on his ear as he smells the stale alcohol on her breath. Up, up, up go his hands and then they're on her neck and he's squeezing. Her eyes go wide and she scratches at him, rakes against the leather of the jacket he's wearing but he presses harder.
"I'm sorry," he whispers as her struggles become more desperate and panicked but ultimately futile, "I have to do this. I have to."
A tear slides down her cheek taking black mascara with it and he can feel when she's done, when she's gone limp with her eyes rolled back in their sockets. He slings one of her arms around his neck and holds it there as he takes her waist and if anyone looked up he'd just be a guy taking a drunk girl back to his place but he's looking for somewhere hidden, somewhere quiet and private where he can dump the remains of her body once he's done with her, as despicable as it is. The ghost screams and gnashes its teeth and he can't concentrate on what he has to do and he can feel tears of frustration stinging at his eyes as he casts eyes about for some dark spot. He finds one, full of huge skips and bins -- some sort of communal bin area for businesses and it's dark and it stinks and he's bound to find something to help him because he hates having to do this next part with his bare hands.
It's one of the few things the ghost can't help with. He doesn't understand why and the shrieks echo off the inside of his head if he asks so he's given up on doing that and instead he just does as he's told which generally involves taking some part of the victim, some organ or a bone or a limb, whatever the ghost thinks will help and he has to eat it as soon as possible, even though it repulses him, makes him heave and retch and gag and vomit green bile everywhere. Tonight it's one of his least favourite parts; the ghost wants the eyes. He swallows back a mouthful of vomit and brushes back the hair from the girl's face, stroking her cheeks and under her eyes where her eyeliner and mascara has smeared and pooled. It's easy enough to do. Press with his thumbs and ignore the soft squelching sounds and there they are in his hands, one quick tug enough to do the trick and he scrambles back and away from her.
She doesn't even look human now. He pities whoever has to find her after this.
"Do it." The ghost is commanding now and it's moving his hands up and to his mouth even as he whimpers, lips trembling and wobbling the way they do when he's about to cry. "Do it!"
He forces them down and clamps his hand over his mouth to keep them there.
He already knows that it won't be right. That it's not the name the ghost is looking for. He's proven right when it starts howling and clawing; he falls back into a bin bag of rubbish, twitching and jerking as it possesses him completely in its frenzied rage. He sobs when he gets the control to do so, rolling over onto his hands and knees, digging his hands so hard into the ground that he bends the nails back and scrapes his fingers badly enough to leave them bleeding, skin ragged and stinging.
He doesn't know how much time passes before his body is his again and he can stand but he has a destination in mind and it's not far, never is far.
Reever.
Gryffe is sure that even if stripped of his senses and sense of direction that he would be able to find his way to Reever's flat, feet trodding along a well worn path past the same garishly lit shops and greasy spoon cafes every time, no matter what route he happens to take. Their old school isn't too far from here either - if he turns left at the lights, keeps walking and then turns right he'd be there and he can see it, still as grey as ever, reminding him of a prison. He shudders and pulls his clothes tighter to ward off the chill but his teeth still chatter and his hands still shake but it's unlikely that's from the cold alone. A drizzle starts and even if it numbs him further, he's thankful for it. Rain will wash away any evidence and, as he carefully frees his hands from the pockets of his jacket, it washes him clean.
Physically at least.
He rubs his hands together and he's almost glad that he did what he had to do tonight because it wasn't so very bloody and it wasn't messy and Reever is going to be unsettled and rattled enough when Gryffe knocks on his door at whatever time it might be.
He was able to tell that once. Not exactly or accurately but when he had real daylight he could guess, roughly, at the hour or how long he'd been out. He can't now. Late and creeping up on early is his best guess and he wonders if Reever is home but that's a stupid question. Reever is always home with his books, perpetual shut in, more so these days.
He's scarred Reever. He hasn't hurt him physically but he's scarred him, twisted him into something that's only a shadow of what Reever used to be and that hurts because Reever has never deserved any of this but he is all Gryffe has now.
At least he reaches the right building and just like every other time, the outside door lock is broken meaning that a good sharp shove gets him inside without him having to ask the ghost for help as it lies inside him, sleepy and sated, full and satisfied. It's better this way because it means he can concentrate on what he wants to say, how he's going to explain all of this to Reever who will probably reach for the phone and as contented as the ghost seems to be right now, the ghost might object considering that it only just helped him to escape and the ghost might make him hurt Reever.
He won't let that happen.
His shoes squeak on their way up the stairs and it still stinks of urine at the bottom and he has never understood that and maybe never will. There are families in this building and he wonders if their sixth senses have kicked in, if they are clutching a loved one close or suddenly checking on their children as a murderer climbs up the stairs. An insane murderer. He got to see some of the papers at the start, read all about the accusations and allegations. He even saw the news, his mug shot flashed up as people debated furiously about what should happen to him with some asserting that it was a pity this wasn't the United States because there he would surely have received the death penalty which is just what he deserved. Others said it was better to let him live with his actions for the rest of his life. And still others said that he didn't have a capacity to feel guilt or remorse and that he should be put down like a dog that attacked a child.
But then the lawyer stopped him from having contact with the news as he hammered out a deal to let him be sent to an asylum where he could be treated and possibly given another trial in the future. The lawyer thought that seeing more details would affect how he appeared in court. All the stories did was make the ghost laugh at the speculation.
He's outside Reever's door now and it's just how he remembered it, flat fifty-seven and he clears his throat before knocking softly at the door because loud banging might frighten Reever because this is the time of night (or morning, he still hasn't seen a clock) where knocks or phone calls only mean something bad has happened. Hell, maybe they've tried to contact him already because Reever is the closest thing Gryffe has to a next of kin now which is probably the only reason he hasn't abandoned him entirely and tries to do the right thing. Reever was the one who agreed that it was better to let him be locked away in a mental institution instead of rotting away in prison in solitary confinement until he died and the only reason he would do such a thing is because he cares. Gryffe has done nothing to warrant such loyalty and friendship from someone as intrinsically good as Reever and he doesn't quite know what to do with it.
Before he can think any further though, the door opens and before he can open his mouth to speak, Reever is swearing and dragging him inside, the exhaustion -- Reever must have been asleep -- vanishing from his face to be replaced by a look of disbelief that is tinged with horror. Reever says nothing though and when Gryffe opens his mouth to speak a hand is held up to shush him as he's lead through the short and narrow hall and into the living room, books stacked all over the floor and furniture, glasses and plates and empty take away packaging mouldering away and making it difficult to breathe through his nose at first. It feels damp too but it feels more real than anything has in a while and he takes a seat, listening to Reever puttering around in the kitchen. He doesn't hear the phone yet, that's a good sign. Nothing has changed since he was last here beyond the level of clutter and decay but that is a work in progress that builds and builds until Reever finally cleans or when there are complaints or a pile of something topples over prompting tiny landslides. Sometimes, he thinks that Reever is going to end up as one of those old men who dies buried under a pile of whatever they've hoarded.
"How did you get out?" Reever asks when he eventually reappears and perches on the edge of a dilapidated armchair across from Gryffe, ready to flee if he has to because even if the question seems reasonable if the circumstances are ignored, what Reever means is 'how many people did you kill?' It doesn't even sting anymore.
"The ghost let me out," Gryffe answers simply which causes Reever to sigh heavily. He doesn't believe in the ghost any more than the next person.
"Gryffe..."
"You asked."
"I was expecting a real answer."
"But that is the real answer. It's the reason I got out."
"You need to tell me what you did now."
"But that is what I did!" He gets to his feet, agitated because why won't anyone ever believe him when there is no plausible explanation for how he escaped? It's not like he's the Joker or some other deranged comic book villain. He doesn't have gangs and weapons and endless resources. He is one man with a ghost in his head.
"I was trying to help you," Reever murmurs quietly after Gryffe has spent several minutes pacing around stacks of books and he wonders if the words were even meant for his ears given how softly they were spoken. "I thought that was a better place for you. The people there were meant to care."
"But there's nothing wrong with me that they can fix," Gryffe sits down as he talks, leaning towards Reever who jerks back from him.
"Yes there is. Some delusion. Schizophrenia. Multiple personalities. I've read books about that, there's just something wrong with your brain, maybe they can fix it and you can stop being like this. You can be normal again!"
"Why won't anyone listen to me when I say that there's nothing wrong with me that you can diagnose?"
"What, you think it's something an exorcism could fix? You think that makes more sense than modern medicine?"
Gryffe stares at his feet for several minutes and nods. "Yes. To me. You don't know what this is like."
Reever tuts and shakes his head, bringing his hands up to rub his temples. "Did you hurt anyone?"
"I...I hurt some of the staff on the way out."
The problem when someone has known you for years is that they know when you're lying or covering something up and when he falls silent he can feel Reever's eyes on him, the evaluating look and he's sure that if his hearing was better, he'd hear the cogs and gears turning over in Reever's mind as he pieces it all together.
"What did you do Gryffe? You son of a bitch," Reever is on his feet and he shoves Gryffe back onto the couch sending a burst of fusty odour up into the air and it catches in Gryffe's throat, "Tell me what you did!"
"I didn't have a choice! It made me. It told me to! And I tried to warn her, tried to push her away but she wouldn't listen and she just kept getting closer and closer and then suddenly the ghost is telling me what to do and...and...and," he heaves out a shaky breath, bile rising up his throat, scalding and making his eyes sting and he could almost laugh here, "I had to take her eyes. It made me...it...it..."
He can't continue on but he doesn't really need to because Reever is well versed in his habits and he knows that he'll have had to eat them and then it's time for Reever to pace, tearing at his hair as he mutters to himself, talking too quickly for Gryffe to have a hope in hell of catching what he's saying.
But that's okay because the ghost is talking. The ghost is making his fingers twitch and jerk and he knows why it wanted him to be out, wanted him here. It wants Reever. He takes a clumsy step towards Reever, trembling, cold sweat and why, why now? Why after all this time does it want his friend? A pile of books tumbles when he bumps into it and that makes Reever pause and look up sharply, eyes wide.
Want, the ghost thinks, want, rip, tear, slice, pull, all of him, every part, kill kill kill.
"I think I'm going to be sick," he chokes out, fleeing from the living room to the tiny toilet where he bangs the door shut behind him, just about managing the lock because the ghost has never appeared to Reever and Reever can't see it, isn't allowed to see it, not yet, not yet, not yet. He hunches over the toilet bowl and retches and gags and coughs and heaves and spits and lurches but nothing comes up.
And then the nausea passes as soon as it descended and a strange weight settles in his gut as well and he knows the feeling of the ghost taking over control of his limbs as he calmly stands and faces himself in the full length mirror and notices that something wholly wrong is going on with him.
He trembles in front of the mirror. What is he? What is happening? He tries to scream but nothing comes out and unbidden by him, his hands come up to claw at his face and it's as if he is melting, the scars at the edges of his mouth peeling apart and open but there's no blood this time. Nothing. There isn't even pain as he manages to gain a second to think.
Something isn't right.
More and more starts to fade and his skin seems to boil and bubble and burst as his bones erode and the sudden lightness - who knew a body really was so leaden? - takes over, seeps through him warm and liquid like honey, molten, fluid and the tension drains from him, all that pain he has carried with him since the ghost first crawled its way inside. He doesn't know how he's still standing up though because it doesn't feel as though he has limbs anymore because he can't feel them although, strangely, he can still move them. He can move them better now. Before there was only fluidity and grace when the ghost was in control but right now it's just him in his head and he is so light now.
Then it hits him. It hits him and yet he doesn't feel it when it does when he knows that he should be on his knees, perhaps sobbing because this is one of those moments when control has been so cruelly wrenched away, when the world has been tipped on its axis and yet...nothing. Only awareness, something retaking rightful possession as it peels away the mask to face itself for the first time in so long.
Because Gryffe is gone now. Gryffe is just a ghost.
"I always knew," the ghost says in Gryffe's voice, "I always knew what I was. I could just never admit it." It reaches out, touches the edges of its reflection in the mirror as Gryffe peels away completely, leaving just an indistinct spectre standing where he once did, no evidence of a human being save for the pilfered clothes lying in a heap. "All this time."
The ghost touches itself cautiously, feeling along limbs and torso and touching a face with fingers that disperse when they make contact with its own form.
It's hungry.
So hungry.
Starved. Famished. Ravenous. Empty-bellied. Esurient.
It won't stay that way for long. Oh it never does but it had it so good but now that it knows...it's time to take a host. A real host.
There's a hesitant knocking on the door and when it looks back it can see itself smiling in the mirror, a smile that splits at the seams and it licks its lips or tries to. So hard when it keeps disappearing like that.
"Gryffe?" Reever's voice. Nervous, yes. It can smell it, it can feel it and it knows Reever so well now. Reever, Reever, Reever.
"J-just a second," it answers in Gryffe's voice, readying itself to strike and pounce. It's so hungry but thanks to dear, sweet Reever, it won't stay that way for long.
Its eyes go black and the cavernous void of its mouth fills with needle teeth. It's going to savour the look on Reever's face almost as much as it will savour him.