WIP Amnesty: creepy Duncan ficlet (VM)
On the bad days, which are most days now, Duncan tastes blood - or something - in the back of his mouth. It’s thick and salty, and makes him choke when he speaks. So he tries not to speak.
The old guy behind the motel counter has finally stopped giving him vaguely threatening looks, and mostly just ignores his comings and goings. Duncan knows he’s been in one place too long - if he’s going to settle down anywhere, it shouldn’t be at this shithole that costs 40 bucks a day. It should be someplace quiet and perfect, somewhere his parents or Veronica can’t track him. A tiny cabin in the woods, maybe. He could build one.
No. He couldn’t build one. He almost failed shop class and he hates the woods. Duncan doesn’t know what he should do. He just can’t go back.
When Duncan falls asleep, low hum of the muted television filtering through his mind, Lilly comes.
“Hey,” Lilly says. She kneels on the worn-almost-sticky carpet and peers at him over the edge of the bed, so they’re right at eyelevel with each other. “Hey,” she says again. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” he tries to say, but the blood at the back of his mouth starts to loosen and run from his lips. He gags. Lilly takes him by the chin, stares at him and smears the blood across his cheek with manicured fingers. She leans closer and licks the blood from his face, and her tongue is cold like she’s been eating popsicles all day. Duncan shivers, and wonders if he should be grossed out.
“It’s not real,” she says, drawing away slightly. “Don’t worry,” and then the blood is gone, but Lilly’s still there, because she, at least, has always been real.
“I don’t know anything,” Duncan whispers urgently, because it’s suddenly important that she be told this. “I don’t know. It wasn’t me.”
“You know who it was,” says Lilly. Duncan wants her to get some new lines.
“You’re dead. And I wish you’d stop showing up.” Even though he has dozens of questions, Duncan knows she’ll never answer them. And he feels fucked up enough without his sister hovering over him with bits of brain matter clinging in her hair.
Lilly touches his lips, then runs her hand down Duncan’s chest and into his boxer shorts like an ice cube sliding across his skin, and Duncan jerks awake. He’s hard, turned on by his dead sibling, which is wrong on so many levels, and he really, really wants to puke.
He stumbles into the bathroom, throws up, then jerks off quickly. His mouth still tastes sour. Taking a deep breath, he washes his hands, then leans his forehead against the mirror above the sink. It’s cracked along one edge where the little metal screws are holding it flush with the wall, and Duncan stares at his shoulder in the split glass surface.
The old guy behind the motel counter has finally stopped giving him vaguely threatening looks, and mostly just ignores his comings and goings. Duncan knows he’s been in one place too long - if he’s going to settle down anywhere, it shouldn’t be at this shithole that costs 40 bucks a day. It should be someplace quiet and perfect, somewhere his parents or Veronica can’t track him. A tiny cabin in the woods, maybe. He could build one.
No. He couldn’t build one. He almost failed shop class and he hates the woods. Duncan doesn’t know what he should do. He just can’t go back.
When Duncan falls asleep, low hum of the muted television filtering through his mind, Lilly comes.
“Hey,” Lilly says. She kneels on the worn-almost-sticky carpet and peers at him over the edge of the bed, so they’re right at eyelevel with each other. “Hey,” she says again. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” he tries to say, but the blood at the back of his mouth starts to loosen and run from his lips. He gags. Lilly takes him by the chin, stares at him and smears the blood across his cheek with manicured fingers. She leans closer and licks the blood from his face, and her tongue is cold like she’s been eating popsicles all day. Duncan shivers, and wonders if he should be grossed out.
“It’s not real,” she says, drawing away slightly. “Don’t worry,” and then the blood is gone, but Lilly’s still there, because she, at least, has always been real.
“I don’t know anything,” Duncan whispers urgently, because it’s suddenly important that she be told this. “I don’t know. It wasn’t me.”
“You know who it was,” says Lilly. Duncan wants her to get some new lines.
“You’re dead. And I wish you’d stop showing up.” Even though he has dozens of questions, Duncan knows she’ll never answer them. And he feels fucked up enough without his sister hovering over him with bits of brain matter clinging in her hair.
Lilly touches his lips, then runs her hand down Duncan’s chest and into his boxer shorts like an ice cube sliding across his skin, and Duncan jerks awake. He’s hard, turned on by his dead sibling, which is wrong on so many levels, and he really, really wants to puke.
He stumbles into the bathroom, throws up, then jerks off quickly. His mouth still tastes sour. Taking a deep breath, he washes his hands, then leans his forehead against the mirror above the sink. It’s cracked along one edge where the little metal screws are holding it flush with the wall, and Duncan stares at his shoulder in the split glass surface.