Coming Undone by purplesunsets

8

TW// blood, self-harm, suicide, psychotic episodes, hallucinations, delusions, bugs (?)

"What the hell am I doing?" George mutters to himself as he creeps down the basement stairs. Each one creaks as he steps onto it, but he supposes that it wouldn't matter if he gets caught in the end. Nothing would.

The basement is unfinished, with wooden beams and harsh lighting. It is both musty and damp in a way that clings to George's skin and makes him feel dirty. The tools he stole from Clay's shed feel heavy in his pocket, weighted with the guilt for something he has yet to do.

In the darkest corner of the room, the fuse box is attached to the wall. George opens the box and stares at the little switches with disdain. He wishes that there was an easier way. But there isn't. Clay's security system is better than it ever was. George can almost fool himself into thinking it's romantic, the lengths to which Clay will go just to keep him near.

Before he can talk himself out of it, George flips the switch to the main power breaker, cutting off all electricity to the house. He holds his breath for a moment as he stands in darkness, but by some stroke of luck, he doesn't hear the sound of the generator turn on.

George knows that it won't be enough to just flip a switch. He removes the hammer from his pocket and slides the thin part of it beneath the cover of the fuse box. He wiggles the tool along the seams until the front of the box falls to the floor with a metallic clang. Dozens of wires twist and tangle together in a sea of colorful spaghetti. In the darkness, he can barely see as he violently tears at the wires with his bare hands, wire cutters forgotten on the ground by his feet. He doesn't know much about electrical shit, but he knows that there's no way in hell the power would still work after this.

He checks the time on his watch. It's just past midnight, so Clay shouldn't be back for another few hours, but George still feels uneasy. He wonders what Clay would do to him if he got caught. For some reason the idea of Clay slowly strangling him to death seems almost attractive compared to never seeing Clay again. He wonders if it's bad that he feels that way.

When George emerges from the basement, Nick is standing by the front door, two backpacks by his feet, hastily stuffed with a meager amount of clothes and food.

"You ready?" Nick glances toward the door anxiously.

"I guess. I didn't think I'd get this far in the first place." George chews his lip. "Come on, I hope you're wearing comfortable shoes, we have some walking to do."

—

The distance to town feels endless, even though George knows it's just five miles. But he's tired and weakened from days on end of not sleeping or eating enough, his backpack growing heavier with every step. Nick isn't faring much better: breathing heavily and clutching his side. It's been weeks since Nick was shot, and George feels his stomach churn when he thinks about how much it must have hurt in the moment to get shot if it still hurts now.

Nick is shaking and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looks like the picture of death: skin ashen and pale.

"Just a bit further. Come on." George says and squeezes Nick's hand reassuringly.

Nick manages a small smile, but his gaze is empty. "A bit further." He echoes hollowly.

They cling to the shadows of the trees and stumble along the road. Eventually, the dim lights of a gas station come into view, the first sign of civilization they've seen during their entire journey thus far.

"I'll go see if they have a pay phone or something in there." Nick says, gesturing at the small convenience store.

"Are you going to call your aunt?" George feels like he's missing something important. That there's someone he should talk to. He tries to think back to the conversation he had with Nick the day before, but all he draws are blanks.