ecstasy | corpse husband

chapter 33.

The floor sways beneath him, as it has been for the past hour since the engine's started up. The quaint bathroom is also dark, and Corpse's fingers find the switch along the wall and flick it on. The lights come on glaringly, illuminating the bathroom before him and bouncing off the porcelain of the sink. He steps in front of it, his hands grasping the sides, cool to the touch of his palms. His skin feels hot.

His reflection gleams at him out of the corner of his eyes. For a while, he refuses to look at it. He keeps his head down, dark hair shaken into his face, already feeling weary. His hands tighten their grip on the sink until his knuckles are white.

He's stalling.

Another minute goes by before he sighs and pushes upwards, lifting his face to the mirror. He locks eyes with himself, his reflection, but quickly diverts his gaze with a clench of his jaw. His focus shifts to his neck instead, at the scratch along it which he's never actually seen for himself until now.

They were right, he realizes. It looks like hell.

It makes him curious as to why he hasn't felt worse than he has these past couple of days. When he prods at it with his finger, the area is a bit sore around the edges but that's as far as the pain goes. He hasn't felt any different, or any more ill than he's always felt.

The possibility of contracting the virus heightens his curiosity.

Is it already happening? Will he turn suddenly, or gradually? Are there warning signs before it happens? Will he have any memory of who he is? Is he going to turn at all?

That part should scare him the most: losing the memory of himself. It sounds rather appealing if he's being honest. A clean slate, a blank soul. No burdens. Of course, it's all contingent on whether he's actually infected or not.

He will say he's not had an appetite since leaving the 7-eleven. During meals together, he forces himself to eat the food but never hungers for it. The food tastes like food. It's merely a show to ward off concern. He's never had a huge appetite, which is why he doubts this has anything to do with the scratch. He's an anxious person; it makes more sense that the constant dread he has pressing down on him mercilessly would stave off his interest in eating.

His eyes narrow, scrutinizing over the rest of himself. His skin is as pale as it's always been; his eyes are still nearly black in hue and ringed dark from sleep deprivation. Perhaps the scratch is merely that, a meaningless mark on his skin that got infected with bacteria or something. He feels fine.

Corpse bends down to splash some cold water on his face. It wakes him up, helping to clear his storm of concerns some. It's when he's drying himself off with a towel, wiping his neck when he sees something off in the mirror. One of the veins beneath his skin that runs downward from the scratch is also black. He swallows, his fingers hesitating before he pulls down the collar of his hoodie.

His chest is plagued with darkening veins. They're stark under his washed out skin, resembling dead, twisted trees, blood vessels branching from the center of his chest outward. His blood has been replaced with the same inky substance darkening the scratch, and it gives the appearance of ink flowing through water, clouding his veins.

It wouldn't be as noticeable under less bright lighting, but still, he looks ill. It's getting worse.

He touches a finger to his skin, and it feels cold like the porcelain, although the rest of him is warm. Sweaty, even.

The boat jerks suddenly, and he braces himself against the counter once more. Waiting a moment for it to steady again, he raises a hand and threads it through his curls of hair before bringing his hood over his head and departing from the sink. His head is pounding, sharp and heavy.