Unholyverse

Nine

In the morning, he woke up feeling like shit run over twice. He managed to roll over enough to find his cell and turn it on to check the time, but no sooner had he switched it on than it started ringing at him to tell him he had a voicemail.

Frank didn't need to listen to know that it would be Brian.

Fuck. He was so fucking late, and his head felt like it was going to split open and his wrists were screaming at him, and he couldn't even blink without feeling like he was going to throw up, he was so hungover. He was going to be late, and he was going to be fucking useless all day, and Brian was probably going to fire his ass.

He really wanted a fucking shower, but he couldn't turn the ancient temperature control without tears prickling up in his eyes. It felt like his fucking bones were grinding together, like all the flesh and cartilage had worn away and instead there were sharp edges scraping along each other, splintering from the pressure and pressing sharp points of pain out through his skin.

He managed to get halfway out of last night's clothes, but then had to sit down and hold his head really still in both hands because the room was doing some fucking galloping swing thing, like a GAP dancer on a carousel. In the middle of the ocean. During a storm.

Coffee would help, if he thought he could get to the kitchen. And he couldn't actually remember the last time he ate anything - but his stomach did a horrified, swooping recoil at the thought of food, anyway.

His phone rang, the shrill ring setting off a fresh round of agony in his head, and he opened one eye and leaned over enough to see the display.

Brian. Again. Fuck. And now he was two hours late for work, fuck.

Fuck his wrists. He needed to shower or he was never going to get out of the apartment. He struggled back into the bathroom and managed to turn the shower on using his elbows and a towel, and he was reaching down to push his jeans off when a red, wet drop fell on his hand.

"What?" said Frank. He touched his forehead and looked at his fingertips - they were crimson, and when he straightened up to look in the mirror, he saw that the cuts in his scalp had re-opened and blood was trickling rapidly down his face.

"My head split open," he said dumbly to his reflection. Suddenly his feet were kicked out from under him and he was lying on the bathroom floor, arms splayed out wide, staring up at the ceiling.

"What?" he said again, and then he felt something wide, cold and sharp drive straight through each of his wrists.

He didn't scream. He didn't scream because he couldn't breathe, the pain so massive, so overwhelming, so out of the range of anything Frank had ever had a nightmare about experiencing that it stole his ability to use his lungs or his eyes or do anything but writhe helplessly in place.

He was being nailed down, he was being nailed to the fucking floor, he could feel the nails driving rhythmically through, feel his bones being forced to make room until he though they would burst through his skin on either side.

There were white flashes behind his eyelids, and he was making noise now, ragged animal sounds being dragged from his chest with every heavy, metallic thud against his hands. His body was shutting down already, Frank felt as though he was scrambling up inside his own skin, curling into a ball and leaving his hands to suffer by themselves, far out on the edges of his consciousness. Frank concentrated on that, on the safe, lonely place inside himself where nobody could help but nobody could hurt him anymore, and the noises got further and further away until Frank was enveloped in silence, in darkness.

Frank could feel it already, what it would be like to have this over with, to be away from the noise and the hurt. He was ready for it, he was ready for it to be over. He couldn't win. He felt the air leaking slowly from his lungs, felt his straining muscles start to give in and relax. It was almost over, it was almost done, he was almost, almost there.

I'm going to die, he thought. The image of his mother's face flashed up in front of him, far away and stained with tears, and he felt a wave of grief and regret and sadness so intense it was almost sweet.

He floated in the darkness for a while. He didn't know how long. It would be over soon.

Except that there was something. Some noise, some touch, something tethering him to his body like a balloon on a string. He willed it away - he didn't want to go back there, where it was bright and loud and everything hurt. He wanted to follow this calm, endless darkness wherever it went - but there it was again, a tugging reminder of what it was like to be alive.

"Frank," he heard dimly, as if from miles away. "Frank."

He knew that voice.

"Frank," it said again, louder this time, and then more words, which Frank could barely make out. "Frank...die on me....fucking bring you back...kill you myself."

Frank laughed, and that's what brought him back into himself with a rush, crying out as the air filled up his lungs and the pain took over again.

"Okay, Frank." It was Brian, cradling Frank's head on his knees. "Frank, take it easy, it's me, it's me."

"Brian," Frank tried to say, but it came out as a wet, messy, unintelligible croak.

Brian said, "Shhh," and gathered Frank up a little tighter. "It's okay, it's okay. The ambulance is on its way. Just hold on a few more minutes, okay? Just a few more. Just stay with me."

Frank looked down - Brian was pressing both of Frank's wrists tight between his hands, towels wrapped up around them, darkly red. "Agh," he managed.

"Don't try to talk," Brian said firmly, squeezing harder. He was keeping pressure on the wounds, Frank thought, just like they did on TV. "Just - nod if you can hear me."

Frank nodded, struggling to turn his head up to look at Brian's face.

Brian was frowning like he did when he was organizing staffing rotas or negotiating a renewal on the shop's insurance. His mouth was in a tight line and his face was kind of white, but his voice was steady when he spoke. "You're going to be okay. We'll get you to hospital, and we'll get you stitched up. You'll be fine."

Frank wasn't so sure, and it must have shown on his face because Brian's expression settled into something a little kinder.

"We're going to get you some help." Brian started re-wrapping the towels around Frank's wrists, really obviously checking his watch. "We're going to fix this. You don't have to feel like this anymore. We'll figure something out, meds, a shrink, whatever you need."

Oh. "Brian, I didn't-"

"Don't talk," Brian said again, in a voice that was calm, but brooked no disagreement. He moved Frank so his head was resting against Brian's shoulder, and held him still.

Frank could feel Brian's heart beating frantically, feel his quick, uneven breaths. They stayed there together like that until the ambulance arrived.