Ways Of Reality - The Untouched Scenes

I'll Watch Atlas Bleed

A living corpse is what Stephen was. Shallow breaths separated from each other, quiet and still on the tile. The metallic taste of blood was drying on his lips, but the remaining drops that were still flowing fell down his cheek until it hit the tile with him. Time passed slowly, and all sound around him was drowned out by his own heartbeat, much slower than it had been a while ago, during the conflict that led him here.

His eyes were shut, and the air around warm. Richard was in the closet, within his view, only if he opened his eyes. It would be okay. Rich would stay there until Stephen came and got him. And that would be when Stephen found the energy to get up and get his parents out, when he found the energy to wipe his face off and reset his nose, when he could clean the small pool of blood off the kitchen floor.

At this moment, however, Stephen was possessed with guilt. What if he liked this feeling? Alone and small, hurt? He had been so exhausted, but only at this moment did he feel like he actually got a break– one that he deserved.

Initially, not fighting back had been his morals. Stephen refused to hurt another person, and tried to de-escalate the situation instead. Then, staying still was a defense mechanism. If he let it happen, wouldn't they get bored and leave?

Lastly, in a horrible, messed-up feeling, he thought he liked it. Because God, for once he got to do nothing, and it was for the better. It kept the parents away from his brother, it kept them away from stealing or snooping around, it kept them from getting drunk! Wasn't he making a good choice? Didn't it have to get to this point for him to take a break? His 'break' being bruised and blue all over? And couldn't he enjoy the feeling of relaxation for once in his life?

He swallowed thickly and took a deeper breath. No, none of that was okay. None of this was sane. Relaxation wasn't being beaten into your kitchen floor by your own parents, and it wasn't the feeling of blood dripping out your nose and over your lips to drip down your chin and stain your shirt.

God, what was he thinking? He had work he was missing, and he needed every penny he could get. Richard was here and not at school. His parents had found their apartment! The fear that ran through Stephen's veins at that fact alone should have been enough to move him off the floor and run to the landlord's office before his heart could take another beat.

Still, his head was heavy and fuzzy. His brain must have been nothing but cotton balls with how he was feeling. Then, another terrifying thought washed over him. What if he couldn't get up? Stephen was a machine powered solely on will and drive, nothing else. Not even proper nutrition was needed to support the intense determination he had. If something, God forbid, was wrong with him? If he had a debilitating injury, temporary or not, it would mess him over completely. What if an injury to his head was the real reason he wasn't forcing himself up and to go check on Richard?

Struck with this new fear, Stephen moved his arm up by his head and pushed himself up enough to get his head off the ground. Still, he hesitated. Why was he stopping? Why couldn't he move forward?

His hands closed into fists, and slowly lowered back down. He just needed to regather his strength, he kept telling himself.

"Steph? Hello? Stop kidding around, man. Get up."

Stephen flinched back suddenly, knocking his shoulders into the cabinets behind him. Charles' hand was on his upper arm now, shaking him out of concern. It wasn't clear how or when Charles had entered his apartment, but he couldn't say he was upset with it.

His eyes opened, and Charles hooked his hands under Stephen's arms to pull him up into a sitting position against the cabinets. Charles kept a hand on his side out of concern, seeing how out-of-it Stephen still appeared to be.