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Steven was too shaken to take control of the body, ceding it to Marc the moment they both became aware again.
The blackout had been shorter than the last one but more worrying. Fear of what they would find as they woke infected both men, sharpening their anxiety to almost unbearable levels. Steven could feel himself verging on hysteria in his desperation to know and yet not know what had happened while they were unconscious.
Marc expected blood. The last few times he had blacked out, there had always been blood and bodies, save for that moment in the taxi. All other times, it had been a massacre.
There was blood, but it had dried. You were clothed, long sleeves almost covering the bandages laced up your arms. The cuts had been deeper than he had realized, the flesh scored by your nails. In the time Steven and Marc had been unconscious, you had not only dressed yourself and your wounds, but you had also done everything necessary to render your nails blunt.
Marc didn't know what to say or ask as he surveyed the surprising lack of damage in the space. Aside for a towel crusted with dry blood, everything was as he had left it.
"You're...okay," he managed to say.
You shrugged, stared down at your newly trimmed nails. Lethargy coated your movements, lined your face alongside mild strain. Whatever had happened had taken everything from you, leaving you exhausted and potentially numb, if your expression had anything to say about it.
Marc sat down beside you on the bed. He felt as clueless about how to proceed as Steven, who fretted in his mind and in the reflections of the room. What could he say in response to what he had seen? What could he say when he didn't even know what had transpired in the blackout?
A sudden fear lodged ice cold in his stomach. Swallowing thickly, he almost didn't voice it aloud, afraid to hear the answer. "Has that...happened before?"
For several heartbeats, you didn't answer. You hardly stirred in response to the question, as though rendered comatose. The fear thickened in Marc's guts, sending Steven haywire. If you said no, then that meant your hurt, the damage you had inflicted on yourself, was a direct result of their attempts to intervene. Instead of helping, they had hurt you, driven you to hurt yourself.
Marc wasn't sure he could live with that. He had blood on his hands, but he could honestly say he had never put blood on someone else's, least of all their own. The very thought drove him to the brink of despair and the most intense self-loathing he had ever experienced. If he had done this-if you had suffered because of him and Steven-then he was no better than his mother, perhaps even worse because he thought he had been helping.
You sucked in a breath, startling him to the present, sending his heart leaping against his chest. "Yes."
Relief had never felt so good. Marc exhaled explosively, unaware he had been holding his breath so tightly, every muscle in his body coiled with anxiety. Your response slowly sunk in, dropping down like a stone through the depths of his relief, until it settled at the bottom, kicking up silt and muddying the waters.
"That doesn't sound healthy," he heard himself say.
"I know it isn't healthy! But I'm not healthy, and I never will be, so I have to fucking make do, don't I?"
Marc leaned back from your sudden vehemence. Tears rimmed your eyes, but you blinked them away furiously, knuckled them away hard enough to leave the skin underneath momentarily inflamed. You clenched your fists.
Some blood seeped through the bandages, staining it as your sudden violence broke open the healing flesh anew.
Guilt gnawed at him again. Again, he struggled to find words.
Hanging your head, you raked a hand across your scalp, blunt nails dragging audibly, and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap."
"I shouldn't have said that."
"You were just saying the truth. I know, because I tell it to myself all the time. I know it's not...but there's this little part of me that says-that says I can handle it. That next time it won't be as bad." You stared down at your hands, scrutinizing them as though suddenly aware of the pain they could inflict. "Sometimes I tell myself I need help, and then in the next breath, I'm saying, No, I can't expect someone else to understand. This is my burden."
Marc went still, Steven along with him. Your words echoed in his skull, reflecting his own beliefs back to him. He knew those words, those fragile lies built into truths.
"You know that Christian thing about the footprints in the sand?"
"No," he managed through the thickness in his throat.
"There's this...I don't know, story or whatever where it says you are walking along the beach, and God is walking with you. There are two pairs of footprints in the sand. But then storms come, and you're suddenly alone, and it's only one pair of footprints in the sand. And one day, when the storms have passed and God is beside you again, you ask, 'Where were you? I needed you.' And..." Your voice grew thick. "He answers, 'I didn't abandon you. When you saw only one set of footprints, they were mine. During the storm, I carried you.'"
You suddenly choked back a sob, so sudden and violent that it scared you as much as Marc and Steven combined. "And I want to believe that, but I can't. No matter how hard I try, I can't believe it, because I feel so alone. Those are just my footprints on the beach. There was never a second pair. And the storm is never going to end. I'm stuck in it forever."
Your hands were clamped between your knees, your body shuddering with your attempts to stem the sudden emotion crashing through you. Strangled sobs slipped past your lips, preventing you from speaking further.
The emotions Marc had been feeling moments before relief, the despair and self-loathing, palpably radiated off you as you fought with yourself to rein them in. It oozed over Marc with a stickiness he recognized.
But instead of agitating him, it set him in motion. He reached out, gently touched your shoulder.
The sobs poured out freely the moment he did, as though he had given you permission.
Looping his arm around your shoulders, he drew you to his chest, let you cry into his neck and shirt. In moments his collar was soaked from your tears and snot. Your fingers clutched at him, seeking an anchor in the storm.
