Moral Of The Story

Chapter Three

Two Months Ago

Marc stumbled into the apartment, keys jangling as he tripped over himself. He leaned his head against the cool wall for a moment as the floor beneath his feet righted itself. He took another swig of the slippery bottle in his hand as he made his way to the bathroom.

He bumped into the sink as he tried to sit on the edge of the bathtub and found himself cursing as he fell to the floor. Marc rested his hand on his knees, head tipping back as he took another swig. The tears swirling with the drink as it dripped down his chin.

"Get it together," he snapped at himself. But the tears kept coming.

The reflection of the glass bottle looked back at him, waiting patiently. It wouldn't be long, he realized. Steven would take over soon, he always did when he was spiraling, and maybe Marc would find some comfort being imprisoned in reflections for a few hours.

Or he could stay there. Stay in the void...

He felt a sob build up in his chest and tried to drown it with a drink. He felt his throat constrict and his world blur.

"Marc? Oh my god!"

He felt hands on his face before his eyes focused on the woman before him.

"–Layla." He looked at her confusedly. "You're not sup–posed to be here."

His surroundings began to sink in. Shit, he wasn't... This wasn't the hotel.

Her eyes darted over his stained shirt, how the wet patches of red clung to his form. Then her horrified gaze fell to his hands, dripping crimson.

Layla rushed towards the first aid kit under the sink, but he stopped her.

"Not mine," he whispered. "Never mine."

She looked into his eyes, searching for something. Was it for the man she thought she had married? He wasn't sure if he existed anymore.

"Where have you been, Marc?" Layla asked quietly with furrowed brows. "I've been calling, and I thought..."

There was a tug at his bottle and the fear of losing it surged through him as he held on. He yanked it towards him, unable to get another sip in before she took it.

He needed it. Needed to drown the crushing guilt and shame of all he'd done his damn life. And maybe, maybe he didn't care if he didn't wake up this time. Maybe he didn't deserve to anymore.

The thoughts began to race faster than he could understand them.

"Give... It back."

"Hey. Marc, look at me." She turned his head towards him, and he looked at her through prickling tears. "Talk to me."

"I–I gotta go," he stuttered out. "Have to..."

He tried to get up but his legs ached with weakness. His head slumped against her hand. The tears spilt down his cheeks onto her fingers. And then the sob he had tried so hard to push down, came out all out once.

Layla wrapped her arms around him, her hand cradling the back of his head to her chest as he clung to her shirt. The sob pierced through him so violently that Layla held him tighter.

"I'm here," she murmured over and over again as he cried.

He didn't know how long she had held him like that before they parted. Their foreheads touched, unable to completely let go of one another in a moment of desperation.

"You're going to be okay, Marc." The words felt like a knife in his gut. "Whatever it is. We'll figure it out together. Just don't disappear on me," she asked of him.

The knife twisted.

"Let's clean you up. You can sleep this off and we can talk in the morning, yeah?"

"I can't..." He whispered, his eyes darting around to look anywhere but at her. Layla pulled away confusedly. "I can't do this. Not anymore."

"Do what? Do what, Marc?" She asked intensely. Marc shook his head, instead reached for the bottle behind her but she stopped him. "You've had enough."

"Please," he begged.

A white figure appeared behind her, holding a crescent moon staff. Khonshu watched him carefully.

He pushed himself to his feet, gripping onto the sink. "I need to go."

"So that's it? You're going to give up. Go back to wherever the hell you've been hiding. Drink yourself to sleep, covered in blood."

"Yeah... That's it."

"Is it– Is it the suit? Is it doing something to you?"

Marc stared past her looking towards Khonshu. Layla followed his gaze to the empty space of the hallway behind her. Her eyes darting around. Nothing.

Layla pressed her lips together in disbelief. "I thought we were a team, Marc. That after all this time, you'd realize that I care. I've been worried sick, wondering if you were even alive and you come back looking like you're barely hanging on."

He looked away, shaking his head dismissively. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"How would I?" She asked, exasperated by him. "I feel like I don't even know you anymore!"

He reached for her hand; cold meeting warm as he pressed the keys into her palm.

"Maybe it's better that way," he told her more tearfully than he wanted. His eyes locked with hers, watching how hurt stained her cheeks.

Marc bit his lip as he stepped closer to her. The words were on the tip of his tongue. He could tell her all of it, right here, right now. Her eyes were red with tears as she stood there, shaking with hurt. But she didn't breathe a word, so neither did he.

He closed his eyes for a moment, accepting the weight of his silence onto his shoulders.

He grabbed the almost finished bottle and stumbled past Layla, to face the figure of Khonshu silently watching him from the doorway. The way the tip of his beak tipped down in approval tormented him.

He closed the apartment behind him with a firm click of the door, leaving his heart behind.

Marc felt the cold rush of water drip down his face, his unbloody hands gripping the porcelain sink. His eye caught the mirror, the reflection placing him in a well-lit public bathroom. He was wearing clothes he didn't remember putting on, his hair parted in an unnatural way. He leans in closer, reading the backwards text of a name tag stating 'Steven'.

A man beside him flicked his wet hands at the sink, shooting Marc a strange look as he headed to the exit. The men's door closed with a thud.

Marc turned to the man in the mirror, revulsion in his eyes.

"Why didn't you pull the trigger?"