Witness and Worship | An Outlast Document

Chapter Thirteen ❖ Terrible Thing

"Miles Upshur, September 18th, twelve thirty-two. I've said it before, but fuck this place. I've still got those fingers left."

I leave the bowl of fingers where it is and begin rifling through the shelves for something to eat. Now that we've got a moment of calm, I'm beginning to notice the emptiness gnawing at my stomach. Dinner was over six hours ago, just a greasy drive-thru burger with almost no nutritional value, and even ignoring how I puked it back up, I've burned off way more calories than it ever gave me.

Dried lentils and beans, cans of stew and veggies-tinned asparagus, gross-the occasional packet of crackers. Pretty much nothing fresh, and I don't care to check what ecosystem is growing in the fridge.

The cupboards are more of the same, cans of fruit and preserved meat, and packets of two-minute dinners. A few snacks, some tea and coffee, and a battered plastic lunchbox with a sticky note attached to the lid. The box is one of those reusable clippy ones, the kind kids take to school, right down to the faded truck design on the top.

ARTHUR M.
DO NOT TOUCH
THANKS!

It takes far too long for me to place the name, and when I do I almost find myself wishing my brain hadn't processed it at all. Arthur. That stupid kids' lunchbox belongs to him.

Belongs. Present tense. I refuse to believe that he's...

"Everything okay?" Miles' voice cuts through my thoughts and I realize I'm sitting back on my haunches, staring intently at that goddamn truck. My eyes are beginning to well up, too, and I wipe them quickly.

I give a watery laugh. "It's the same one he's had since fifth grade. I got it for him for Christmas, or at least Mom said I did. I was too young to even comprehend what Christmas was."" I slap the box against my palm like it doesn't bother me in the slightest, like it's a piece of junk I'll just throw away.

"What-oh my God, I remember that," Miles says, crouching beside me. "I used to give him such shit for using it in high school."

"He never liked eating the food at school," I say, knuckling my eyes in a fruitless attempt to stop myself from crying. "Said he didn't trust it. Well, he didn't trust it until twelfth grade."

Miles gives a slight grin. "Yeah, suddenly he was all about the pizza rolls."

"The fuel of high schoolers," I say. My voice catches at the end and I attempt to smother it with a laugh that fools neither of us.

Miles reaches out for my hand, but I lean in for a hug instead. Call me pathetic, but I'm getting increasingly desperate for moments like this with another sane human being.

And without quite meaning to I find I'm crying once again. Emotions tear through my frayed nerves and everything that's happened tonight hits me like a blow to the chest and I'm sobbing into the crook of his neck, holding onto the back of his jacket like it's my grip on reality and it's slipping away so fast and I don't want it to. I want everything to be back to normal-I want to be back home in bed, warm and safe-I want Arthur to be alive-I want this to be over. But it's not. It's not over and it might not ever be, and it's just too much all at once.

Miles presses his lips to my hair and there's a warm wetness on my forehead. He's crying, too. His shoulders shake and in an instant he crumbles, the facade of a strong young man shattered. He's making these terrible, whiny hiccuping sounds. I've never heard him cry before, but it makes me oddly glad. Glad that he's not bottling everything up. Glad that he feels comfortable enough around me to know he can cry.

My arms automatically clamp even tighter around him. Should be more careful. Should be more aware of our surroundings.

But who cares anymore?