This chapter contains the following trigger warnings:

Graphic descriptions of gore
Graphic descriptions and the ingestion of rotten food (and insects)
Insects (flies and maggots)
Self-Victim Blaming / Guilt
Implied suicidal ideation

Please note that Malin's feelings about himself (ie, the victim blaming) do not reflect my opinion of people in or escaping from abusive situations. You deserve to heal and to be safe!

“You. You were asleep for three days. God, I…” Machiavelli shook his head, putting a hand through his hair. The expression of shock surprised them both, “How did you get down here? I’m sorry, I left you up there, patched you up, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t want to call anyone, you just… You’re hungry, right? I’ll make you something easier than this mess.”

“It’s fine. It’s okay,” Malin stepped closer, an elbow hitting the counter, “This happens. I’m sorry to scare you.”

“What do you mean this happens?”

“I’m surprised I woke up at all,” Malin smiled again, though Machiavelli could only see the wrinkles distort his eye, “Aren’t you the hungry one? Or am I wrong?”

“What…?” Machiavelli took a step back.

“Why?” the stranger almost crooned, “Why didn’t you hurt me? You knew I was vulnerable. You knew nobody knew about me. Maybe you’d prefer to eat me rotten.”

“I don’t understand, I…” Machiavelli’s teeth flashed, white as ever, as he pressed his back to the counter, “You’ve lost a lot of blood. I don’t know what I was waiting for. I’m sorry, okay? I’ll fix up your bandages, Jesus Christ, Malin…”

Malin brushed the wet gauze against his skin, but the material slipped off and down his head. Machiavelli stared into the festering wound of a man lurching before him. The knife laid on the floor. Malin’s legs buckled beneath him as blood wove its way between the cracks in the building scabs and scars on his head. He grasped for the counter as he slid down. Only then did Machiavelli, still silhouetted by the window, reach for him. The doctor kicked the knife aside.

“You need to tell me what happened after I clean you up again,” Machiavelli said, crumpled on the floor, gripping Malin and keeping him upright.. His voice shook with sudden lucidity. “We can’t be strangers forever. I’m so sorry I left you up there. I tried to give you water, food, anything…”

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Malin’s head hit Machiavelli’s shoulder. His body suddenly rattled with a tearless sob, a threat of vomit rising as his voice shook, “Why didn’t you kill me? I was a perfect victim. I was perfect. Why…? Why bother with cleaning me? Why didn’t you have your way? I see the look on your face, I know it’s all the same. Why did I come down here? You should’ve…” His voice trailed off, one hand clinging to the other man’s chest. “Do you prefer to prolong it…?”

Machiavelli wrapped his arms around Malin. The doctor wore a black apron with red stitching, subtly discolored in some parts from grease and other stains. He plucked the chicken out of his hair as he held on tight. Some of his prior gauntness had receded into his flesh, even if barely so. Malin was tiny in comparison, stick-thin, lungs and heart beating against ribs only vaguely covered by frail skin. Had anyone been this crumpled in his arms before? Machiavelli couldn’t recall, his head burning as he sorted through the last few years. The rotten food traveled through Malin’s body, a festering illness waiting to blossom like blue-green mold.

“I don’t know,” Machiavelli said, “I don’t know. Come on, let’s get up.”

Malin had little say in the matter, as, with a grunt, Machiavelli stood up and pulled the smaller man along with him. Malin’s feet dangled above the ground before the doctor put him back down, arms gripping the stranger’s shoulders. The knife sat under a cabinet, already forgotten. A flushed expression crossed Machiavelli’s face, only briefly visible as he pulled Malin along by the shoulder and walked out of the kitchen. The clean bandages on the doctor’s fingers dirtied the scraps on Malin’s head by mere comparison. 

Machiavelli turned on the hallway light and blinked at the maggots on the plate. His head turned slowly towards Malin. 

“I hope you had the sandwich before it had maggots in it.”

Malin’s averted eye gave an unclear answer.

“Go to the bathroom. First door on the right. Throw it up if you can, if there were maggots in it. Unless you had it before all that… otherwise, just get cleaned up. You can shower if you feel like you can. Just don’t lock the door, in case you fall or something.”

“I don’t… think I can shower. I smell awful, probably…” Malin was still shaking, mumbling, half-hunched over in pure malaise. 

“That’s fine,” Machiavelli said, almost talking to himself, “I’ll figure something out.”

Machiavelli helped Malin to the bathroom, one hand along the man’s back, curving up his spine and towards his shoulder bones. He turned the handle, a yellow glow from a nightlight already escaping through the crack. 

“Take your time,” the doctor said, returning down the hallway.

The room was somewhat small, shy of 3 meters long. A bath and shower sat at the end opposite of the door, the toilet and a countertop between it and Malin. Pieces of a childhood littered the room like a cut to the throat splattered blood against a wall. There was no blood, of course. Not here. Not until Malin stepped in. Instead, a cup patterned with dinosaurs held two brightly colored toothbrushes. Playful shapes dotted the shower curtain. Equally colorful wallpaper depicted ships and seagulls over pristine beaches. If he checked under the sink, Malin would find dusty bath toys stacked up behind the pipes. And if he looked behind the toilet, he would find a folded up stepping stool, yellowed plastic and all. An empty container labeled ‘Baby Teeth’ in a faded tag hid behind the hand soap. When he ran his hand across the counter, his bandaged palms left behind only a light streak of dried blood. Malin’s gaze met his own eye in the mirror.

He knew his left eye was gone. Felt its absence in the growing void of his vision, in the blurred and reddened edges. But the socket gaped, wide and empty like a screaming mouth, scar tissue and platelets only barely beginning to mend the hole. Redness. He almost fell over again just looking at it. A shaky breath flowed freely out of his mouth, the previously numbed pain clawing at him, begging for turmoil. Malin almost couldn’t see his skin underneath the dried blood. He leaned over the sink, moving closer to the mirror. He looked like a corpse. He looked fucking miserable. Malin felt like a head floating over a body, vaguely attached by a string. A non-physical rokurokubi. He smiled. His breath fogged up the mirror, proving he was still alive. 

With a twist of a handle, Malin splashed cold water over his face. The liquid ran red and murky as he wiped off the stains and pulled away the remaining scraps of gauze. The pinpricks of fresh injuries altered into the stabbing pains of cold water on raw skin. He stood, hunched over the water, frozen in place as the pain dug deep into him. After a few minutes, the water dripping from his face lost its red hue. The water dampened the gauze on his hands, so those too went to the small trash bin by the counter. His hands could’ve been worse. The fingernails were short, chipped in some areas, but all there. Ten fingers were a blessing. Ten only slightly dirty and damaged fingers were a miracle. Malin met his own gaze again.

What story would he tell Machiavelli? 

He could hardly form full thoughts as he wobbled over the sink. Lying through his teeth would be near impossible in this state. Malin dried his hands with a cloth and rubbed his fingers along his face, tracing the carvings. His hands curved along the ridge of his nose, tender and off-white, still not used to being exposed to the air. He remembered the sickening sound of crunching bone and the ripping of cartilage and flesh as his prior encounter forced Malin’s face to the concrete. The other injuries came soon after, as blood gushed out from any opening it could find. The same barbed wire pulled along his face ripped at his clothes as he scrambled far away from the building where he had spent the last several months. At what point did the injuries become his injuries? Was he to blame for all of it? What would he say to someone who wanted to help him? Was the help even genuine? Malin opened his mouth, digging at scraps between his teeth. Stains lined his nails and fingers as he tugged out what was once a maggot.

Elsewhere in the house, Machiavelli busied himself with removing the dirtied blanket with the grace of a stage magician. Some of the stains bled into the couch, etching dark, uneven stitches into the patterned surface. He filled the washing machine with bloodstained rags and blankets. His heel tapped the floor repeatedly as he jammed the detergent shelf back into place and hoped the damaged machine could still take this mess. Both eyes stared vacantly ahead as he pulled Malin’s words in and out of his conscious mind. Maybe he preferred to prolong it. To keep someone here, just for a tiny bit longer than they expected. Maybe.

Machiavelli finally took down the hook from the dining room ceiling.