There is no bird-man mutant thing in my apartment. I repeat, there is no bird-man mutant in my apartment.

Marcus slowly reopened his apartment's front door, groaning when he noticed that the bird-man--as Marcus had decided to call him--was still there, squatted on his couch.

By that point, he hoped his students had drugged him. That option was ten times better than the other which was Marcus had finally gone insane and was having an odd sex fantasy.

He was on the kinky side, he admitted that, but a naked man with wings was just going too far.

Bird-man was looking right at him, face sweaty and body shivering. His previously confused expression turned into a dangerous glare as he stared at Marcus with apprehension burning in hate-filled eyes.

Not knowing what else to do, Marcus slowly entered, closing and locking the door behind him without ever showing his back to what he hoped was a hallucination but one couldn't be too sure.

He dropped his work bag beside the wall and slowly took a step forward but moved right back when bird-man let out a warning screech.

"Oh spicy samosa," Marcus said, jumping slightly at the sound before cupping his face between his hands and taking deep breaths.

"Okay. Okay. Okay," Marcus muttered to himself, taking deep breaths.

He took a risk and stepped forward again. He couldn't have just stayed at the door forever.

The bird-man screeched but didn't move from the old, green couch so Marcus slid to his left, keeping a good enough distance between himself and whatever the fuck he was looking at.

Nevermind that his home, his personal space, his bachelor pad of all things Marcus, as he liked to call it when his best friend told him to go outside, was totally and completely destroyed. Nevermind that his balcony's sliding glass door was sporting a large hole or that there was glass everywhere or that his television was smashed or even that the bird-man's numerous bleeding wounds were staining his beloved couch.

He just wanted to have an idea as to what he was looking at.

He believed that his somewhat relaxed reaction was shock because he didn't think even he could have been that calm about a situation like that.

He couldn't wait for the meltdown he was going to have when the shock vanished.

Bird-man stayed where he was, keeping his eyes on Marcus like a hawk.

Please, gods. Please. Not another hallucination, Marcus prayed with his hands ruffling his aching head. I thought those stopped after college. I've been eating and sleeping so why?

Is this real? No. No. This kinda shit doesn't happen in this town. It's in my head. Is that even better?

Looking to his left, he saw his bedroom and wondered if he could've made it before the bird-man decided attacking Marcus and ripping him to shreds with his oh so very long and sharp-looking black claws was as good an idea as crashing through Marcus' balcony window and sitting on his couch.

That's if he's even real because if he is, then what the actual fuck is he?

A mutation? An angel? A demon? An experiment? A really, really sick dude with an odd angel-demon and crashing houses fetish?

Marcus bit on his lower lip, ready to risk it and dash to the—unlikely—safety of his room and hope that when he came out, he would've been able to conclude that the whole thing was a drug-induced dream, but something stopped him.

The bird-man wings fluttered, which totally freaked Marcus out at first, and made the bird-man wince, turning his head to look at the large, broken wing, the hate in his eyes replaced with pain.

When he turned his neck to the side, Marcus got a nice view of the wound on his neck and the need to step forward and help the...man built up bit by bit.

There was a massive, deep and circular wound around his thin, ghostly pale neck and it wasn't just a simple scratch.

Wide enough to be about the width of an average brick, deep, jagged and skin torn in all kinds of ways. It was bleeding so badly that it kept dripping down his extremely skinny torso and the sight of it made Marcus do something that one may have classified as painstakingly stupid.

"Hey. That looks really bad. Lemme have a look, okay?" he said slowly as he took a step forward with an outstretched hand.

He really deserved the thing's response for that slip-up. The oddity growled and used his right set of claws to scratch Marcus left hand, leaving deep scratches.

Hissing out of pain, he took a quick step back and examined the four new bleeding lines on the back of his tanned hand.

"Well that was stupid," he mumbled to himself, trying not to cry. It really did hurt.

The pain alone proved that it wasn't a dream and Marcus was beginning to rethink everything he thought he knew about his planet, his supposedly quiet town and about stopping his meds.

His mental musings were interrupted when the strange being let out a scared cry, making Marcus look up and he felt his heart ache, and with his shock was going down, it made room for his building panic and massive sympathy towards the unknown creature.

He saw his uninvited guest moving to the other side of his couch with his clawed hands over his head like he was blocking an incoming hit. With his legs also drawn closer to his torso, he began to cry and Marcus did not know what to do because he himself was hyperventilating and close to shutting down because there was a goddamned skinny as hell, bleeding man with wings on his couch and he just needed someone sane to tell him what to do before his mind snapped for real if it hadn't already.

Most people would've reached for their cell phone and called the police, or an ambulance at the very least because the guy obviously needed some medical attention, but Marcus wasn't most people and he definitely wasn't stupid, even though his recent actions may have implied otherwise.

"What am I supposed to say?" Marcus asked himself. "Why good day fine men of the law enforcement. I would like to report a rather horrifying break-in. Oh yes, it is quite terrible indeed, brought me to tears. Do I have a suspect in mind? Do I ever! Why the fellow is still here, old chap. Description? Well, he's naked, makes bird noises, covered in scars, probably an abuse victim, oh and another thing, the bloke has wings, dear boy or girl. Wings!... Hello?"

Marcus did not see that phone call going well.

Being someone that used to work in law enforcement, he remembered how some of those that got calls would shut down ridiculous cases just like his. There was also the possibility of it just being in his head and he didn't need his old colleagues seeing that.

Calling the hospital wouldn't have worked well either. As a believer in a few conspiracy theories, Marcus was certain that they would've shipped the guy to some testing facility instead of actually help him.

He did not know what he was supposed to do, never thought he would be in such an odd situation. Was he to run to his room like the sane human being he was supposed to be or do what his stupid head was telling him and try and communicate. That wing looked really bad and the deep wounds around his neck looked like it would get infected if left alone.

It's a fucking naked man with fucking wings.

And he's bleeding to fucking death on my couch.

This is insane. This is fucking insane. And not even in the fun way.

Marcus stood up straight, an idea forming in his mind.

The bird-man stared at him quietly with eyes surrounded by deep circles, waiting for him to make his move.

And Marcus did move. He moved all the way to his bedroom, closing and locking the door.

"Whatever it is," he mumbled to himself as he walked into his bathroom on the left of the bedroom door, "it's not real. There isn't a naked man out there with wings attached to the flesh of his back. He's not bleeding to death because he is not real so I don't have to be feeling so bad and I scratched my hand on that nail sticking out of Mrs. Brown's door. Four times. Yep. Cause I'm just so stupid."

Marcus quickly rinsed his hand under the sink, bringing out some sleeping pills and the first aid kit from behind the mirror and wrapping the deep cuts with a bandage before taking two tablets and swallowing them dry, returning everything to their place.

It was going to scar, the scratches, but Marcus wasn't thinking about that at the moment as he removed his shirt, shoes, and socks and jumped on his bed.

Marcus burrowed into his pillow, and closed his exhausted eyes, waiting for the drugs to kick in so that the muffled sounds of moans and bird screeches would stop ringing in his head.

It's not real, you nut case. It's just not real.