Tear out

Naevius couldn’t breathe. It was as if he was drowning. He could feel the oxygen in his lungs dying out and being replaced by something else. He tried to see, but there was only darkness. He tried stretching out his arms, but he couldn’t move.

His blonde hair clung to his face. He was sweaty, or under water. Was he drowning?

He needed to get out of wherever he was. And however put him there, was going to pay dearly for their insolence. He struggled with his arms and clawed when he felt whatever was constraining him.

In his desperation he felt his nails tear through. It was warm, thick, and moist. He pressed his head through the hole and felt his head become coated in a sticky substance with a tinny taste.

Blood.

It was as if his heart stopped beating.

He was covered in blood. His sight was tinted with red.

Naevius wiped his face with his hand to clear his vision. And he found himself staring at the face of Ezekiel. Blood spilled out of his eyes like tears. Shuddering, Naevius pulled himself out of Ezekiel, but found a shooting pain through his stomach.

Naevius had the same wound as Ezekiel, as if he had clawed his way out of himself. The pain continued as if he was still trapped inside, tearing at the skin to escape.

He clutched his stomach and groaned, trying not to look at Ezekiel. He felt a weight on his back, as if someone sat there. He had a hard time standing straight and proper. He hunched over, trying to stop the pain and the blood.

He knew he and Ezekiel were connected somehow. Whatever Ezekiel pain felt, he felt too. And sometimes he loathed Ezekiel, especially when Ezekiel forced himself onto him. But Naevius didn’t want to see him hurt either, and not just because he didn’t want himself to be hurt. He had grown attached to his servant, to the fact that Ezekiel was the only one who got things done, and to the rough sex that made their mutual pain interesting and complex. He didn’t want to see Ezekiel with his stomach torn open. It couldn’t be real.

Naevius felt a heavy hand on his chest. It was Ezekiel’s hand, pulling him closer. Naevius struggled, he didn’t want to get closer. He wanted to get far away from Ezekiel’s death, his own death, but Ezekiel was pulling him, forever closer.

Their lips touched, Ezekiel’s tongue pushing between Naevius’ lips. But Naevius felt something else. A new pain, sharper, somewhere lower, in his kidney.

Naevius tried to pull away, but Ezekiel kept him close.

He saw a knife in Ezekiel’s bloody hand. The bastard had stabbed him.

Naevius struggled more, desperate to fight out of all the pressure on him. The weight on his back, Ezekiel’s hand on his chest, the pain in his stomach, in his side. He felt like he was drowning again, back inside of Ezekiel.

He continued fighting, clawing and twisting his way out. Squeezing his eyes shut to block out the pain and the sight of Ezekiel’s demise. Their mutual demise.

Everything became whiter and thinner. Something was enveloping him. A new skin, Ezekiel’s skin. He had to get out. He tore through the skin like fabric.

But it was fabric.

He was in bed, sweaty, and frustrated.

And he had torn apart the sheets.








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