Tim counted each step, gritty and cold under his hands, as he crawled up them. Hands and knees, up three flights. 12 steps each. Two sets per flight. 72 steps. His brain was screaming for oxygen that he could not provide it, between the coughing fits and overexertion. By the time he reached the third floor, Tim was considering laying face down on the cool concrete floor and sleeping until a member of the maintenance crew found him and kicked him out. Or took him to a hospital. Something. But the idea of stopping at the top of the stairs all but fled Tim's mind when he looked up, watery eyes finding the metal folding chair positioned under a bright, tall window. Standing, Tim approached it warily, irrationally frightened that if he were to touch it or look away, the chair would disappear altogether. Leaning on the railing, Tim stretched his right arm out to rest on the windowsill, continuing to keep as far away from the chair as he could. He tried not to think about how the only other sign that Jay had been here was the smear of blood in the basement of the building across the street. Coughing once more, Tim lurched away, stumbling into the hall.
Relying heavily on the walls to steady himself, Tim was painfully aware of how vulnerable his position was. The sound of his coughing was amplified here, echoing off the walls and almost certainly alerting anyone in the building of his presence. Spinning around to check that no one was following him, Tim ducked into the first room on his left. It was empty, aside from a few tables and empty blackboards. The room was spinning now, and having made his way to the center of it, Tim had nothing to support his weight with. Coughing, Tim fell forwards, his palms slapping against the concrete. On his hands and knees, Tim waited for the attack to stop. Hauling himself up with the aid of a table, Tim made his way back into the hall, sticking to the wall and trying to regain control of his breathing.
Something moved at the end of the hallway. "Jay?" Tim called, before he could stop himself. But it was possible, wasn't it? Couldn't Jay still be here, injured, but alive? The idea made Tim leave the wall, moving as quickly as he could towards the sound. "Jay?" he called again. A figure appeared around the corner, silhouetted by the daylight streaming in from the row of windows. Tim stopped, coughing once again, and dropping to his knees. The figure approached and it was made clear to Tim that it was not Jay. "No." he squeezed out amongst coughs and gasps for air. The hooded man approached him, stopping just feet away, looming and still silhouetted ominously. He was as silent as ever. The rattle of a pill bottle, shaken enticingly, made Tim look up. He needed them. They both knew that. Lunging for the bottle, from his position on the ground, the hooded man pulled the pills out of Tim's reach effortlessly. The movement made Tim cough violently, only seeming to emphasis his need for what the hooded man was now pocketing. The hard clatter of plastic against concrete made Tim look up once again. The mask, his mask, lay in front of him. Tim attempted to sweep it away. The hooded man stopped it with the side of his foot, casually sliding the mask back. "No." Tim whispered, looking first at the mask, before looking up at the hooded man. "No," he repeated, "I can't." A coughing fit prevented him from arguing his point further. Gasping, Tim was vaguely aware of the pain in his left shoulder, signaling that he had fallen in that direction. His own coughing sounded far off, distorted by the ringing in his ears. The hooded man kneeled down in front of him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. He blocked out the light of the windows. With his other gloved hand, the hooded man retrieved the mask. As if in slow motion, Tim watched as the other brought the mask to his face. Tim attempted to defend himself, his hands missing their target altogether and falling numbly to his sides. He was unable to breathe. The hooded man placed the mask over Tim's face, lifting his head gently to secure the string that held the mask in place. With darkening vision, Tim watched through what limited sight the mask provided as the hooded man stood back up, stepping over Tim and leaving his field of vision. The last thing Tim saw before losing consciousness altogether was the silhouette of an abnormally tall figure against the three tall, bright windows at the end of the hall.
This was easier. That was the thought that floated through Tim's mind, every so often, when he was conscious and in control enough to have his own thoughts. This was infinitely easier than fighting. This way, he wasn't responsible for any of his actions. He no longer had to worry about protecting his friends or himself, about taking his pills or finding something that resembled a meal at the closest gas station. The little things no longer mattered. He was simply existing. And that, Tim thought, was easier.
Waking up was unpleasant, like being pulled from a warm bath. But it happened, every once in awhile, when there was no task for Tim to accomplish. He had woken up a hundred yards from an interstate, in abandoned buildings full of pigeons that had startled when he had moved. He had woken in pools of his own blood, and pools of blood whose origins Tim did not like to think of. The only constant factor in waking up was the mask, almost forgotten about, had it not been for the stuffy feeling caused by poor ventilation and his own breath. It wasn't made to be worn for long periods of time.
It wasn't the first time Tim had woken up to find blood on his hands, caked in his hair and causing it to stick up in places where it had dried. It wasn't the first time it hadn't been his own. Smoothing it down as best as he could, thankful that he had dark hair, Tim walked until he reached a motel. Upon checking his pockets, Tim found a collection of coins and bills, adding up to around seventy dollars. Enough for a night. Tim never questioned where the money came from. Sometimes he found cash in his pockets. Other times IDs of people who had did not know, aside from seeing their faces on missing persons bulletin boards. Tim tried not to think about why he had them as he disposed of them in the woods, in places no one would think to look. Tim tried not to think whose money he was using to get a room for the night, so he could wash the blood from his hair. Tim tried not to think as he pulled his sleeves over his palms, so the desk manager wouldn't see the blood there too.
He tried to run once. Only once. He had thrown the mask over the side of a bridge, watched it plummet into the dirty water below and begin to float downstream before he had crumpled to the ground. Knees hitting pavement and hands flying to the sides of his head, as if it would stop it from splitting open, as it felt like it was. It stopped suddenly, and Tim allowed himself to open his eyes, finding himself in his own living room. He hadn't been back here in months. Turning around, Tim stopped short, eyes finding the slumped figure leaning against his living room wall. Jay. He couldn't move, because he was paralyzed in horror or being held there, Tim was unsure. "Tim." a voice said, distorted and gurgling. It took Tim a minute to realize it was Jay speaking, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes fixed, staring without seeing, on Tim. He could not look away. "Tim," the body repeated, because Tim was aware that this was what it had to be, "why did you do this?" Tim swallowed back panic, wanting so badly to step back and leave the house. "I didn't Jay. I didn't, I promi-" The corpse cut him off, "Why did you shoot me?" it asked, sounding so very small and tired. That was Jay's voice. Quite suddenly, the living room disappeared, replaced instead with a cluttered, abandoned hall that took Tim a moment to place. The basement of Benedict Hall. Tim found himself moving without his consent, watching himself round a corner to find Jay with his back turned to him. Jay turned around, looking surprised. "Tim?" he questioned, camera in one hand, recording everything, flashlight in the other. Tim watched himself raise the gun, mirroring Alex. "Tim?" Jay asked again, still not running. He wasn't running. The retort of a gun, and Tim found himself stepping back slightly. Jay did not stumble backwards. Instead, he screamed.
Tim slammed into the asphalt of a parking lot, as if he had been dropped from several feet. It was night, although it had just been day. Sprawled several feet in front of him, spread eagle and pale, was Jay. Dead, yet still bleeding. Tim attempted to stand up, move towards him, but the spreading pool of blood was moving towards him at an alarming rate. Stumbling backwards to avoid it, Tim tripped over something warm and solid. Brian. Eyes glazed and a neat trickle of blood streaming from his nose. Scrambling away, Tim found himself surrounded by bodies. Jay, Brian, Sarah, his mother and father, even his sister. There were more, still, spread out in various ways, all of them illuminated and still bleeding in the empty parking lot. Tim couldn't run from them fast enough.
Tim awoke in a small, single bed hotel. He had no recollection of checking in. The mask sat on the nightstand, returned as if he had had it all along. His head still throbbed dully. He wouldn't try it again. The blood still on his shoes made him sure of that.