Title: Trench Warfare
Fandom: Being Human
Spoilers: General for series 4
Warnings: Industrial grade angst; disturbing imagery.
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.
Summary: Hal takes his tea black, with a splash of water.
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I flee. To my sanctuary, my prison. Doors, barriers, barricades. Glass and wood; control that itches beneath my skin. It's too much. Too much: shouting; laughter; braying voices. Living heat and salt-slick skin. Thumping hearts and trembling, fragile veins. It seeps through my pores; I breathe it in. It lodges inside and consumes me like a cancer. I want to scour myself clean, peel myself down to naked muscle, sinew, bone. To bleach those bones, whiter than snow. Stifle my darker self as it claws its way out of the womb of my subconscious.
My lungs heave – pause – and shape a moment of calm from unneeded air.
But I can feel them. I can feel them, the unseen, accumulated mass of them. Street after street, stretching out around me in all directions. Pressing in on me with their futile, petty lives. Working, eating, sleeping, fornicating. Reproducing. Over and over, and it never stops.
I boil the water. I tap out the seconds on my fingers: one, two, three, four … but I'm stretched flaying-taut, and it's too much, I can't do it, I can't wait.
I wait. The tea steeps, good and dark.
I drink, but the taste is dead on my tongue.
I drink, and when I've finished I wash the mug.