He flipped the knife in his fingers, watching the light reflect off the different surfaces. The angled blade flashed in the fluorescent light each time it completed a cycle. Nathan Harris flickered in his mind; the boy sprawled on the motel bed and slowly bleeding out. A stopped the blade in his fingers, holding it up vertically. He turned it slightly, letting it flash again. The tiny thing could cut wood. The damage it could do to a person. Does do.
He flipped the knife again, watching it go through its mesmerizing cycle. If he miss-stepped, moved his finger the wrong way, it could fall. The image formed in his mind, the blade falling from his fingers and twisting through the air. Brushing against his leg, cutting and changing its course. It would clatter on the floor, not even scoring the linoleum.
A sting brought him out of the illusion. The blade had bit into the side of his thumb and he watched as a faint red line formed on the inner knuckle. Cooking, his mind immediately told him. That's what he would tell the others. Accidentally dropped the knife.
He leaned back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling. His mind drew images on the blank surface, mirroring the stills he saw frequently at work. Bodies, posed and non, all formed on his ceiling. Blank eyes stared at him from faces filled with varying degrees of shock, pain, and fear. He swallowed thickly, gripping he handle of the blade tightly in his palm. The thin arm seemed to fade from his sense of touch, disappearing from his grasp. He twisted his wrist and gasped.
The ceiling was blank again, free of the dead. Slowly, he looked down, pulled his arm up and away from his leg. Another line of red had formed though it was darker and longer than the previous one. A bead formed and fell, creating a trail down the side of his leg. Another glimmer of red caught his eye and he looked to the blade. Nearly half of it was covered.
He licked his lips and drew a shuddering breath. There was a dull throbbing coming from his leg where the blood slowly pooled, trying to scab. He wiped the gathering away with his thumb and without thinking, licked it off. He closed his eyes as the metallic tang filled his mouth and he let his hand fall back to his side. His lips curved slightly as he felt another drop of blood slide down his leg.
He lightly ran the edge of the blade across his thigh, relishing in the shivers the motion sent up his spine. He then bit his lip and brought the blade up to his face. He stared at it with mixed confusion. Such a small thing could cause a lot of damage. Nathan flashed through his mind once more and his eyes widened. Numbers and statistics began to rush through his mind, drawing the inevitable conclusion. Death.
With a cry, he dropped the blade and slid to the floor, pressing his face into his knees. His hands went up to his head, gripping his hair. He shuddered at the thought of himself in Nathan's place. But he'd be alone, no one to call 911 for him. He wouldn't be found until it was too late.
Then he remembered his cell phone. He looked up to the counter where he'd placed it before discarding his clothes. It sat innocently next to the sink. He didn't even stand as he moved himself over and grabbed the device. Before he knew it, the phone was flipped open and speed dial 2 was already ringing.
Shakily, he pressed the phone against his ear, the next ring didn't even finish when the other end picked up. The business tone that answered made him close his eyes and lean his head against the cupboard door. There was a pause before his heard his name, the tone questioning. He breathed in, preparing to answer. Then he breathed out and his voice failed him. His name was repeated, the tone growing more curious. A sound escaped him as he curled on himself. A different emotion was heard in the voice.
"Aaron," the name came out broken, the second half only a whisper. There was silence from the other end. "Can you…" he trailed off, unable to finish. Can you come?
"I'm coming over," he bit his lip and gripped his phone tighter. There was a request to stay on the line and he let out a strangled acceptance. Then there were questions. What's wrong? What happened? Is there anyone there? I can't... I can't... no. He tried to relay his thought but his voice wasn't working. The only thing released was a barely audible "no". He shivered as he listened to a slam in the background. Don't move, was the order and he heard a car start. No, he wouldn't be moving.
He suddenly became aware of the blade that was behind him. His other hand came up to grip the cupboard door for physical support. Images of himself came unbidden to his mind, his eyes all but dead to the world. Sudden anger would blindside the others then concern would fill them as he stormed away. Scenarios would be drawn up as they tossed them at each other until they came to a mutual understanding. He was relapsing. He would constantly recoil from them, distance himself and refuse to take their aid, only working to confirm their incorrect thoughts. He would grow more and more unconcerned about his own well being, quickly becoming reckless while in the field.
He jerked as his lip tore and the taste of blood filled his mouth again. Aaron was calling his name, trying to gain his attention. He shivered and swallowed, muttering a soft apology. He was cold and stiff and he didn't want to turn and see the blade. "Where...?"
"I'm just turning in," was the quick reply, "is your door locked?" He hummed as he let go of the cupboard and wrapped his arm around his middle. He curled up on the floor and a twinge in his leg reminded him of the cut. His free hand twisted and brushed against it, making him grimace. Then there was a worried question from Aaron and he slowly blinked at his bathroom tile. He heard noise in his apartment that was echoed through the phone. He shivered again and dropped the phone away from his ear.
The bathroom door opened, shoving his clothes out of the way and Aaron was next to him. His phone was almost dropped to the floor as he dropped to his knees. His hands were warm as they pressed on his arm, brushed away his hair. His name was sighed when the cut was found, the blade shortly after. He only closed his eyes, leaning into the hand in his hair. Aaron pulled him into his arms and he reached up, gripping the back of his shirt. They stayed like that for a while, Aaron whispering comfort as he pressed his face into his shoulder.
Another apology was whispered and Aaron shook his head. "You called," he said, "that's all that matters." He held on tighter in response.
"Thank you."