Some days, Mitchell just shuts down.
George is never quite sure what causes it, and there's never a pattern to when it happens. The only warning that they ever get is the smell of candles burning in the morning, before they are greeted with the sight of him sitting stock still on the ground.
His face is one of pure concentration, and once or twice George has seen red rimmed eyes, the tears long scrubbed away. He always lights a candle on those days, just one, and he'll take just about anything that burns. A tea-light, candlestick, burning stub of newspaper propped up in a vase. George just knows that there has to be a flame.
Annie made the mistake once of trying to talk to Mitchell, leaning down and putting a gentle hand on his shoulder despite all of George's warnings. Mitchell had flinched violently, eyes so fearful and lost after being jerked from whatever he was remembering, and his voice had risen quickly, a foreign language falling from his lips. When this had happened, George had dragged a terrified Annie out the door, and the two of them had sat on the porch step until she stopped shaking.
George calls in sick to work for both of them on days like this.
"I don't understand why he goes like this sometimes?"
He looks up, over to where she is nursing a hot mug of tea, and shrugs, "It just happens. And then he goes back to normal again." They're sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the part of Mitchell's leg that is visible from their position.
"But why?"
"Mitchell was in a war, Annie. He was a soldier—seeing men fall and die in front of his eyes. He died in that war. And—there are a lot of things that happened in between then and now, stuff that he doesn't talk about. He's—Mitchell is different from us. He just needs to deal with things sometimes."
It's hard to explain to someone else, someone who hasn't yet seen Mitchell at his lowest, and eventually George stops trying. He runs a hand over his face, and sighs, wondering how long it'll take for Mitchell to come back to them. Because he always comes back, and surely it won't be long until there's a smile on his face again.
Sometimes, Mitchell prays.
He stays on his knees for hours at a time, muttering prayers and pleading in languages that George hasn't a hope of translating. When Mitchell is back to normal, he never mentions religion or faith. It's not surprising really, because what would he say?
Once though, Mitchell admitted that he nearly died trying to enter a church. He'd said that it had felt like his body was being ripped apart, the second that he tried to step foot inside, and that Herrick had dragged him out before he could push it further. That was all that he had said though, before shrugging on a jacket and heading to the pub. When he had returned later that night, Mitchell's breath had stunk of alcohol, and George had never brought up religion as a topic again.
George doesn't ask questions, or try to fix whatever it is that's broken inside of his friend.
He just makes sure that Mitchell is safe from others when he has one of those days, and he keeps Annie's worries at bay. George tries to keep his own fears from rising up and swallowing him too, when his best friend isn't there to tell him that he's not a monster.
.
Some days, Mitchell remembers.
It haunts him when he's sleeping, reaches into his dreams and drags him out with a gasp and fear that crawls down his spine. And every time it happens, every bloody time, he ends up on the ground in the sitting room staring into a candle flame.
He's not aware of George finding him when the morning light breaks, or of Annie hovering just out of sight.
Mitchell hears the screams of dying men, and sees the blood splashed across the mud. He looks down to see crimson painting his hands and dripping down onto the wood, wood that should have been dirt on the forest ground. The gravestones surround him, the ones both with names scrawled into them, and the ones that will never have names.
There's always one with his name on it though, John Mitchell printed neatly along with all the other good men that never came home—the good men that he had abandoned in the middle of hell, the good men that he had always hoped to be included amongst.
It's just one big lie though.
He thinks of all the other names then, their blood flowing through him, and his whole body feels like it's on fire. Mitchell thinks that he might welcome the agony though, just because it means that he's feeling something properly for the first time in a long time.
Then his head pounds with the beat of a thousand pulses, and he fantasizes about litres of blood flowing down his throat, like the sweetest beverage ever created. Mitchel clenches his fists, and the candle flame is almost like the funeral pyre that he's imagined climbing onto a million times before.
It always slows to a painful hum though, when he realises that he's sitting with that military stillness, hearing dozens of humans living their lives outside the walls.
The cycle continues for hours, but he never moves, never gives into that part of him that wants to rampage the city—the slice of his soul that wants to fall down in front of all the war memorials and beg for forgiveness from men that have long since died.
Mitchell's pretty sure that in moments like these, he wouldn't recognise the man in his reflection.
If he still had a reflection. But after hours of standing in front of cracked bathroom mirrors, or staring into foggy shop windows, it's hard to forget what he is. He thinks of the time that Annie snapped a picture of him, and how George had apologised for him after he had finished smashing the camera.
The last photo that he saw of himself had been hanging in his grandmother's cottage, down a winding boreen, that he had once called home.
His mind screams and thrashes and aches for humanity and death, but for blood and murder at the same time. But he just sits there, motionless, and wonders if one day he'll fall apart and never be able to put himself back together.
He always picks himself off the floor when it dulls to an aching throb.
George is always slumped somewhere, waiting, and the relief that seems to flood through his friend almost puts a smile on Mitchell's face. Annie is always surrounded by dozens of tea filled mugs, and she always wanted to bury him in an embrace.
He lets her, and hates himself for the way his skin crawls at the contact.
.
Some days, Mitchell relives everything.
It always makes Annie want to cry, when she and George come across him, and immediately know that it's going to be one of those days.
Mitchell situates himself in the sitting room, and George gets a weary look in his eyes that shows how many times he's done this before. He accepts all the coffee and tea she makes, not even glancing at all the washing up, and tilts his head back with a sigh.
She folds herself up into one of the chairs, and wonders what Mitchell is thinking of. When she dares to peek into the room, his face is stiff and pale, like he's being tortured and physically hurt, and the candle flame is the only thing that he looks at. He looks so pathetic and broken, that she feels like she needs to comfort him—but they both know how well that went the first time.
George retreats into himself on days like these too, just sits there and answers the questions that she can't hold in any longer with a sad note in his voice.
Once, she thought that she heard Owen's voice, echoing around the house. His sharp yells cut into her like a knife, and the stifled gasp that she let out had only made George give her a sympathetic look. Annie tries to pretend that her hands don't tremble when the echo of violence and abuse rumbles in her memory, and tucks her head down against her body as if she can shield herself from her thoughts, from the reminders of her former fiancée that won't leave.
They're damaged in this house, she thinks on days like these, all shattered beyond repair and scarred with the loss of their humanity.
.
Some days are always worse than others.
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My first Being Human piece… How did I do? Any comments or feedback would be really appreciated, and loved.
Thanks for reading,
ArmedWithMyComputer xx