Anchor
He was free-falling; his limbs weren't his own, the blood in his veins not from his heart, nothing was his. Not anymore. His skin, pale, white—cold enough to burn—he looked foreign to himself. He was free; the reflection in the mirror wasn't him. He wasn't this frozen, this distant, this far gone. He couldn't be. He couldn't be. He had to stay grounded. Had to stay here.
The circles he saw under his eyes, the only thing to bring colour to his blank face, they were the only things keeping him here. Here.
He was here.
A shock surged down his spine and spread fire through his nerves. His heart pounded, drumming into his skull, drowning out his panicked breaths. He turned and turned, clammy hands grasping onto a near counter for support as the room around him stretched and coiled.
Then it snapped back. Back to how it should be.
Nostrils flaring, his eyes darted around the room, knees knocking and arms trembling as he looked around the room. He shot back, twisting his upper body at a painful angle to look in the mirror. He was free-falling; his eyes weren't his, the reflection too far gone, too far gone.
It wasn't him. Couldn't be him. He was better. Stronger. He was here. Had to be. Had to be here.
He couldn't be him. Couldn't be there.
Past the drumming of his heart, there was static. The low hum, the soft crinkling, the stuttering and distortion from the tv in his room. He watched himself in the mirror, only turning his head when he rounded the corner down the hall. His limbs weren't his own. Robotic. Numb. Cold. His fingers clasped the doorway, wood digging into the palm of his hands as he pushed himself into the room, sliding across the floor until he stood in front of the tv.
The static hummed, grains of black and white fluttering across the screen. The static hummed. The static fluttered. There was humming. Humming past the static, an image past the flutter. A smile. He saw a smile. His friend... His enemy.
A smile, and then it was back to him. The static was gone, the humming was gone. He stood, staring, watching his reflection in the dark screen. He stared back. That wasn't him. He wasn't there. He had to be here. For them. Here for them. He wasn't there.
A jolt shot up from his feet and he jumped, whipping around and knocking into the tv as he backed into the dresser. His eyes were wide, heart thumping, blood electrifying as his phone buzzed on the table. Tears silently found their way to his face. They knocked, they phoned, they yelled to the windows, but he couldn't reply. He hid, he ignored, he cried. This wasn't him. This wasn't him. He wasn't here.
He had to be here.
He watched the phone buzz, bouncing on the table as he maneuvered around to the door, cold fingers digging into the doorframe. The object rang and vibrated. He watched, lip quivering. The light died down, the buzzing stopped. He let out a sigh and smiled. His lips still trembled, the tears still fell.
They would try again.
A hand clasped to his mouth, he trudged down the hallway, hesitating down the stairs to the living room. Empty. Nothing. Nobody but him was at the bottom. He carried himself to the couch, falling onto it harshly, watching as the reflection on the tv watched him back.
A smile.
His heart pounded again and he rolled onto his back. A smile past the static. Humming past the flutter. The ceiling was nothing, held nothing, had nothing. This house had nothing but him. It needed more than him. It needed her and it needed him. They weren't here. She might never return here.
She needed him there to stay here.
Fire antagonized his skin and he rolled off the couch, clambering to his feet as he rushed to put on his shoes. He threw the door open, frosted fog enveloping him as he ran. His knees knocked, his arms trembled, his breaths quaked. Ice touched his skin, burned his eyes. Tears fell down his face. He kept going, going, going.
He was free-falling.
Still open. The doors were still open, but it was quiet. He entered, jumping as the door slammed behind him. Nothing moved until his legs started. He gripped onto his arms, shivering, teeth chattering in his skull. His limbs weren't his own. Sluggish. Lagging.
He was cold.
The tv seemed bigger. Wider. He stared at the screen, watching as he watched himself. He was here. He had to be there. There for here. His trembling fingers unraveled from his sleeveless arms, gripping onto the edges of the tv before he jumped in.
The electricity pulsed and grazed, warm and welcoming. The black and white, the blues and yellows, they danced and swirled and twirled around. Embracing, enduring, enticing. He was here.
He landed in a roll, body stiff and defying. He lay there on the floor, breaths laboured, heart racing, hands trying to push himself up. He had to move. For her. For him. For them.
He blinked in confusion. He was almost there. When had he gotten up? He didn't remember pushing. He didn't remember moving. He looked to his hands. His skin was cold, pale. He was porcelain.
Humming.
His head perked up. The door was there. He could see inside. There was no static past the humming, no flutter past the image. His legs dragged, nails digging into the wood of the frame as he peered inside. Hot sweat fell down his brow.
His friend.
His enemy.
Sat there on the bed, lazily tapping a gun to the heel of his shoe, chin in the palm of his hand as he looked out a window. Humming. Smile.
"Took you long enough," he yawned, cracking his neck as he hopped to his feet. "I've been waiting for you."
The smile was gone, the hum was gone—sneer and a growl in their places. His limbs weren't his own. Dead weight. He could only squeal as he was dragged into the room by his collar, thrust into the chair underneath the noose.
His eyes were wide as the other towered over him. He could see himself in the dark reflection of his friend's gaze. His enemy.
That was him.
"I'm here."