MALCOLM PACE
"CRYBABY, CRYBABY, WE NEED TO CRY. AND IF WE DO, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT."
- the neighborhood / cry baby
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IT WAS THE END OF THE WORLD.
Malcolm was not stupid, nor was he very 'pessimistic' (a lie), but to put it bluntly, he was put in a very mired situation. The basement had a trapdoor that had a heavy, steel lock that did almost nothing to extinguish everyone's worries, and the screams that erupted from above did nothing to heed their worries.
Already, he was writing his obituary — but, then again, so was many others much earlier. He felt helpless and empty, devoid of hope and already unfamiliar with happiness. Every smile was dry and fake, and did the opposite to reassure the others.
There was thirteen of them in the basement. Used to be sixteen but one of them tried to escape the basement from the window and instead died, with their blood splattered on the cracked open window and the cold, hard floors. Two of them committed suicide, a joint suicide in one of the two bathrooms by shooting each other in the heads.
He could still remember the gore and ripped skin that stained the bathtub and the sink. Washing over the tiles, coarse fluids, metallic iron scent clinging to the air. A few minutes after Sherman discovered the double suicide caused by Nico Di Angelo and Will Solace, him and Ellis locked the door and boarded it shut.
With that in mind, Malcolm felt his throat clog. He knew fully well how many of them were affected by insomnia, and the nightmares that'd plague them once their eyelids went shut. He was familiar with all too many of them, also, and once the day it happened.
AKA the day he realized how his days could be numbered. Sometimes he had nightmares that involved the others and encouraged them all to do something to keep them busy until they leave or can escape. Until the tension disappears and so do the screeches, they can unlock the padlock and bring the trapdoor open, letting them finally smell fresh air.
Malcolm would kill to not be inhaling the same air every night and day, blood tainting it. At the moment, he brought the blanket above his nose, struggling to inhale fresh air. Instead, he was met with an empty and desolate darkness that suffocated him.
The other sleeping mattresses were around the room, full of half-asleep teenagers and almost-adults. He notice a soft, dim light in the corner of the large den, with two people leaning against each other as they slept, the light flickering repeatedly. Looking at his watch, he discovered it was almost four in the morning.
Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he tried to sleep once more restlessly, but behind his eyelids was a picture of terror, framed with blood and loss. Finally, giving up and losing himself to something other than sleep, he turned and got up, stretching.
Witching Hour, more like Dying Hour. At night the silence penetrated every corner of everything, killing laughter or joy, a villain of a black hole that sucked in everything lighter than itself. Blinking back tears of hopelessness, he choked back a sob, clutching his mouth tightly.
Don't. Don't do it, Pace.
He couldn't breathe. No, he could. He could still breathe, the irony of a dead boy walking — who somehow would never do what he was going to achieve in life, never finished what he had started, a master planner with his plans foiled.
His life was shattered. Was, as in once they struggled to survive and rampaged their way here, sixteen people on foot and weak hopes, struggling to remain strong for others, leaning on each other. Broken bodies and broken minds, putting in glass shards in other broken mirrors, hoping the clumsy way of fixing would fix all.
Oh, how stupid they were.
(Correction: okay, fine, Malcolm may've been pessimistic but who wouldn't be because of this? This…this travesty of a life now…)
He felt stupid, actually. Very, incredibly stupid. Dimwitted. Fatuous. Asinine. Pointless. With no meaning and no definition, hollowed out. Hesitantly rubbing his eyes, he awkwardly walked through the darkness, one hand against the wall at all time.
Breathe in, breathe out.
His hand made contact with slippery liquid that he recognized as blood even though he couldn't properly see it. Which made him sick; funny enough, it made him want to cry, let it out, throw up. Like this was the barrier and the limit to life.
Bringing his hand to his mouth as he struggled to not sob, he felt tears prickle his eyes as memories and nightmares flashed in his mind: sister dying, puling on his leg as her blonde hair was in patches on her scalp as pupils turned an acidic green; blood gushing out and falling down on top of him, saturated plasma that coated his hair and skin, realizing it was his mom's; screaming and running, falling on top of dead bodies that were rotting and decomposing; someone gripping to his arm and throwing him inside a room, talking about how they were going to 'rape' him to cleanse themselves.
Shoot shoot shoot shoot—
Swallowing and wiping his eyes, he felt blood stain his eyelids and his stomach lurched with disgust. Continuing to walk, he saw a light — an almost blinding phone light that caused him to blink rapidly. Someone was sitting close by, too far away to be seen from the mattresses with the door barely cracked open.
Opening the closet door cautiously some more, he realized someone was sitting in the corner, crying quietly while scrolling through stuff on their phone. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness he realized who was sitting there in the corner crying.
Drew Tanaka. The most pessimistic, interesting, closed-up, beautiful girl he've ever met. It was extremely annoying how infatuated with her even though they argued — which he guilty liked, because there was rarely anyone who was willing to listen to him and not just go okay or whatever.
Her dark, glossy hair was now frizzy and cut short, in a ponytail, with loose strands falling in front of her face. With large, colorful eyes with eyelashes that'd would brush her skin is the most aesthetic of ways caused his neck to redden, why was he fantasizing about her eyes? But it was true. Normally they would be defiant with dark shadows beneath them that'd dim her.
Wearing a large, lump jacket that overshadowed her thin frame, she was slumping against the wall, sobbing quietly, it caused a little of him shatter.
Her? Seriously? She was pessimistic, but she shattered in the most possibly dramatic way possible, with anger and a bright flaming light like she wouldn't let herself wilt in public. And now, now she was here in her weakest moment.
Malcolm suddenly felt like an intruder.
"S-sorry," he hastily apologized. "Uh, are you okay…?"
Looking up at him as if to say how dare you? the glower demised almost immediately to replace a hopeless look. "No, P-e-ace-ing. I'm going to fucking die, do I look as if I'm going to be okay?" she hissed sharply at him, causing him to jerk back. Noticing, she sheepishly added, "Sorry. I'm such…I'm just a freaking jerk. Totally gonna die first. I mean, we're never going to leave, are we?"
"Why are you closing the door? You might suffocate?" he blurted out, unaware of how to answer that.
She smiled darkly at him, "Oh, sweet Malcolm. We're suffocating. In our own air and blood, we're going to die, choking on our own air, we're going to die." She wiped her bloodshot eyes. "I mean, we're already going to die, aren't we?"
"Well, we were going to die anyways, truthfully speaking," he reminded her, sitting down cautiously against the wall, wiping his hand against his already blood soaked pants. Her face was lit by the light of the screen and she seemed to be a devilish angel ready for her funeral.
"Truthfully speaking, I don't think I'd want to die here. I mean, who would? Those screams and blood…" she shuddered and he felt her hand grip tightly to his wrist, loosening slightly, rubbing his arm comfortingly. "I mean, at least I'm going down quietly."
"Quietly?"
"Well, Malc-ulus," she informed him, "lots of people are dying…dead — and we're just sitting ducks. They're going to find us, and we're going to go down quietly, just another fog of blood in poisonous air."
"And if they don't?" he croaked, rubbing her own arm himself, wishing he was closer and felt less alone — desperate. "If we do survive?"
"You don't believe yourself, do you?"
"Yeah, maybe I'm too weak too face the truth." He grinned weakly at her.
"No," she corrected, shifting closer to him so he could see her eyes closer, the ever changing colors of her pupils a rainbow. "You're too strong to admit what other people say is the inevitable."
Their knees bumped.
Her face was more than several inches away of his and he swallowed. "No. I think pessimism is like facing the fire, the roar of a dragon. And you're burning. You're burning, burning from the flames of the dragon because you faced it too long."
"Well," she mumbled, "I've always been pessimistic if that's what you're telling me. I never told anyone but it'd be good to open up, yeah? Why I've been negative, angry…closed-up, you could say. My therapist…she told me."
"Therapist?" he inquired curiously.
"When I was fourteen, my…my step-dad assaulted me…he never got arrested because no one believed me. Why should they? He was powerful…had money…I didn't. So I ran away to my birth-mom and I…I got a therapist, physiologist, help you could call it.
"But people knew, Malcolm. They knew something wasn't quite right about the Asian model who never got drunk nor had drugs. They called her a slut because she accepted those lies, another layer…a cover-up…a lie that she accepted.
"I don't think they liked that I was a jerk, but I mean, who wouldn't be?"
"You were brave…braver than I would've been," he said softly and slowly, rubbing her wrist, hoping he didn't seem too awkward. "I don't think people are very smart, though. They're too wrapped up in their own problems to realize others."
"That's the thing about bravery. You put it up and use it to the point where you're faking your courage. And that's…that's what kill and ruin people." She leaned in, her nose now centimeters away from him and he swallowed his anxiety.
"My turn? Okay. Before this, I was confident. I was awkward, you could call me, and was pressured by my mom because I was…a genius. A prodigy, yeah? Except with my large IQ…I had problems…I suffered depression, anxiety…I hated crowds and lots of people." He bit the inside of his cheek nervously.
She cracked an apologetic smile. "Really? I thought of you the type who'd be a genius with lots of girls, to be honest. A bit rude, huh?"
"Actually," he notified her hesitantly, "I only had one girlfriend in my life. And that was the only girl in third grade who gave me a cupcake when it was my birthday — no glucose, goat no fat 1% milk, a chocolate brick — and told me that I was her crush. She moved to North Carolina, though, later on because her parents didn't like the kids in our elementary school — especially since after a guy named Leo Valdez set fire — aka an arsonist — to the gym."
"You remember it so precisely, huh?"
"Yeah, a perk and a curse, I guess," he mumbled, blood rushing to his face as she leaned in closer, and he swallowed again. "I mean, I'm good at lots of things but honestly, I never been kissed…?"
"Wow," she breathed, raising her hand up to cup his cheek, her hand tingling his skin. "Too think the cutest people could get cuter, huh? I'll tell you a secret, too?"
"Sure."
"I'm scared. This whole thing is scaring the living shit out of me. And nearly everyone thinks I'm a bitch…honestly, I just want to die sometimes…I sound stupid, I mean, that's what people've been telling me all time, y'know?"
"Truthfully, I don't think you're very stupid; in fact, you're actually very smart. I mean you survived this long and not many people can say that — they're dead but I mean, still. Plus, I don't hate you; in fact, you're actually very likable in my book. Also, we're dealing with bitter people who are going to die — I mean, whoops, sorry, I just blurt out random products when I'm speaking so shun that out, please — so we just gotta suck that shit up because dying is inevitable and—"
Then she kissed up, bringing her hands down to the front of his shirt. His mind froze as he felt her lips pressed against his, her hands curling into a fist of his shirt as tingles of surprise and pleasure ran from his lips. A rush of euphoria ran throughout him as he brought his hands to her waist, holding her tighter.
His lips were parted mid-word and it felt slightly awkward, so their noses bumped and blood rushed to his cheeks even more. "Sorry," he mumbled through their lips but it couldn't stop him trying not to smile.
The kiss was full of desperation and a sort of need. An anchor to hold someone down, like some good things were there or reassurance. However, to him it didn't feel like they were using each other: for him, it was true and as awkward and messy the kiss was, he enjoyed it, the warmth of it.