lilbonsai: I'm glad to hear you liked the chapter. Rest assured, it would be hard for me to overwork myself, but I will take precautions not to.
Upon coming home, Alfred slept for the better part of five days. On the second day he ate a sandwich, drank some water, and wrote several articles. He submitted them and went back to sleep.
On the sixth day of being home, Alfred made cookies. He lost track of the number of ingredients he added (Did I add the third cup of flour? What about the baking soda?) and several other memory dysfunctions occurred, but in the end the cookies came out all right.
Kiku walked into the room and made himself soup, sat down.
"Do you want a cookie?" Alfred asked him.
Kiku accepted a cookie, but went to eating his soup. Alfred grabbed a plate and a cookie, began to eat.
He hadn't realized how starving he was until now. Alfred ate three cookies in total, devoured them rather quickly. It helped to know that this was shit compared to anything healthy, and that trash on an empty stomach would only make him feel sick. But instead of feeling sick, he just felt guilty; he still got the feeling that he'd eaten too much, and that there wouldn't be enough food for the next day. That was ridiculous, but he still felt horrible over it, and soon he found himself in his room again, surrounded by all his useless shit.
Alfred had not written anything regarding his own life for a relatively long time. A long time ago, writing had made it easier to deal with his problems. Writing had allowed him to look at things from another perspective, to detach from them and above all to have proof that the things in his life had actually happened. But that had only worked so long as he loved writing; Alfred could not imagine how writing was supposed to help if he could not get words on a page, or if what he was trying to write was too blatantly disgusting to match his writing style. The language Alfred would have had to use to write the repeated assault was language he vehemently refused to use.
So it went unwritten. Alfred's past writing didn't make him feel better either, so he took the file from his desk— which indeed held little except the incident with the cat and a few short reflections— and threw that in the trash. Looking at it now, Alfred had no idea how he had survived all the bad, but he felt now that it was only appropriate to die for it, or more accurately that he couldn't live the rest of his life with such a history. But Alfred didn't want to die; he just wished none of it had ever happened at all.
Alfred didn't want to die, so he got dressed and decided to do an Adult Thing, something that totally indicated he was an Adult and not a ruined child.
...
"Hey. I'm gonna go to a bar; do you wanna come with?" Alfred asked Kiku, who was still eating soup in the kitchen. Alfred still wasn't sure if they were friends or not, but it was worth a shot.
"Are you sure that's a good idea? You never drink."
"Well, there's a first time for everything!"
"Right. Um, Alfred. Are you okay?"
Are you okay? What a question. How was Alfred supposed to answer that?
You fuckwit. Your roommate isn't supposed to ask questions like that. Kiku shouldn't have to be concerned just because you decided you would rather sleep than deal with your own fucking life.
"Of course I'm okay, dude!" Alfred said.
Really, Alfred was ashamed. That's why he didn't want to write about what had happened; how could he write about something like that?
The repeated assaults obviously weren't Alfred's fault. But when he hadn't slept over these past few days, he could only think about whether or not he was to blame; he had never paused to entertain this thought before, but his waking moments had recently been consumed by it. What if it was his fault? How many people had been assaulted by someone physically stronger than them? How many people had been threatened with something legitimate? And then there was Alfred, who was rather ridiculously strong and had absolutely nothing to lose from saying 'no'.
The truth was that Alfred had always had the option of not getting assaulted, and he hadn't taken it. And he'd had such a long time to get away, and he hadn't gotten away for almost a year. So maybe it was his fault, and that was why he was ashamed. Right? Why would he be ashamed if it wasn't his fault?
"What do you want?" The bartender finally approached him.
Alfred almost jumped. "Oh, um— a beer, please."
"Any beer?"
"The cheapest."
"Fancy today, are we?" The bartender poured his drink and moved on. Alfred was glad not to be much trouble.
Alfred sat with his beer in his hand; it was cold and the glass fogged slightly from it. How thrillingly adult. Alfred had went to a lot of parties in college, but to buy one's own alcohol? What a sign of independence.
What was not as 'adult', though, was that Alfred knew he should probably order a sandwich or fries or anything to eat along with it. Food was enticing; Alfred craved much right now, namely anything that wasn't empty calories. But, Fuck safe drinking practices, and fuck me too, Alfred thought; he wanted to get absolutely smashed, and for the night to disappear, regardless of the morning's consequences. Alfred wanted it all to disappear, but he didn't believe in wishing for things that wouldn't come true.
...
Alfred eventually went home with a woman named Iryna.
Things were going fine and all. Intimacy wasn't designed for people like Alfred, but through the carefully worded 'shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the FUCK up', Alfred was able to push down the loathing he regularly felt for the body.
That, of course, was not enough. Things were only going fine until Iryna touched his shoulder, which promptly sparked a seemingly endless amount of pain. Alfred lurched away from her.
"Are you okay? Are you injured?"
"No. Just— just give me a second." This pain was really just tension, albeit agonizing tension. Alfred wondered what 'good' tension felt like, because surely a regular person would feel something 'good' rather than immensely painful right now. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was he like this?
This was the first time Iryna had actually gotten a good look at him, and she was now trying not to stare at the two scars down his forearms. Alfred didn't think they were very noticeable, but he saw them every day. It only made sense that other people would notice and be bothered, even if Alfred pretended they didn't exist.
"I don't hurt myself anymore," Alfred told her, even though these were suicidal rather than purely self harm.
"Right. Yeah. Um, have you ever hurt yourself before? Besides those?"
"Yeah."
"I-I don't think we should continue."
"Yeah. Okay," Alfred said.
"It's just— I don't think... I don't want you to hurt yourself, and I don't want to be complicit in it if you do."
"Yeah, I get that." The implication here was that Alfred was using sex to self harm, which didn't seem quite proper; however, Alfred couldn't distinguish between the two, because now sex seemed like the worst thing in the world and thank fuck he hadn't actually done anything with anyone tonight.
Alfred took a moment to look at himself, too. Not physically, of course— Alfred spent much of his time trying not to see any part of himself aside from maybe his hands and arms— but rather at everything that had led to this point. This really wasn't him at all. Alfred was repulsed by sex, mainly the sexual aspects of it. An activity done with the body, that focused mainly on physical pleasure, one that was so immensely vulnerable in nature. Why had he wanted to do this? Had he wanted to do this, really?
Of course part of this had to be about April, which was nothing short of incredibly embarrassing. It had been seven years; cells fully regenerated every seven years, right? There was no part of him that she had touched anymore; Alfred had thought he was over it and he wasn't, and he should have been over it by now, right? Other people had been through worse; whether or not he had been through worse was debatable, and anyway, it had been long enough.
"Do you want tea?"
"Please." Alfred didn't really want tea, but he didn't want to walk into the street nauseous, either.
Alfred couldn't look at Iryna now. The more Alfred thought about what had almost happened, the more revolted he became.
Again he thought of the sexual process (and of what had happened with April, though he didn't dare think of that in words), and then a couple moments later he was vomiting in Iryna's bathroom. During this, rather than being grateful, Alfred thought, Damn your career and Iryna, for forcing you to take a look at your own actions. And damn you, you sensitive-shouldered fuck.
The relatively little Alfred had vomited only served to be more disgusting; after all, that had been inside him. Alfred hated having a fucking body, and the thought of the contents of his stomach essentially being a part of him, however briefly, was more than enough to bring more nausea.
Alfred was saved by chamomile tea. He didn't like chamomile tea, but it was comforting and clean and that was enough, and he wasn't in front of a toilet anymore.
"I'm sorry. I really did forget those scars were there." Alfred had forgotten them, just for the night. What a shame that his past didn't just go away, and that he had to be upfront about it sometimes.
"It's okay," Iryna told him.
She's too nice anyway, Alfred told himself— a truly comforting thought. Sure, Alfred probably couldn't handle sex just due to being Alfred, but he found himself wondering about the mythical 'cuddling' after sex. It sounded nice, and Alfred almost regretted that he was like this.
Alfred went back to the bar after that.
...
Alfred stumbled past a pond on the way home, just in time to see a girl fall through the ice. She screamed, attracting the attention of the dozen or so people on the street.
Alfred, rightfully drunken idiot that he was, skirted the edge of the pond and dived in after her. Alfred managed to hook an arm around her waist and drag her to shore, but after that the cold water suddenly hit.
The girl had scraped the shit out of his legs— Alfred realized now that she had been skating— and the freezing water took his breath away. This was enough to effectively immobilize him, and for a moment it was almost peaceful. But then the peace went away, and Alfred realized that he was drowning and he didn't want to die, did he?
"Hey, kid! What, do you have a death wish? Grab onto the goddamn stick!" A man yelled at him, trying to get his attention.
For a moment Alfred just stared, unable to follow, and then finally he grabbed onto it. Two men pulled him to shore.
A woman was having a surprisingly calm conversation with a 911 operator. Alfred toddled off to the side and plummeted into the snow, drew his knees in and began to cough up water and of alcohol.
"You should go to a hospital." A woman crouched down next to him. "You were in there for two or three minutes. It's freezing."
"I don't have good insurance."
"You're bleeding."
Sure enough, Alfred was bleeding rather profusely from the legs. He couldn't actually feel anything, which certainly helped the situation, but he abhorred by the sheer amount of blood pouring from his body. Funny; Alfred had never been particularly hemophobic.
"You look like you need a hospital."
"Nah. I can't pay for it. Haven't got money for shit since moving here. I mean, ya get that, right? I'll fuckin' die."
"So... you can't pay?"
"Nope."
"I'll drive you to the hospital," the woman offered. She grabbed his arm.
"Don't fuckin' touch me," Alfred managed. What a courageous bastard, standing up for himself much too late.
"You probably need a hospital. It's freezing, your legs are scraped to the shits. Come on. You don't want to pay for an ambulance, do you?"
So Alfred went, banking on the luck of not meeting another horrible person in his life.
The woman grabbed three blankets from the trunk of the car. The first, she draped over the passenger seat before he could get inside. After telling him to take his jacket off, she handed him the other blanket to drape over his body, told him to raise his legs.
Briefly she turned on her phone's flashlight and checked that he didn't have anything embedded in the wound; she didn't comment on the burn marks, which were visible through the holes in the fabric. Apparently everything was okay; she handed him the third blanket and told him to press it against his legs, and to keep his legs elevated. Alfred did as he was told, motivated by the idea of being good rather than by the idea of surviving.
The drive was quiet, with the woman just focusing on the road, until Alfred spoke.
"Why are ya helpin' me? What if I died or somethin', and you were held accountable for being negligent? I'm an injured persons."
"You're not going to die in the fifteen minutes it takes to get there."
"And if I've got nerve damage or some shit that could've been avoided had I been treated sooner?"
"Let's try not to think about that," the woman said. "I didn't and I won't."
"Right," Alfred mumbled. After a minute or two he asked, "Yer not gonna traffick me or some shit, are ya? That would really... be bad."
"No, I'm not going to traffick you."
Alfred laughed at that. "What a relief! Hah, I'm fuckin' stupid... shouldn't get into a car with strangers. Am not lucky enough to get into cars with strangers an' have everything turn out alright."
The woman turned on the radio, paused, and then turned his seat warmer to the lowest setting.
"Why are ya so nice?" Alfred continued. "Everyone I met's been nice today. Fuckin' weird."
"That's nice," the woman said.
"Yeah, I guess." Alfred yawned, fell silent.
Just as soon as he was about to say more, the woman said, "Don't go to sleep. I don't want to have to wake you."
"Okay."
Alfred kept his mouth shut after that, but he was a sad drunk that had much to be sad about. The woman said nothing as he cried in the passenger seat.
...
February 2024
I had a dream that I was on the bridge again. I was really cold and tired, so I decided to jump-- pencil dived, knees locked, straight into the water. Woke up on impact.
A pencil dive, of course, defeated the point of jumping at all, and locked knees defeated the point of a pencil dive. Alfred didn't remember how tall the bridge was, namely because in the dream it had been quite dark. But now he had to face his reality, which was the opposite: he was in an immensely bright hospital room, he was hungover, and he was warm and dry. More importantly, he was absolutely fucked.
Alfred regretted getting in the woman's car. Sure, she hadn't taken advantage of him, but still... he could have handled bleeding copiously while drunk and freezing, if only it meant evading hospital bills. But no, now he had fucking stitches and too much debt. His phone was fucked. The only thing he'd been carrying that had completely evaded injury was his wallet, which miraculously had stayed in his pocket, without anything falling out.
Alfred knew he ought to be glad to be alive and safe, and all in one piece. But somehow, the morning seemed to be even worse than the night.
A/N: I spent an unreasonable amount of time debating whether I should publish this chapter or just fuck off-- that is to say, I had a hard time rewriting almost everything in this chapter, and swung back and forth heavily on the events that should take place and how they should be written.
In case any of you were wondering, the blister I got a few weeks ago finally popped. I was spared the disgust, as I didn't even realize until a few hours after. Thank fuck.