Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time

The hours tick by as Brendon lies awake, continuously playing the terrible dream in his mind. The sun shines through the curtains, but the light doesn’t reassure any hope; doesn’t reassure sanity. The musician sits up, feeling the subtle atmosphere around him embrace his outer shell. This body didn’t feel like his, so his mind separates for a few moments. His guts feel unsettled, his soul is heavy, and his stomach is queasy. The eye of his mind dips into an abyss, and it creates a tightness in his core. It’s almost as though he holds a power he doesn’t want to accept.

He gets out of bed, each movement is like trying to break free from inside a coffin buried six feet under. He slips on clothes, reminding himself that routine is hiding and hiding is safe. Dreams are only dreams. The one thing he knows he truly can’t face is himself in the mirror, so he avoids it like the plaque. His body and mind are rejecting each other enough. He walks into the kitchen, continuing routine. He makes himself a cup of coffee. His dogs rush over and jump up on his legs, but he refuses to acknowledge their existence.

While he sits at the table, coffee in hand, his phone briefly buzzes. He looks to the direction of the marble countertop where his phone is placed.

‘Check your phone, Brendon, be a little more human.’ He thinks. His vessel arises from the chair as he walks over and picks up his phone. It’s a text from Pete. The musician’s grip tightens as the words in his dream rush through his mind. What he wanted to do to someone he considered a good friend…

He decides not to reply, proceeding to turn off his phone all together.

Sarah walks in. She’s expressionless as she goes to the fridge and takes out leftovers from a dinner Brendon had no part in. He couldn’t blame her for avoiding him, even if it broke his heart. She was a light for him, but now even she seemed just as dismal as the world that manifested before him. He doesn’t want this… to feel lost in his own home… his own body.

He watches as Sarah heats up her food in the microwave. He doesn’t even bother to say good morning. Because it’s not good, and there’s no point in lying.

She looks over, finally noticing his existence and says, “Hey, Bren.”

“Hey.” He replies, letting the word crumble out of his mouth as though he was on his deathbed. Death is something he now wants, but only if that meant nonexistence. That hope of a long sleep filled with nothingness was a pipe dream. He didn’t want to truly admit it to himself, but there’s something after death… he must be something after death. He’s already dead, and he’s been dead.

His hands grip the sides of the table as his jaw begins to clench. He can feel tears of ignorance and unacceptance start to build up in his eyes.

“Babe?” Sarah’s voice coos; sounding almost muted and off in the distance.

Brendon moves his head in the direction of her voice, struggling to release his grip. The musician then feels a gentle hand on his back as he pushes his attempts to relax. He closes his eyes for a second, absorbing her touch.

He eventually musters, “Sorry.”

There’s a pause before Sarah says, “I’m going out again tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Sarah finishes, going back to her leftovers by the coffee maker.

The fact that she can’t even sit with him reassures the ever growing distance. He knows he’s the one to keep pushing her away, but she shouldn’t be around such toxicity anymore. Brendon is becoming something unlike himself, he’d rather be locked in a cage than have it be exposed to her… even if sometimes he thinks her touch just might save him from himself…

He stays idly put, waiting for her to leave. The dogs follow her down the hall as silence fills the air. Constricting or peaceful, he can’t seem to place. Nothing is right anymore. He lets his eyes fall shut as his head tilts back, slowly slumping in his chair. Screams echo through his brain again and again. Faces in his mind flash in and out, he’s touched these people. Red. Dark red splashed across their faces, staining their clothes. Hollow eyes stare back into Brendon’s face, his hands aren’t dry. Lips touching skin, the intimacy leaving him on a high only with that strong metallic taste haunting his tongue.

Brendon opens his eyes, feeling the saliva in his mouth build up. Warm pleasure. A knot twists in his stomach as he’s quick to stand. His eyes grow wide as he forces his body to feel sick. He rushes to the guest bathroom, the phantom feeling of disgust is not enough as his fingers stab the back of his throat causing his coffee to come back up and empty into the toilet. He gives himself a moment to breathe as he weakly gets up from his knees and glances at the mirror. No, no, no, no, he repeats internally.

His body doesn’t listen as he’s positioned directly in front of the mirror. He tries to resist the urge by slapping his face hard across the left cheek then the right. He starts to pant heavily as his heart begins to race. He looks up and stares into his own eyes. The rich brown color begins to desaturate before an electric yellow emerges. He let’s out a brief cry of resistance as he shuts his eyes, slamming his fists onto the countertop. When he views his hands, his nails are sharper, longer, and pitch black. Another averted gaze and slam of his fists before he looks normal again.

‘Cut yourself and you’ll barely bleed.’ Jake’s words echo in his mind.

The urge to prove this reality takes Brendon over as he rummages through one of the cabinets, taking out a packet of spare razor blades. He quickly picks the small blade out and digs it into his left hand. He can feel pain, but it’s almost too tolerable. He pushes hard and sweeps the blade fast across his palm. The blade falls in the sink as he looks at his hand. It bleeds enough for the crimson to hit the countertop and trail into the sink. A haze falls over Brendon’s senses as he looks back into the mirror.

“Fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck….” Brendon repeats as his features contort and tears rush down his cheeks.

He then opens the lower cabinets to take out medical supplies. His hands shake as he wraps his palm tight. He bled… Jake is wrong, he’s wrong… he has to be. Brendon’s mind goes more into a panic as he continues to stare at himself in the mirror. Nothing changes. He presses the palm of his hand, trying to force more pain and it’s faint. Faint like the moment he cut himself, but why does he bleed? What are the true color of his eyes? What about the taste of his own blood?

His finger presses to the counter, sweeping up one of the viscous drops and only reaches his hand close enough to his mouth to get the liquid on his bottom lip. The memory of blood covering his mouth flashes in his mind. The horns protruding from his head… his skin patched with grey. The face of Emmett’s corpse resting against the bed… all of it. Even the cops who shot themselves, but in his soul, he knows he made them do it.

It wasn’t the horror in his mind that pushed out more tears, it was the fact that he enjoyed it. He got off on it. Jake was right, he was a monster. But why… did he bleed? His eyes are brown like the day he glanced upon them in the mirror of his childhood home… he looks down at his hands and they’re normal. He keeps crying and whimpering just looking at himself. A monster or a murderer, what could have been a dream? He’s seemingly crazy now, because of the forced uncertainty. He just wants all of it to stop. The voices, the dreams, the memories… so construed and screaming. His bodily coil is burning and sickly, he wants to tear out of his flesh. His crying grows louder as his body continues to shake before he collapses to the ground.

His breath goes steady as he begins to rise to his feet, avoiding the mirror. He feels exhausted as he walks down the hall and into the bedroom. He can see Sarah brushing her hair in the bathroom as he sits at the edge of the bed. Tears still fall down his face as he stares into the distance. The only sounds keeping him calm was the light sounds of Sarah’s ongoing task of preparing herself for the day. As much as she’d be better off away from Brendon, he needs her company. Through the growing dismal atmosphere, there were still enough signs to show she cared. That’s all he needs.

“Brendon… hey what’s wrong?” His wife’s voice comes closer to him.

He looks up into her beautiful blue eyes as the look of worry spreads across her features. She lowers herself in front of the musician as she gently takes Brendon’s bandaged hand.

“What happened?” She asks.

“There’s something wrong with me, Sarah.” He whimpers.

“What happened to your hand?” She says, flipping his palm to face upwards as her fingertips lightly brush over the bandage.

“I don’t, I don’t know. I’m losing my mind, I’m sick.” He breaths.

She stands up and cups his face, letting one hand fall across his forehead. She says, “You’re not running a temp. What hurts, what’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t look at her, “Everything. All of it.”

“Should I call the hospital?” Sarah asks.

Before she can step away from Brendon, he grabs her hands, “No, no don’t call the hospital.” His voice is more prominent now, pleading, “I just.. I don’t want you to leave.”

She sits next to him on the bed, holding his hand and rubbing his back, “Okay. I’m right here.” She begins to brush away his tears, “You don’t know what happened to your hand?”

“I,” The musician chokes back tears, “fuck… I did it.” He looks at her.

She reaches for his hand, “Brendon…” He’s quick to move it away.

“Oh my god.” She whispers, placing a hand on the side of Brendon’s face, slowly gracing his cheek, “Why did you do that?”

He leans into her touch, looking away from her, “I don’t fucking know.”

“I’l schedule a doctor’s appointment, okay? We’ll go to a psychiatrist, we’ll work this out.”

“Okay.” He says.

As soon as he stops touching her, he’s once again holding onto an even thinner thread.

The musician can barely function throughout the day without the horrid pictures in his mind continuously placing him at a stand still. He wants to make sense of it and deal with it, but that would ultimately lead to an acception of doomed fate. To become a monster… he couldn’t truly be something his ego only manifested in a fictitious world of his own creation. He couldn’t accept destroying the ones he loved just for the hell of it. He couldn’t convince himself any longer that this isn’t real.

His fingers pick at the bandage on his hand. Without much hesitation, he unwraps it and all that is left of his wound is a faint red line. The scuffling of feet down the hall causes Brendon to try and place the bandage back on his hand.

Sarah appears around the corner as she says, “I’m gonna take a shower. I just cancelled my plans for the evening.”

He looks up at her with surprise, “Babe, don’t let me stop you.” He looks away, “Maybe it’s best if you did get away from me for a while this time.”

She sits next to him and places a hand on his back, “No, I want to be here. I never realized what internal pain you’ve been going through. I shouldn’t have left all the times I did. I just didn’t understand why you were acting strangely.”

And she still doesn’t completely understand, “Okay.” He replies, looking back at her. He could have pulled out all the excuses for her to leave, but maybe he did need her comfort. Such a selfish desire under the circumstances, but no matter what could happen, he knows he’d never hurt her. The one thing about the night of the disastrous party that reassured just a small bit of sanity was the memory of walking into their room while she slept. His bloody hand reached out, but he just barely grazed her cheek. What compelled such a monster to admire the beauty of a woman he called his own without tearing her apart was a mystery he may never solve.

She moves in so their lips touch gently. Brendon savors the moment, because they hadn’t kissed this earnestly in a while. Her hand strokes his cheek before she gets up and heads to the bathroom. The musician gets up from his couch and walks into the kitchen. He looks at the pictures placed on the refrigerator. Most include family, but his favorite one was a polaroid picture of him and Sarah’s first Christmas together. He smiles to himself, and just for a moment… he feels all the terrible things he’s ever done completely slip away.

Then, a jolt run up his spin followed by several cracks. He hunches over, gripping his left shoulder which now begins to ache.

“What the fu-” The snap of his right shoulder causes his body to curl even closer inwards. He tries to push his body back into a straight position and manages to hold it just barely. His head begins to throb as his teeth start to ache.

“Oh god.” He whispers. It’s happening, he thinks.

He couldn’t do this… not here. Another painful shot runs through his body as he turns to grip the countertop. He looks down at his hands noticing the skin beginning to change color. His breathing gets heavier as his mind starts to fall into yet another panic. Without another thought, he gets to his front door. He fumbles with the doorknob before finally managing to open it. He tries to run only to fall into a limp. He shuts his eyes tight and pictures the place where he woke up with all that time missing.

Through the pain and harsh grunts, he can feel the atmosphere change as he opens his eyes to see that exact location now in front of him. His insides begin to burn as he carries his weight across the fields, crossing a ‘No Trespassing’ sign. Civilization is his first concern, and no matter what happens next, he’ll try to get himself away from anyone and everyone as much as possible. More bone snapping and cracking as hot tears pour down his cheeks. He finally collapses to his knees in the middle of a field with tall grass. A searing pain begins to tear through his back, like something is beginning to grow. He rips off his shirt before clutching the earth below him with his now pointed nails.

He breathes through the pain while letting the images of all he’s done flow through his mind. Every detail of every event he starts to accept. All the feelings of utter satisfaction he begins to embrace. The pain of his transformation starts to cease. He is a monster and he is meant for destruction. There’s no use in fighting it anymore. Any pain now is nothing more than a pin prick including the horns slowly growing from his skull. With any further jolts, he motions with the actions and his senses begin to get sharper. Time seems slower as the continuing process feels as though it’s been hours.

“Brendon!” A voice shouts from the distance.

An instant and unfortunate recognition, “Sarah?” Brendon shouts as he feels the pain start to eat him alive again. He manages to get to his feet, however, turning to the direction of his wife’s voice.

Brendon watches as she sprints through the field and getting ever so closer to him. He shouts, “Sarah, get out of here!” He whines and hunches over as the bones of his wings begin to further protrude from his back.

The next time he looks up, she’s standing right in front of him. He tries to fix his posture, spewing out more words to try and turn her away. How could she even look at his face?

She tries to touch him, and he starts to jolt away with each movement. She says, “Brendon, please. You have to trust me.” She says, with a pleading expression.

“How did you know?” Another shot of pain as he tries not to bend over again.

“Intuition, I don’t know. I just felt something. I knew you’d be here.” She reaches out again, managing to touch his arm. He pulls away, but somehow a certain aura radiated off her body and he didn’t want to retreat.

She puts her arms around his neck and he keeps muttering, “No, no, no…”

“It’s okay, it’s alright.” She says as tears begin to fall down her face.

His hands are shaking as they begin to raise up then fall on her back. That energy is immense; more than he could ever imagine. He wants it. He wants it so bad, but he knows he didn’t try to take it before. Even when she was there under his fingertip… why now? He can feel the pain of his heart grow over his own extremities as his nails find their way into her back.

She lets out a sharp breath; her features begin to look pained. He starts to absorb her energy, the feeling is overly intense and stung like a rush of air over a frostbitten body. Soon enough it’s electric before a warm ooze coats his insides. The light from her eyes is fading, but the feeling of this energy isn’t over yet. The warmth subsides as all the pain stops. A small smile is cast over Sarah’s face as her breath leaves her lungs one last time.

Brendon sinks to the floor, carrying Sarah’s body with him.

“Oh god, oh god…” He murmurs, pushing out tears of complete and utter heartbreak.

He holds her close, squeezing her empty vessel. He continues to hold her until the warmth of her skin starts to subside. He places her body on the grass and looks at her peaceful image. An eternal sleep. But he couldn’t leave her like this. None of his victims were ever this clean. He takes a deep breath before ripping his still apparent claws through her chest. No… still too peaceful. This must look exactly like an animal attack, he reminds himself. His shaky finger tips lift up her eyelids in which he had previously closed. The image before him is something not even his worst nightmares could ever create. He stands up and begins to back away as his breathing becomes irregular. The air nips at his still splotched skin as he truly takes in the fact that her blood covered his hands. He wails as he then shuts his eyes, picturing home. His eyes open and he’s now in his livingroom. The dogs rush in and begin to bark. He runs to the guest bathroom, fumbling to shut and lock the door, and is once again faced with himself.

His demonic features make him sick, blending into the blood of his wife. The one true love of his life that he killed. He killed her, she’s gone. These thoughts repeat as he struggles to turn on the water in the shower. His body falls into the tub as he tries to rub Sarah’s blood off his skin. He gives up only after a second, feeling his body become completely weak. All he can do is shriek and cry and shake. In a matter of minutes, the features on his outer shell completely diminish.