Chapter Text
What they don’t tell you about the war is that you can’t really place when it’s over. It might've ended when Monroe vanished, or when Theo figured out how to take Gabe’s pain, or when they trudged out of the hospital, all bruised-purple and broken. Might’ve ended on a sunny Thursday, Theo stretched out in the backseat wondering how the hell he’s gonna pay for next week’s gas, or when he scrounged up enough cash for shitty fast-food breakfasts. Or the war might find habitat in blue veins, blood, might worm the gore into feverish summer dreams. Might chase after you down alleyways and convince you that someone still wants you worse than dead, make you look over your shoulder like a wanted man, and fuck it you might just be. Never really let you go, except for when you’re so messed up you can’t think about anything at all.
Today, Theo thinks the war is not over yet. Tomorrow he doesn’t know, but today, the war is still wrapping its spindly spider-fingers around his ribcage and slowly picking him apart. Today, he’s still eighteen and far beyond doomed. His car’s parked out in this grimey lot, and he wants to eat a real goddamn meal.
The ironic thing about it was that he feels way less crazy now, jumpy. Soldiers were supposed to come back all traumatized and grief ridden, haunted by the detonations and half-illusioned angels, but nowadays he feels less like a martyr and more like a sewer rat. When he really mulls it over, it seems more like his emotions were dumped from one empty bucket to the next—conservation of matter—but hey. Atonement’s one hell of a drug, and he’s a little hooked; better start his do-gooding now before Tara gets the chance to drag him down under.
Knocking. Harsh, blinding beam of light.
Theo rolls his eyes; he’s used to this by now, and he twists the key in ignition. “I get it, damn,” he mutters, squinting behind the hand he casts out to shield his face. Might be a veil: Theo versus the World. Theo versus the Great Beyond. But there's no mysterious fantasy-land to this version of events, and what lay past his window is painfully real.
It’s the sullen-eyed, ghastly cop this time, mouth pressed into a thin line like a last warning. It probably is—he’s been caught loitering far too often this month, and he knows all the patrol cops are sick of his sorry ass. Bets that they want to cuff him up, but he’s got a feeling Sheriff Stilinski might’ve told them to lay off for a bit, until he gets his shit together. Doesn’t know if he ever will, though, since he’s been running on fumes since the hospital lights went out, shattered things, they were. And home sounds like it’s in a foreign language now, so Theo’s got little other to do than wait until Scott’s pack needs him again.
Six months ago he’d rather gauge his eyes out than follow them around like a lost dog, but six months ago he was knee deep in a manic episode. All bark and bite, no time to rationalize. Theo likes to think of himself as logical, but when shit goes awry he’s the first to snap, the first to let it get to his head and rearrange his precision into something like a knife. He’s trying to be better, though. He’s trying to fortify himself, into this solid, headstrong, steel thing. Machinery.
But it's plain embarrassing, honestly, coming when they call, staying put when they say to, baring teeth when they order him. Dread-Doctor Theo would laugh in Resurrected-from-hell Theo’s face, would name him something between the lines of idiot and a complete hypocrite. Probably would be a million times more cruel about it, too, because Theo knows what he used to be: batshit crazy, and also made of nothing but the promise to bleed. Target practice, except he’s the one shooting. Headshots, bullseyes, aim to kill.
His only option to get around his repentment, though, is to save face and pretend that it doesn’t bother him, because otherwise—he won’t have a reason to stay in California.
Every time he tries to drive past the county line, some force of gravity pulls him back to Beacon Hills like a heartstring. Magnetism, or in other words, a carnal need to repair his reputation, which is all bent and fucked like a broken arm. Sometimes, he purposely puts pressure on it, rewatches the metaphorical nerve tendons snap again like it’s destiny or other forms of damnation. Sometimes, he wishes it won’t heal.
He wants to pretend that he doesn’t feel the bile-bubbling ache in his chest when he tries to leave, but it’s there, and it starts to scrape him out when he’s unable to see the city sign behind him, shrouded in pitch-blackness a couple miles out. He just can’t leave . He always ends up pulling over, drumming his hands on the steering wheel and tensely glancing in the rearview mirror, shallowly nervous that maybe something is going to follow him. That maybe he’ll catch a flash of bright red or a hint of muted smoke, and every nightmare will come true: prophetic. Jesus, he’s full of anxiety these days, he’s full of anything but sincerity.
After his waiting game plays out, every rustle in the trees would send fresh adrenaline through him, static coldness. He'd sit there for an hour—call it homeostasis, anything but fear—maybe more if he was feeling particularly determined, but the story always ends the same way: Theo turns tail and runs. Theo shifts the gear into reverse, and drives back down the same path to hell he clawed his way out of. Despises himself on the way back, starts cursing at all the billboards and landmarks he’d said goodbye to, like he could convince himself that he really does hate it here. Stupid little game.
Sweet home, Beacon fucking Hills.
…
When cops chewed him out, he usually found some dark forest trail to park in for the night. Dangerous, sure, but maybe he likes the thrill, likes it on the edge, where everything is a warning sign. He can control this, at least: his life is in his own deliberately careless hands. It makes him feel better about everything else. It makes him feel like himself again.
This time, he doesn’t get the chance to lock the doors and shimmy into the backseat before someone’s ringing him, lit-up phone screen blinding against the shadows. Theo hisses and blinks, fumbles to check the caller ID.
“Liam,” he greets, dryly cheerful. “To what do I owe the pleasure. It’s midnight.” Truth be told, the annoyance is robotic. Theo’s got a stomach of nothing, an appetite of cold blood. So starved he can’t force genuinity in anything he does anymore. He hopes Liam doesn’t call him out on it. He knows he sounds exhausted. Maybe he can blame it on sleep deprivation.
“That’s not even late,” scoffs Liam, “I’ve been to class after pulling all-nighters like, twenty times.” Shuffle, on the other end, a rustle of paper. Liam’s back in school and Theo’s not. Theo had to drop out and tutor himself on survival instead of Calc BC, learn to stretch out twenty bucks over two weeks instead of memorizing linear dispersion formulas . What’s the derivative to the end of Theo’s suffering? He’s still trying to work it out.
“Hey, don’t blame me for your terrible schedule, I was trying to get my beauty sleep. It’s why I look better than you.” Theo props himself up against the car door, head slumped uncomfortably against the window. He’s bitching, but he doesn’t quite mind the inevitable late-night adventure that Liam is going to ask him on. Gives him a purpose, for at least a few hours, and, god, does he need one.
“Yeah, sure,” Liam snarks. A beat of silence. “Anyway. If you’re not busy, would you wanna… help me look for something?”
“Some thing ?” Theo knows all too well when Liam’s nervous, can feel the apprehension leaking through the telephone lines. He doesn’t know when he started being able to pick up on it so well, but it’s a skill that’s proved more useful than he’d thought. Anuk-ite fear-paralysis, and all. Crazy, crazy times. It’s been a few months since then, though, and Liam’s only been growing more and more stressed, which means Theo’s been allotted the responsibility of calming him down whenever he’s too ashamed to ask Mason for help. There’s a lot of things they don’t talk about, like quiet togetherness and their arms brushing something electric. Like Liam calling and Theo showing up, no questions asked. Like the way they sometimes found themselves sore-eyed and buzzing off fatigue, hunched over greasy fast food at odd hours, because neither want to acknowledge the things in their heads they’re fighting off. Or blood. Sometimes blood. On both sides.
Release in the form of teeth-to-fists. The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club; the second is that you’ve got to be nuts for it.
They’ve got both checked, probably.
“No, some one,” Liam amends. Duh. Theo sighs to himself, because obviously some phantom is going to breeze through Beacon Hills just as Scott shoots off for college. Their fucking luck. Maybe this time it’ll be the apocalypse for real, and not just a pseudonym for genocide.
Theo puts the phone on his left shoulder, presses his ear to it while he declutters the backseat. Clean freak, he is, helps him reorganize the stuff inside his head, too. “Like a supernatural someone? Or are we gonna ambush the team that beat you guys last week at the game. ‘Cause, I’m done holding you back from killing people, from now on it’s all you—”
“Ha ha. Funny. Supernatural, obviously.” Liam licks his lips on the other end. It’s a joke enough that he can’t tell Theo to shut up without revealing that it’d needled him, but Theo knew what he was doing. After Scott left a couple weeks back, Liam had started getting antsy, itching in his own skin and lashing out at thin air, let alone the people that actually made him mad. Probably has something to do with his deep-down complex and/or impostor syndrome, but hey, Theo’s not a therapist. The best he can do is piss Liam off enough to force him to confront his issues indirectly, and so far it’s been working. He just hopes that it doesn’t eventually backfire on him.
“Wonderful. Tell me more.” Not like Theo has anything better to do.
“Alright, well, I’ve been hearing chatter about a lone wolf recently, I didn’t really take it seriously, ‘till a bunch of dead animals started showing up along the outskirts, and Mason and Corey were supposed to help me check it out today, but they’re stuck in NorCal because of a storm, so I, uh. Wanted backup,” says Liam, in one rush of breath.
Theo pauses to process before responding, “So you want me to tag along? You scared, or something?” He can’t help it. He’s good at being a bother, and Liam’s good at getting annoyed. They’re in equilibrium like that, until someone fucks it up, until someone gets too mean .
“Okay, shut up, I’m gonna go alone,” Liam spits without a beat of hesitation, before adding, “woods, as always. In ten. But don’t show up, because I’m not scared.”
“Uh-huh. Definitely. Have fun getting mauled,” says Theo sweetly, and then there’s a dial tone. He laughs a little to himself, then shoves his blanket into the space underneath the seats where he keeps his toothpaste, deodorant, and soap, and guns the engine.
...
Liam did not bring his car, so he is covered in leaves and there is a hole in his shirt. “Did you,” asks Theo, incredulous, “did you run here?”
“ Yeah? Got a problem?” Liam bites back, but Theo can smell the embarrassment off of him. “Okay, fine, I didn’t tell my parents I was coming out here, curfew and all, and my mom’s a light sleeper, so I didn’t wanna wake her if—actually, I don’t need to justify myself. I ran. ” Theo shrugs non-committedly, but the edges of his mouth quirk up in a way that makes Liam shove him, rough push to the bicep. “If you care so much, drive me home.”
“Ugh,” says Theo, nose scrunching, “walked into that, huh?” Liam raises a defiant eyebrow.
They linger for a second longer before they wordlessly decide to head deeper into the woods where Liam had insisted the wolf might be. It’s kinda reminiscent, in this morbid way, the quiet. How it could eat them whole, spit them out again as two tangled-up skeletons. Theo’s spent a lot of nights in spooky forests, but not nearly as many with someone willingly having their back to him. Take that, Mason, he thinks, but there’s no use arguing with a one-liner that he’s sure Mason’s forgotten all about. Says more about himself, really.
It’s been fifteen excruciating minutes without so much as a snapped twig that made them both flinch, only to whip around and find a wide-eyed owl in tow. Two were-boys are scared of nothing except a fat bird. One of them thinks it might just be an omen.
Sounds like a punchline.
As they’re sniffing around, Theo starts feeling less certain that this is an actual problem and more that Liam’s stressing over nothing. “Are you sure that there’s—”
“No,” Liam cuts him off, glaring. “But I’m not risking it. Scott wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, and Scott kept getting himself nearly killed like, as a day job. It’s your senior year, so you should prioritize, I don’t know. Sleep? Homework?” Theo throws his hands into the air.
“Well, you killed Scott, so I don’t wanna hear it. And I did my homework. So shut up.” Liam’s turned away from him, so he probably can’t sense the cold drop of Theo’s stomach, writhing in icy guilt. Or if he does, because he’s definitely less of an idiot that he lets on, he doesn’t react. Almost unreal, how he’s metamorphosed from startled freshman to bitter biting senior. Busted knock-off sneakers to slightly less busted Converse. Hair gelled, chest hair.
Doesn’t fool Theo, though. He’s heard the guy talk about Marvel movies and the X-men with Corey, through the walls. He’s a complete geek. No amount of therapy would change that, at least.
“Yeah,” Theo offers. Kicks a rock. Because he’s not angry that Liam brought it up, per se, but he sure is kind of prickled. Because he thought that maybe they could’ve moved past that, but it seems silly now to even consider moving on. Because it was actually pretty horrible of him to do, but he kind of tricked himself into thinking that he was making up for it, and shit, he is angry, just at himself.
“Woah. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I was kidding, but I’m glad that you still feel bad,” says Liam over his shoulder. Theo rolls his eyes. Yeah, definitely not an idiot.
“Okay, well. My point is, don’t trip out over nothing. Save your energy for when it matters.” Theo picks at his cuticle, frayed from when he bit the nail down after counting out what money he had remaining. The Dread Doctors, when he was little, had tried to beat the bad habit out of him through metal bars and bruised knuckles. He’d forced it to go away because the alternative was worse, but when he returned without them it’d sprung back even more intensely than before.
Some things were a constant, even when the rest of you changed. Theo hopes that this is limited to nail-biting and not fundamental badness.
Liam stops, and Theo can see the first flickers of indignance start to gather in his shoulders, straight-lined and angular. “For when it matters? This is when it matters. Scott left me in charge, which means that I can’t—” Liam stops talking, looking at the dirt below, and steps on a branch loudly. Lots of things unsaid there, things that tumble into the soil and make miniature graves of themselves. They won’t be buried alive, though, they’ll come back undead and hunt Liam down until he can finally shout them off a rooftop or at someone he loves. Theo knows this a little too well.
Theo breaks the silence. “That you can’t?” he prompts, coming up next to Liam and nudging his forearm. He brushes Theo off, a spike of irritation cutting through his scent like it’s slaughter, or axe-murder. In other words, it’s strong like it’s meant to hurt. This guy. Theo huffs.
“Nothing.” He’s not even sheepish about it.
“You’re terrible.”
Liam opens his mouth, no doubt to insult Theo right back, but he hesitates, sharply snapping his head to the left. Theo’s about to ask what happened, but then he catches it: the smell of rot, carried in from the underbrush. Not human, for sure, but fresh. They glance at each other and carefully approach, stealth suddenly overtaking them, wearing the forest’s silence around themselves like camouflage. Every crinkling leaf turns into an alarm bell, and Theo has to convince himself not to whip his head around whenever he interprets something as danger .
They reach a point where it’s unbearable. Liam lifts his shirt to cover his nose, expression pinched in disgust, and Theo takes it upon himself to clear away the fallen branches and thick bushes. Thorns dig into his forearms, but the injuries heal just as fast, leaving him with only memories of pain. He stops, jaw slack. Liam’s gone deathly silent (Ha-ha). “Oh,” Theo says, “oh, shit.”
“No kidding,” Liam whispers back. There’s blood and major liver everywhere. Not a regular sort of kill, this one’s packed with the violence of a caged animal, primal and eager. Too self-aware, though. There had to have been logic here, some human-minded calculation. Theo’s seen too many murder scenes in his life.
“Deer,” says Theo unhelpfully, gesturing towards the carcass. Liam glares at him, eyebrows furrowed.
“Well, guess who was right to be ‘tripped out’. Next time you doubt me, I’m bringing this up.” He’s trying to sound like it’s still a joke, that they’re messing with each other like always, but his voice has got this edge to it that strips it of its humor. Theo can hear his heartbeat speed up, can sense the way his blood starts rushing. Liam’s about to get angry—at everything, at nothing, at fucking atoms and stardust—and that means Theo’s going to be his victim of choosing. But also, Liam will regret it in the morning, and feel awful about himself. But also, Theo doesn’t really want that to happen.
“Uh,” Theo says quickly, “yeah. Sorry.” Liam blinks, double-taking at this.
“You apologized.” There is literally a dead, slaughtered animal behind them, and this is what surprises Liam. Theo’s almost offended, except he’d be startled, too.
“What? I can apologize. No need to get all shocked.” See, of course it was meant to shock him; Liam’d forget about being angry that way, and therefore wouldn’t a) punch Theo or b) get mad at himself for getting mad. Two birds, one stone. It was just self-preservation.
Liam’s stupor only lasts a second longer before he refocuses, switching his attention to the dead thing. “We should make sure it was a wolf, first. Before coming to conclusions.”
“What do you mean by that?” Theo asks, quizzical. Liam pauses, doesn’t reply, and Theo repeats himself a little more forcefully. “ What do you mean by that? Do you think that it’s… something else?” He doesn’t say what’s implied: something worse?
“No,” Liam reassures, but it’s too quick to be the truth. “ No . But like I said, I’m not risking it. We should get pictures, and then ask Deaton if we should be worried.” Theo nods, his mouth a little dry, and snaps a couple shots with his phone. The flash goes off brightly, a shooting star in the woods. Click , then silence, click , then silence. Feels like a horror flick. Theo wonders if Ghostface is going to pop out anytime soon. He wonders if he’d be the final girl or the first blood , or maybe even the hot babysitter.
He clears his throat. Everything’s less funny when he looks at the crime scene for too long, remembers what they’re really doing out here and why Theo went along with it in the first place. There’s so much shame, in remembering, he’s sick of it like he’s sick of gasoline. “For the record,” Theo says, “it looks like a coyote did it. Neck, then stomach. I know the slash pattern.” Liam hesitates, drops down to his knees in a squat and studies the claw marks in the deer’s underbelly, raw and thick with rage. He’s analytical, and it’s weird to see him this way; Theo’s used to the Liam with frantic desperation and boyish hope. He guesses that the whole interim-Alpha thing is getting to him, is what’s making him seem so serious and sure of himself. Because Theo can smell the anxiety off of him, in waves, rolling outwards like a heat flare.
Liam’s no good at pretending, but then again, at some point, neither was Theo. It might be a good thing, to be bad at faking it. Theo wishes he could unlearn it.
Liam’s got this stony look fixed onto him, and it makes Theo squirm. “Slash pattern, huh,” he says pointedly, and Theo breaks eye contact to stare at a tree. Uncharted territory, here. Toeing the line of bringing up Theo’s burdens, this weird limbo where Liam could rip into him for all of it, right now, right here, in the middle of the woods. Could bring up all of the shit before Theo came back which he’s been graciously sidestepping, mostly avoiding, except for when he wants to get the final word in when they argue. And Theo would let him, unless it got too much, which it would. Then he’d lash out in retaliation and call it self-defense. Everything was, to him.
Yeah, right. He could justify hurting anyone if he told himself it was because he was just licking his wounds. Doesn’t count if he was the one who threw the fucking bone.
“Yup,” replies Theo, and maybe it’s cold in self-defense. Maybe it’s easier to be cruel in a half-hearted way than let Liam piece together all of his discombobulated honest parts.
See, Liam’s all disappointed in him right now—steely, sad blue eyes—but it’s way better than pity. Way better than fucking sympathy, because Theo doesn’t need any of that. He’s tough, he’s strong, he doesn’t care about anything other than himself. He definitely doesn’t care about all of the things he’s done wrong.
If he repeats it enough maybe he’ll believe it.
More silence, then Liam sighs.
“‘Kay. Well, unless we want to be Body in The Woods numbers two and three, we should get outta here. I’ve got school tomorrow. And you’ve got… being aimless.” Liam starts off for Theo’s car, who’s left biting his cheek in a frown. Not funny. But he follows, anyway, because this is what they do: someone is left in the dust to bleed, and the other’s running away.
...
When the Dread Doctors first got to Theo, he was still into reading comic books and watching MTV. Sweet kid, if not a little screwed, parents fighting and bound-up emotions. Not a failure yet, but possibly on his way. It was a good life though, because when they wouldn’t fight they were up in each other’s arms like it was the first time, and their sad little happy family would sit on the couch on Saturday afternoons like everything was fine. Would play Family Feud, teams split up between Tara and Theo and their parents, everyone in laughing fits by the end of the night when Tara would suggest charades. Not too bad—not amazing, but pretty good, all things considered. It was suburbia in every shape and form.
The illusion shattered when his nightmares started. Theo was scared of his blankets, terrified of the boogeyman and the parts of the attic he’d never ventured into. Couldn’t be alone anymore, constantly clinging to Tara or Scott or Stiles. Had this primordial sort of fear of god running through his veins, because he had no other way to rationalize how much his mind was mixed-up. It’s a scary thing for a nine year old to go through, feeling neither here nor there, waking up in the wrong places you fell asleep in, finding yourself dangling off bridges. Knowing that there’s something wrong with you. Knowing you can’t fix it.
Really, really, guttural.
Little Theo Raeken thought he was going insane. Looking back, he’s gotta laugh. All of this could’ve been avoided if only he wasn’t such a coward. Tara used to rub his arm with this horribly affectionate face and ask, Theo, you okay? I’ve got your back. Sorta shit that sits on his shoulder whenever he thinks about his pipe dream of asking for help.
Like when he was about to call Scott that night before his truck got shot up. Like when he was begging Liam and Mason and Hayden to let him out of that fucking cell. Because, god forbid Theo be kind of human, even in small ways. It’s been so long since someone has called him that. He’s stopped believing in it, too. Wonders what Theo-before-the-trauma would think. That small thing.
Poor, little, hopeless Theo. Why didn’t he realize the only thing to be afraid of was his own head?
When they took him, no one heard him scream.
Not even Tara, who had promised she’d protect him from the monsters underneath his bed.
...
It’s not surprising that the drive to Liam’s house is tense. Theo’s gotten tired of this little routine, pretending to be fine with each other, then saying something that stabs at the other in just the right way and breaking the truce, then repeating the whole thing again and again. Cyclic. But he’s not the only one feeling off about it, because when he glances over, Liam’s got the same expression of murky annoyance mixed with conflicted guilt painted earnestly on his face. Theo kinda wants to make it up to him, but no , because it would do nothing in the end.
Because, while the hospital dissolved a rather good chunk of their animosity, maybe even most of it if Theo’s honest, Liam’s a stubborn ass, and so is Theo. It’s the type of duo that makes Theo’s head spin, some buddy-cop sitcom combination. Not that they’re a duo, or anything. Theo’s learned to keep his distance from shit like that. History tends to repeat itself, and it’s never ended well for him.
Liam’s probably less of a lost cause at it than Theo is at communication, and the theory’s proved correct when he speaks up at the red light. “Um,” Liam coughs, “if anything turns up, I’ll text you. Keep you in the loop.” It’s not an apology but it’s close. Good enough for Theo, for now. It still stings a bit.
“Great,” says Theo, not forgiveness but something alike, and then they’re turning onto Liam’s street. It’s one of those big-housed, trimmed-lawns, sprinkler-lined mysteries. Tulip gardens and ACs, garages unlocked because of course there’s no crime here. Theo wasn’t poor growing up, but he remembers being so jealous of these streets that it was nearly acidic, probably the first feeling that left his tongue tasting burnt and bitter. And, well, now he’s poor, so jealousy’s back like a vain mistress. It hardens his jaw. It churns his stomach.
Nuclear goddamn families. They have it all, even when they don’t. Theo looks away from the tar-dark driveways.
Liam’s almost out of the passenger seat when he freezes, fingers ghosting the handle of the car door. “ Fuck ,” he hisses, and Theo follows his line of sight to see that the lights in his house are on, brightly illuminating their front hedges. Liam quickly checks his phone and immediately runs a hand through his hair when he sees the amount of missed calls he’d got when they were off-grid in the woods. On top of that, he’s caked with dirt. Theo swallows down his laugh.
“Have fun with that , Liam,” he says, his grin glinting in the dim off-glow of the car. They’re almost-friendly here, a scene from a teenage coming of age film where the two heroes return from their valiant journey of discovering their true, unabashed selves, drunk on youthful determination and unshed tears. Except that’s not how their night went; they were digging up corpses and the past, and neither had spilled their guts underneath the limelight, let loose all those embarrassing self-regrets eating them alive. None of that Stand By Me shit, coral and grainy and doused in sunlight that symbolizes childhood recollection.
Instead, they’re saying goodbye without the remorse, they’re expecting the worst-case scenarios, they’re waiting until it all explodes again because that’s their fucking lives, isn’t it. And Theo knows he won’t be called until he’s needed, see ya until Beacon Hills is short on stone-cold killers and handymen that have forced themselves to kill their empathy. See ya until another one bites the dust and nobody can figure out why. See ya until Liam can’t fix himself again and needs a punching bag, someone who can take it. See ya. Wouldn’t wanna be ya.
“Screw you,” is Liam’s reply, but he’s already slamming the door shut and jogging around the side of his house, albeit leaving a wide breadth. Theo’s tempted to hover for a minute or so, just to see how it pans out, but ultimately decides against it and hits the gas instead. What sad street-end would he find himself haunting for the rest of the early morning? He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know where he’s going, at all, until he pulls up by the rusty water treatment plant where all hell broke loose. Stops the car, looks out the window and chuckles to himself, satirical thing. The moon’s nearly full, casting broad streams of light across the metal and making it look medieval, in a way. Like those old 80s fantasy movies, where they actually used props instead of CGI and greenscreens. The water plant was just missing the reverberating cackle of an evil witch, and crummy smoke drifting in from the rafters. Maybe a TV-crew to yell cut! and signal the end of the act that is Theo’s fall from grace.
If only. Theo wishes that it was all just a set.
Kind of funny at first, that his subconscious brought him here, but when he thinks it through, not so much. Maybe some lingering fail-safe the Dread Doctors left floating around in his head, for when they come to collect him and all his violence. Some kill-switch for when he realizes he’s never going to change and that deep down, he’s a little fucked up rebel that killed his sister. It’s real comedy, he’ll give them that.
He wonders if they’ll ever come back for him one day, if they’ll come back, take him in his sleep like they did when he was nine. Fucking cyclic. Or—and he can’t determine if this version of events is worse or not, but it definitely makes his chest seize more than he’d like to acknowledge—they finally came to the conclusion that he is a failure. That he’s actually, totally, completely a screw-up, that doomed isn’t even half of it.
It’s comforting, the self-loathing. His blanket’s thin, so he appreciates how heavily it drapes over him. Theo’s not used to forgiveness, so he’s taken to embracing all of the wicked things his own brain feeds to him: wretched, star-crossed, contradiction. Broken in all the right ways. Cursed to the replay. Boy, done for. Boy, red-handed and always caught. Boy, incapable of ego death. Boy, sorry.
When he finally manages to drift into sad, sad, slumber, he doesn’t dream. It’s better than the nightmares, but he doesn’t dream. It’s just black space, an abyss, and he thinks it might be the only type of heaven that he’s got left.