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“Rats.” Russel had posited, quite suddenly over dinner.
You remember idly watching him reach across the worktop to shake the moth-or perhaps, rat-eaten cereal box in an unbecomingly triumphant fashion, sending a customary thin trickle of Cheerios spilling out from the raggedy little hole at the bottom, and bouncing across the worktop.
“Rats don’t like Cheerios.” You muttered, neglecting to look up, when it was clear that nobody was going to engage with you.
And lo, you were ignored. As expected.
Noodle furrowed her brow. “Perhaps the Pink Phantom has returned? We ought to set traps, whether for rats, or ghosts.”
“Ghosts don’t eat.” chimed in 2D- only after having spent several minutes cooking up that piece of wisdom.
“Some ghosts do.” Russ countered. “Depends on how attached they are to the physical world.”
“…What about ghost rats?”
“…Uh.” Russel paused, mouth twitching in thought. “I dunno, ‘D. Don’t think I ever saw one.”
Make no mistake, you were perfectly content with letting the buzz and drone of conversation pass you by like a troupe of drowsy hornets on their way upstairs for a kip after a truly tumultuous bender.
Though, on reflection, perhaps you were a little bit sluggish, or antsy, or any of the other insectoid metaphors that would explain their reticence to talk to you, but they should have all known by now that you’d prefer to be thwapped with a tea towel and put out of your misery, rather than keeping up this routine of smashing yourself against the glass that’s been erected between you, since… well, you don’t know for certain.
You came back, and it was there. A crystal-clear, HD4KUltra-whatsit view of just how different things are, and yet twistedly infuriating in their sameness. Ever-so-slightly tilted. Designed to unbalance you, and you alone, whilst everyone else skips through the hallways without a care. Without a thought.
You excused yourself then, because putting a fist through the table unprovoked was definitely not an item on the list of things that Brand-New Murdoc was allowed to do, and the likelihood of that happening was shimmying its way up the drainpipe and heading towards the roof, not helped in the slightest by the scraping of 2D’s cutlery as he revolved it around his plate like the hands of a clock, feeling like a jackhammer to your skull. If Russel noticed that there was barely a dent in your plate of tuna casserole, he made no mention of it, even though you were half expecting him to yell at you to come back and do the washing-up to atone for the aforementioned sin.
Russel should know that you hate tuna, and you hate casserole. You hate that he hides peas in the mashed potato, like some dreadful surprise, and you hate the sloppy, gloopy noise it makes when he splats it onto everyone’s plates one by one, like you’re all queuing up for a school dinner.
Now that you’ve sat and stewed about it for a bit, and played with that little pot of green slime Noodle put in your Christmas stocking last year, things feel clearer, and not completely frazzled by fury, frustration, ferocity, etcetera. You feel pointy, prickly in the pit of your stomach. A functional gnawing at your insides that gets you up off your arse, and furtive in the way you emerge from your (mildly) demolished bedroom.
Darkness. Silence.
Perfect.
A notable and convenient fact about Murdoc Niccals is that he has an ever-expanding portfolio of sneaking practice under his belt (or lack, thereof, in today’s particular case)-and so to slip into this hunched guise is rather like entering a second skin. A secure and airy place to inhabit. A nice little holiday home to escape to, when the main one just gets too cluttered and close for comfort, with all of its fixtures and fittings gone awry.
None of that here. Just the urge to creep about, and talk in only tics and hisses. Retreating, perhaps, but you’ve dug so deep for safety, clawed out your insides with the bloodied fingers and ragged open chest to show for it, that sitting in the cavity you’ve made feels earned.
A break. From feeling, and from being all of those things. From existing as this set of ideas that grind you down. Just let this body be guided by the simplest instincts. Warmth. Water. Food. And beyond that, who knows?
You don’t know anymore. Don’t care to think about it.
What could ‘it’ be?
Don’t know.
When your tongue comes out, you feel no need to correct it. Just leave it be. Leave all of you be. This self, naked under the cover of darkness, where everything is safe, and the only voice that needs to be listened to is the one that’s coming from your stomach.
A tight knot, perhaps, but bearable. The comfort of an old friend, who never needs to hear a word of explanation.
You’ve had a few of those, in your time, but this is the oldest. The dearest, who picked up that baby bird, and screamed for him to live to sate the grasp that hunger had. One day. Then another. Then the next. The promise that it would be soothed a looming prize in every moment when it wasn’t.
You ease up onto your tiptoes as the stairs come into view, descending into thicker, blacker dark. A cosier blanket to wrap yourself in. A starless night sky, or the velvet pitch of raven feathers. Your hand curls around the banister, and you start to edge down. Sideways, to avoid the squeak on the right.
A familiar tingling rises to rest in your shoulders, and you have to stop to let a tic out halfway down. A forceful shrug, and you wobble on your toes, pressing yourself flat as you can against the wall as you breathe roughly through your nose to distract the something, loud and vocal, from escaping into the silence of the night. You can almost touch it with your tongue. Taste it. Ready to burst, like carbonated bubbles.
But no. Not now.
For a moment, you swallow it down, coaxing out a few more sidesteps until you’re finally at the bottom of the stairwell, and the much more comfortable creeping can resume.
Whilst the silence stretches out, taut and unbroken, the inside of your mouth bubbles away, like you’ve just scoffed down an entire tub of Toxic Waste, all at once.
(In your defence, it was hardly your fault, when the thing was left unattended. 2D should have known better. At least the hole in your tongue was an interesting conversation starter for those few weeks.)
As if in reminiscence, your tongue shoots out again, and the moment your jaws unhinge, out comes a sharp burst of noise. You clap a hand over your mouth, and ride out the muffled sensation.
Perhaps it’s not to a satisfactory standard, but what matters is it’s done. Should tide you over for a few minutes, at least.
And a few minutes should be all you need.
You squirm with hastily silenced excitement, and scamper through to the darkened kitchen, where finally, finally, you have first pick of anything you like. Anything! And from the tactical bit of eavesdropping you did when everyone else was lugging the bags in from Aldi the other day, you know the cupboards are absolutely groaning with all kinds of Treats that We Absolutely Shouldn’t Tell Murdoc About.
Well, unfortunately for them, those just so happen to be your very favourite sort. Sucks to be anyone who isn’t Murdoc tonight, haha!
Where to first? Cakes? Sweets? Doughnuts?
Hm. There’s nothing stopping you from having any of those…but also, there’s the exact same number of things stopping you from making a whole meal of this.
So! Crisps it is, then. Great idea, Murdoc!
You clamber up to the crisp cupboard in a flash, pulling it open with an excited flourish to let what must be that giant ‘sharing’ bag of cheese balls tumble into your awaiting arms. You clutch it to your chest, and in a moment of genius, spurred on by a tightening twist of your stomach, stuff the entire packet under your top.
If you had the choice, you wouldn’t even bother coming all the way down to the kitchen at all. Far easier to just keep everything within your grasp, and eat it in the safety of your room.
You leap down from the worktop, only wobbling a little from the impact with the floor, and take stock of the new crinkling as you stand.
Then, you hear the light switch.
And freeze. Scrunch yourself up in another crackle of plastic.
Your toes curl in a fruitless attempt to grip the laminate. You stare at them in the new brightness. Blood throbs in your temple.
There’s a quiet cough. The clearing of a throat.
You tic once. Twice.
“Murdoc.”
“Russel.” You address your feet. Still frozen.
His shadow looms across you as he steps closer.
Beneath your shirt, you clutch the crisps tightly, reassured by the rough grating of plastic against your chest.
You feel…warm. Like your blood’s melting you from the inside out. Condensation dripping from your bones. Thawing out your joints. Your muscles.
Your neck jerks, swinging up at last to scope out the kitchen, and the space claimed by Russel as he advances towards you.
Furrow between his eyebrows.
Palms open.
You spring forward, darting for the door.
He slides. Leisurely, unhurried. Plots himself in the doorway.
Shit.
You pivot. Wall. Other wall. Sink.
Window.
You lunge.
Russel’s quicker.
Stronger.
His hands come round, and grab you by the waist.
You hear a high yelp. A rush, and you’re kicking out. Watching legs flail. Hit nothing.
“Hold on.” His voice is low. Firm against your ear, like cedar wood. You can smell his toothpaste. Aftershave. Some sort of spicy, scented oil that lingers on his skin, and it makes you feel sick.
Your hands feel slippery. Clumsy, and imprecise, they fumble with the precious packet, and your grip on it falters. You watch as it slips, slips from under your clothes, and between your fingers, dropping to the floor with a dull crunch.
“Ah.” Says Russel.
You ignore him, diving out of his loosened hold to snatch it back up again, and hold the prize, your prize, close.
You earned it.
Nobody else.
Russel nods towards them. “Says those are for sharing.”
“So?” you scowl, turning away.
He lets out a long sigh. You hear a squeak of chair legs from behind you, and a soft grunt that announces he’s sat down, and is in no great hurry to get back up again.
“Alright, go on then.” You glare, making sure he gets a good view of you gnashing your teeth.
“Mudz, I know it’s you.”
You turn back towards him by the tiniest fraction. “What’s me?”
“The Kong Food Thief.”
“Catchy name, that.”
“Well, what else are we supposed to call the guy eating us outta house and home?”
You fold your arms-and the crisps crunch beneath them. “Bit sexist of you, presuming it’s a man, and all. Women can be just as good thieves as men-Ever heard of Bonnie and Clyde? Ma Barker, even? Come on, Russ, I know you’re game for a bit of Boney M—”
“Murdoc—”
“And you forgot about cats, too.” You punctuate with a kick of the steel dish from out between the table legs. “Those buggers will get into anything. Best get Noodle’s little moggy in for an interrogation next, eh?”
Russel rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Katsu can’t reach the high cabinets.”
“Maybe you’ve never seen him do it.”
“Katsu’s a girl, man.”
“No he isn’t.”
“Yes, she…” he pauses, exhaling in a distinctly irritated way. “Look. Let’s cut the crap. Fact is, I’ve been sitting down here all night to catch the thief in the act-and you’re the only one that I ever saw.”
“P-Perhaps you nodded off, then.” Your eyes slide away from his, suddenly enthralled by the proclamations of ‘FART’ and ‘BOLLOCKS’, painstakingly written out in multi-coloured fridge magnets.
Russel purses his lips. You give the crisp packet a little squeeze.
“A stakeout, though. That’s novel. You come up with it yourself?”
“Noodle’s idea, mostly. I volunteered to do the sitting, on account of…”
“…Noodle?” you feel your face shift, tugging at the corners.
He nods, in a strangely…gentle way. One that feels disquieting. Upsetting to the knots and snarls that have already settled in your hollow stomach.
Quite suddenly, you have to spin around to find somewhere else to look. You try the window above the sink, but only see the kitchen, reflected back at you by the featureless dark of night.
Disguising a few tics as entirely casual and unbothered stretching, you fiddle about with the taps, cradling your crisps with your other arm.
“And…um. What about 2D?” you enquire over your shoulder, as a thin jet of water hisses over the top of your voice, and masks a quiver that you can feel deep in your guts.
“He doesn’t believe in ghost rats, is all I’m saying.”
“Right.” You nod, at nobody. Your insides feel filled with static. Shot through with pins and needles in every limb.
“You doing okay?”
“Mm.” you respond. At least…you think you might. Maybe. Your…your mouth is a bit…a bit sort of…heavy. Tingly. Pins-and-needles-y. And you’re…not sure. Not sure about. Moving it. If you can move it anymore.
So, you keep it closed, and you keep watching the water swirl and gurgle down the plughole, and it feels a bit like you’re doing the same. Like you’re caught in a whirlpool, and everyone can see that you’re caught in a whirlpool, but…but all they do is say ‘Look, there’s Murdoc, caught in a whirlpool,’ and nothing happens, and on it goes, around, and around, and around.
The floor creaks, and Russel is behind you now. And he’s saying. But you’re not listening, because your ears are full of whirlpool water, and you’re not talking, because of your pins-and-needles-y mouth, and you’re not moving, because you’re too busy being caught in a whirlpool, and you weren’t ever taught to swim. Just flung straight in, and screamed at not to die, or you’d be sorry.
You don’t know if you would be sorry, if you were dead.
Perhaps not now.
A big, big, Russel-sized hand reaches for your shoulder, and you start to sink. You sink all the way down, until you’re crouched against the cupboards, and squatting in layers of kitchen grime, your knees pulled up beneath your chin, and the food you earned, precious and golden, nestled in- between.
Russel gets down in the dirt beside you, and starts speaking in a voice that you can hear. A low voice. A calm voice.
A kind voice.
You shudder.
“The last thing we wanna do is embarrass you, man.”
“I’m—” you feel yourself struggling. Stumbling over the easiest words. “M’not.” Your voice comes out muffled through your jeans.
You peek out from behind your hair and see him smiling. A tired sort of smile. “You know, if there’s some sorta problem, then we—”
You let out a noisy grumble. “Who says there’s a problem?”
“Mudz, there’s no good reason for a grown-ass man to be swiping food from his own house.” He glances over. You stare pointedly away. “…All I wanna do is get a feeling for the…uh…the feelings that are going on here.”
“No feelings.” You snort. “Just not hungry, is all.” Your mouth twists with spite. “You might eat your feelings, but I don’t. so…so just fuck off, okay?”
“You didn’t eat dinner yesterday, either.”
“So what?” You hiss. “I’ll survive.”
“’Survive?’” Russel raises an eyebrow that sets your teeth on edge. “Man, you’ve got the money for anything you could ever want. You don’t need to just ‘survive’ on this kinda shit. C’mon.”
He fingers the crisp packet, and then gives it a decisive tug.
A snarl bursts out. Something hot courses through your veins as you tug back. Harder. Harder. His…his grip is so strong, and your hollow bird bones bend, bow, buckle. You keen a shrill note, clawing your way further and further along, The packet crinkles. Crumples in protest. Your ears ring with it and, and then you’re pressing your nails into his arm. Into your brother’s arm. Blood wells up around your fingers. Your stomach howls, louder then you’ve ever known.
“Ouch.” Comes the faint crackle of a voice that you don’t recognise. From a radio that must be broken. Your body’s dry, but your head feels like it’s swimming, in sound, and rushing blood, and wrinkled plastic crisp packets. You feel a long-abandoned heart in your chest. In your ears. In your mouth. Flitting about, the size of a hummingbird, ready to flee the body of a man who doesn’t need it.
But your body belongs to a boy.
A boy who is small, and scared, and so, so hungry.
His hunger makes him sharp. It pricks his ears. Widens his eyes.
He has to be ready for anything. At any moment.
He has not been shattered by his hunger yet. He doesn’t know the price he’ll pay for a belly that growls too loudly in the dinner queue.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, in a kitchen with bright lights, and prickly, clean smells, and strange voices.
“Murdoc, let go.” Says a voice, and it’s deep and rumbling, and sounds like it could hit, and hurt.
And so, you let go. You press your body up against some cupboards that you see, and make yourself smaller. So small that you could fit inside a cupboard. Fit inside the sink. Get sucked all the way down the plughole, and disappear.
You bury yourself in clothes that are very very big, and don’t look at anything in this strange and colourful house, where you don’t belong.
And you are still. You are very still.
Waiting.
The thing you had your arms around crinkles and crunches. You see it brightly in front of your eyes, for a moment.
And then, it’s taken.
And put somewhere you can’t hope to reach, because you are so small, and there’s a deep, rumbling man who won’t help, and might hit, and hurt.
The deep, rumbling man sits down in front of you. You try to look away, but he is very big, and he takes up all of your eye space.
“Hey.” He says, in his deep and rumbling way. “Do you think you might be having a flashback right now?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, and don’t look at him. A voice comes out of your mouth that sounds like a stranger.
“No.” it says. “I’m right here.”
But you think it sounds unsure. Lost and confused.
You don’t know where here is. These two are talking like you do. Like you should know, and understand, when you don’t, and…and what if they hit, and hurt, because you are so small, and so…so stupid for not understanding?
“You feeling safe?” the deep and rumbling man feels gentle in his pressing, pushing.
The stranger doesn’t answer with words this time. He shakes your head in a tiny movement that you can only just feel. He’s sitting, just underneath your skin. Bigger than you. Tied to the backs of your bones. Full of holes, and hurting. You can feel the way he trembles against you. Never still. Never peaceful.
“Okay.” Says the deep and rumbling man, and he takes a long, slow breath. “I want you to listen, okay? Just listen, for a sec.”
So you listen. You’re still as you listen, but you feel the stranger struggling. Squirming. Wanting to fly away. Whispering into your ear that sometimes flying away is okay. Sometimes flying away keeps you safe. Sometimes flying away is the only thing to do, when things are all too much, and you just can’t bear it anymore.
You reach out, and you take the stranger’s hand.
You hold it. Feel the deep pits and marks of things you don’t quite understand.
You tell the stranger that things will be okay, if you listen.
Only listening. Nothing more.
“Baby bird.” The stranger whispers. “I can’t keep you safe.”
And you tell the stranger that you know that he is trying.
You feel the stranger’s jutting spine, the stark spikes of his shoulders start to flatten. His heart, begins to slow. And gently, you coax him to open his ears, careful not to push too hard.
You listen together to the deep and rumbling man as he breathes, and breathes in that same slow rhythm. Never faltering. Like an ocean, washing in and out, as it always has done, and always will do.
“You want to tell us where we are?” Russel prompts. His eyes are closed, you notice, and it makes you wonder. About trust. And about the things that he has to close his eyes against.
“We’re.” your breath comes slow, and you feel the way your lungs fill, and fill in the moments that have become spare, now that they’re not raggedly huffing out every gasp of air in an instant. “We’re in Kong Studios. In West London.”
“Mm-hm.” Russ agrees. “And what I’m gonna tell you now is the most important part, alright?”
“What’s that?” You find yourself frowning, despite the fact he can’t see you.
“You’re home. You’re safe. And you’re not gonna go hungry again. I promise.”
“I’m…” you blurt “I’m not hungry. I…don’t…”
Russel’s deep breathing Is replaced with a far more familiar sigh. You watch his eyes flicker open as he reaches up to massage his temples.
“I’m not.” You tell him. Quickly. Again. “I don’t need food. I’m not hungry at all. Really. Honestly.”
“You damn near ripped my arm off for a bag of cheese balls, man.”
“Um. I don’t...I don’t need those.”
“Uh-huh.” He raises an eyebrow, his mouth a flat, unreadable line.
“See, I was…I was just getting them. For…uh…for Noodle, actually, and so…”
“Noodle’s asleep, Mudz.”
“Well…yeah, I was…I was going to give them to her later. Y’know, when she wakes up.”
“Sweet.” He deadpans
“Yes. I think so, too. Very touching. Very kind of me. Y’know. Brand New Murdoc and everything.”
“I dunno, man. That sounds a lot to me like Same Old Murdoc.”
“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?” You accuse. “For your information, they’re completely different people, actually, so you can just…just stop with all of this silly speculation!”
“Same Old Murdoc had a tough time with food, too.”
He says it quietly enough, but it may as well be deafening at this close range, where you can see the unmistakeable softness in his face, hear it in his voice.
At this point, Same Old Murdoc would be gunning to smack it right off him, and end up with his fingers taped together in a splint.
As it is, Brand New Murdoc is sandwiched between him and the kitchen sink. Older, not all that much wiser, and shamefully, far slower than in his prime.
“No he didn’t.” you growl, because it’s just about the only thing you can do in this position. With the lights on, of course. Let it be known, Brand New Murdoc is still perfectly adept at all sorts of titillating activities.
Your hips decide that right now is the perfect time to demonstrate such a fact; You tic, and feel your shoulders start to slither down the cupboard door, cheerfully ignored by your enthusiastically bucking pelvis.
At least Russel has the good grace to shuffle backwards, and let you right yourself on your own once it’s passed. Because neither Murdoc, new or old, needs any sort of assistance, thank you very much.
He is exactly where he wants and needs to be.
“Man, I’ve been cooking for you for twenty years. You think I don’t remember?” He persists, with that same tone creeping back into his voice. The gentleness. Kindness. Pity. They fester. Eat at you like germs. Like a sickness seeping right down to the marrow of your bones.
You smear dirty hands against the shining glass. Your little boy-self peers through with his wide eyes, and watches. Watches something he can’t understand. That he will never understand.
Russel taps on the glass.
Hackles raised, you step in front, and growl. “Don’t touch him!”
“Murdoc—”
“He isn’t hungry! Leave him alone!”
This little boy, this baby bird, you feel him quivering behind you. Covering his ears at the roaring, roaring voices that shake the house that is his entire world. His entire life.
“Don’t you ever touch him! Don’t you ever!”
“Murdoc, sit down.”
You look around. You’re…you’re up? You don’t remember that.
But you don’t listen, and you don’t sit. You stay up. You need to be up. Need to be, so baby bird won’t get held down. Won’t get broken.
“I’ll!” your voice explodes. “I’ll kill you! I will! I’m going to!”
Shadows shift. You move.
Slash your nails across a face you don’t know. Ready to rip a throat with your teeth.
Things are black, and red, and that is all that you can see. It is all that you can feel.
It is all that you are.
There’s blood in your mouth. In your nose. Your ears.
Trickling down your legs.
You cry out into the black. A strangled gurgle that nobody can hear, from strings at your throat plucked and strummed.
Your stomach’s full. Gorged like a sweating leech, dazed by bloodlust.
You’re down.
You feel your head lolling against the floor. But see nothing, still. Only thick black. Heavy against you. Burying your mind in a deep, deep fog that snakes around each part of you and lulls it into stillness.
Your chest moves. Stuttering. Shattered. You feel the warmth of breath. You hear it.
And your body hears it too.
It's over, your body tells you. It’s over.
Your cracked lips call out for baby bird.
And you can feel him, peering out from the old and broken things, where he is safe and hidden.
You squat down, so you are only baby bird-sized, and you wait for him to come.
Slowly, he shifts his way out of the shadows, and creeps over. Gives your sleeve a tug.
You look, and see a new stain between his trouser legs. Watch his eyes dart away.
It’s okay, baby bird. It’s okay now.
You hold him close to you. Feel his head against your chest.
He is safe, and he is warm, and that is all that matters.
And slowly, the fog starts to lift. Starts to unwrap itself from the banisters and slither beneath the doors. Lessens the squeezing on your lungs, your heart, your mind.
You can breathe again. You take a breath that tastes of burnt toast and overcooked socks.
You can see again. You stare up at the kitchen ceiling, and count the splats of porridge, and peanut butter and ectoplasmic slime.
In the periphery, Russel hovers, sporting a split lip, and scratches on his chin and neck. You tear your gaze away, tensing as he comes near.
“Want some help? Your choice.”
“Don’t know.” A fretful voice emerges, one you’ve never heard before.
Russ’s face seems distant, like in a hazy dream. Unattached pieces, floating about and making a picture you should remember. But you’re still not sure. Still feeling the red and black drain away, and the fog drift past in dark wisps.
You burrow further into yourself for a moment, stroking the top of baby bird’s head for his comfort, and for yours. He drowses against you, safe in his smallness.
“Russ?” You call out, though he hasn’t left. “Can…can you?”
“Sure.”
“…Sure?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t, would I?”
“Mm.” you tell him, because for all you know, it could be a trick. And you feel like…like things are hard to know, right now. Things are hard for you to say, and do, and think. You feel very, very small.
Russel helps you to sit up, first. Your body wants to crumple, to fold in on itself, and you shiver, shudder as your foggy mind struggles to remember how to feel strong and okay. Because you don’t feel strong and okay. You feel like...like wibbly-wobbly jelly rubbish who can’t do things, and you try and tell Russel that, but it just doesn’t come out, and you grumble noisily at him instead.
“I know.” says Russel anyway. “It’s rough.”
You wonder if he does know, really. It’s something that you should remember, for when things feel easier to say.
“Gonna lift you up now, a’ight?” he lets you look at his hands. Run your fingers across them. “Promise I’ll be gentle.”
You think about Russel’s hands touching you. You keep thinking about Russel’s hands touching you when they’re touching you, and you try to remember that they’re Russel’s hands when you start to forget, and worry slides back in. You try not to feel itchy, and squirmy, and rip-your-skin-off-y, even when Itch and Squirm and Rip Your Skin Off are going at it in your head, and banging pots and pans together to get you to listen.
Russel is a much better drummer than Rip Your Skin Off, anyway.
You do end up squirming a bit, but Russel is used to that. No fuss, he sets you down on the sofa, and you curl up, slumping against the arm.
Feels okay. Feels easier than talking. Easier than going back to that place where you were, and thinking.
Oh.
You bury yourself further into the material. One eye open, still. Watching.
Listening to the quiet. The clock ticks.
The very quiet.
Your tongue clicks. Something from…from sometime.
Not now.
Now Now.
Silly name.
Stupid Stu-Pot name. Ugh.
Russel turns the tap, and dabs at his mouth with wet kitchen roll.
The silence feels long. Swollen. But he doesn’t break it. Just continues pottering. Opening cupboards. Shutting them again.
Words should be going here. A conversation should be happening.
How is he happy with this?
You don’t understand.
If it was you, then…then you’d be shouting. Screaming. Throwing things.
“Russ.”
He doesn’t turn. Just starts drying some dishes left on the draining board.
“Russel.” You repeat, but your voice is drowned out by the squeak of his tea towel against porcelain.
You let the silence sit for a few more moments, and then--
“Russel!”
“You don’t have to explain yourself, Murdoc. Not now. Not to me.”
You feel your face twist. Your mouth comes open, and then shuts again. “No—. But—. I—. See—.” You’re cut off each time Russel deposits another dried dish back into the overhead rack.
“Was something wrong with the casserole?”
The…the casserole?
You gnaw your lip. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“If there was like, too much cream of mushroom, or something, then—”
“No, I just…I just didn’t fancy it, is all.”
“You could’ve told me.”
“It was already in the oven.”
Russel’s face crumples. “You couldn’t get enough of it last week.”
“Mm.” you stare at your hands.
“Something must’ve changed.” He frowns, mumbling to himself as he makes another circuit of the kitchen “…Could have sworn I followed the recipe to the letter…Just don’t know…”
You can feel your teeth grinding away as he continues to mutter, pulling open some drawer or other to leaf through a big stack of laminated recipe cards and wobbling them around like he’s that Australian nonce.
“Fucking hell, will you stop that?” You snarl.
Russ blinks at you, slowly lowering the sheet in his hand.
“Your cooking’s fine. Russ. You can make tuna-bloody-casserole every sodding day, if you want to.”
“But I thought you didn’t like it?”
You hiss, burying your head in your hands. “I just…I just don’t know.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t have a fucking clue if I’m going to love something, or end up puking it up later on. Doesn’t matter how many damn recipe cards you follow, if Señor Stomach decides that he’s not going to play ball, then it’s out.”
“So what isn’t out?”
“I’ll just get my handy list out, shall I?” you scoff. “Crisps. Sweets. Cake…”
“Fries?”
“Sometimes. Birdseye’s Chicken-y things, mostly.”
“…This list doesn’t happen to include any vegetables, does it?”
“Crisps are potatoes, Russ.”
“Besides that.”
“…Ketchup counts, yeah?”
Russel’s quiet for a moment as his eyebrows knit together. “You ever cooked anything before?”
“…I do know how an oven works.” You roll your eyes. “Daddy dearest did love a Fray Bentos pie, after all.”
He gives you a withering look. “I meant from scratch, man. None of that TV dinner garbage.”
“Your precious tuna comes from a can!” You flail in the general direction of the cupboard where the tins are. “Unless you’re up at the crack of dawn in a bloody sou’wester and wellies, then I’m not interested, alright?”
Russel cuts through the blathering with the practiced ease of a man with twenty years’ experience. “Want to cook something now?”
“Pardon?”
“I could teach you, If you’re feeling up for it.”
“Why?”
“Figured it might help.”
“Help what?”
“You.”
You suck in a breath. “Russ, I…I said I’m not hungry—”
“You don’t have to eat it, if you don’t want. Don’t even have to help all that much.”
“So, you…you want me to…sit and watch you make some food?”
“Murdoc, it’s not about what I’m doing. It’s about you, feeling just an iota more comfortable around food.”
“I don’t feel uncomfortable around food.” You scowl. “If anything, you’re far too comfortable around it.”
Russel ignores the jibe, and starts rootling through yet another drawer, which is only known to you as ‘the one with various spikey things you’ve used to terrorise 2D.’
“Might I remind you, I’m fifty-four years old?” you declare, over the sound of crashing and clanging metal. “Dunno why you’re bothering, when I’ve survived this long with the skills I have.”
He plunks some junk on the worktop that you have no great desire to investigate. All of a sudden, the sofa feels extremely comfortable. You decide the best course of action is to hitch up your legs and do your level best to blend in with Noodle’s scatter cushions.
“Think that’s all of it.” You hear Russ murmur, because despite your most convincing portrayal of a scatter cushion, you are, in actual fact, not deaf. “Mudz, you want to pick out a card to follow?”
“No.” you gripe, rolling over to face the wall.
“Alright.” He replies, but instead of the cooking being over, you hear his footsteps getting closer to you.
There’s a squeak and a jolt as he sits down at the other end. You clutch your knees tighter, preparing to feign sleep.
“What about your friend?”
“What ‘friend?’” you snap, forgetting in your haste to clarify that you have thousands, millions of friends, even.
“If we wanted to make that friend of yours feel safe. Feel loved…do you know if there’s anything he might wanna eat?”
“He.” You pause to swallow a mysterious lump that’s got itself wedged in your throat for no reason at all. “He doesn’t like anything. And…and he’s not hungry.”
“Suppose he’s hungry later?”
“I... I don’t think he will be. Um. He doesn’t like eating. Like a ghost.”
“Some ghosts eat.”
“Not…not him, though.”
“Do you know why he doesn’t like eating? Has he told you?”
“He doesn’t need to. I just know.”
Russel reaches over to put a hand on your shoulder. “Sounds like you’re a good friend.”
You cram your knuckles in your mouth, and shake your head rapidly, thankful for the cushions at your disposal.
“He trusts you, Murdoc.”
A sound gets out before you can stop it. A strangled sound.
“And I know you care about him so much. Maybe more than anything.”
You can’t help but let loose a howl from your torn open throat. A howl swallowed by battered old sofa fabric, but a howl nonetheless.
Russel doesn’t speak. He seems content to let this happen. To let you know he’s beaten you.
And you feel beaten. Bruised, bloodied. Every inch of your skin.
“We’ll do something simple. How about that?”
You give him a tiny nod.
“Has your friend had mac’n’cheese before?”
“Can’t remember.” You whisper, lips barely moving.
“Well, I guess this’ll be a brand-new memory for the both of you.”
Russel doesn’t make you get up when he does. He doesn’t make you do anything at all. He lets you stay, scrunched, and hunched, and small, even in your old, worn body that droops, and sags, and wrinkles.
With heavy eyelids, baby bird twirls his finger through his hair, and sucks his thumb.
In that safe and small space where he is, you hum to him, and softly suck your own.
He traces the lines on your big body. Your collarbones and stitched-up chest. The deep pits beneath your eyes. Your shoulder blades, where the skin is taut and tugged. The ragged, jagged veins.
The life that hasn’t happened to him yet.
You’re still. Soothed by the thumb in your mouth, and the warm weight of him and his gently searching hands.
You follow Russel, with only your eyes, watching with a slow and safe silence as he weaves his way around the room. Open, and close, the gentle sounds. The measured ease of no worries. No fear of an empty cupboard. A certainty that things will be there for him.
“See?” you show baby bird. He looks out from the grubby windows, rotting in their frames. Flexes your fingers against the sofa. Paws at the fabric. Takes a shagpile cushion in your hands to press against his cheek.
Baby bird peeps over with wide eyes as Russel places ingredients down on the table. Milk in a big plastic carton. A block of crumbly cheese. Butter. Flour that lands with a thump. And…and something yellow that baby bird isn’t sure about.
Then, Russel notices baby bird watching. “Wanna come and help?”
Baby bird gives his lip a little chew. His eyes dart back to the table, and the food that sits there. The cheese he could chomp right up, without bread, or butter, or anything. Just in case…in case…
He hums, and ums, and plays with the fluffy cushion whilst he thinks about it. Russel waits with his gentle eyes. No crinkle of an eyebrow to be had. No tighten of a jaw. No clench of a fist.
You nod, for you, and for baby bird, shifting so your feet are on the ground, and your head leaves the safety of your small and comfy space.
Bigger, and colder, you think, propping your bones up against a hard seat at the kitchen table, and letting your foot drum against the floor. A frantic flight, still caught inside you. Baby bird struggles, unsure now. Too much.
You put careful arms around him. Stroke his hair. Your big body will keep him safe. Keep him warm.
Just watch, baby bird. All you need to do is be here.
Russel flicks and clicks around with the oven, and you click your tongue, and whistle. Old little hiccups, those. But perhaps to be expected, when your body feels caught in this strange limbo of Same-Old, and yet Brand-New. So young, so helpless in mind, but ancient, haggard in your bones.
You touch a finger to your temple, and start to rub, a sigh passing through your entire self, blowing a chill through the house.
Blink. Back at the table.
“Where’s the pasta?”
“Gotta make a start on the sauce first.” Russel pushes a glass bowl and the unopened cheese in your direction. “Grate that for me?”
You look over to where he’s standing by the hob, already aflame in electric blue “What’re you doing?”
“Melting the butter.”
“I can melt butter.”
Russ hums. “Thought you’d have more fun with the cheese.”
“Oh.” You mumble, turning over the box grater in your hand, and running an absent finger over the rough holes.
It’s only once you’ve ripped the packet clean in two that you realise that Russel never specified how much cheese you need to grate. Oh well. Recipes have always seemed like a bit of a nuisance, anyway.
You grate with plenty of vigour, fervour, and all sorts of high-energy words like that, because as it turns out, shredding things up is very fun, actually. Perhaps this is a latent talent, blossoming with just the right nutrients and enrichment. The Guinness Book of Records must have a space for Murdoc Niccals and his Extremely Efficient Cheese-Grating. And if it doesn’t, then surely, they can just kick out the man who can eat baked beans with chopsticks, because who in their right mind would want to be remembered for that? Hardly a talent.
You know talents. You know everything about talents. Everything about talent shows, too. And you know that Pauline Pritchard and her fucking hula-hoop didn’t deserve to win that bloody—
“Fuck!” you yelp, sharp pain lancing up your hand as the grater slices into your knuckles.
“Careful, man.” Russel chides, already primed to survey the damage.
You drop the metal death trap with a scowl. It takes a moment to realise that you’re covered in flyaway bits of cheese. Quick as a flash, you gobble them up whilst Russ is rummaging in a drawer.
Perhaps…perhaps your grating was getting a bit cross. Maybe.
Not your fault, though. Russel should know better than to trust you with something that could take an eye out…or…you know, a finger.
Yours seem fine. No amputation to speak of, but still, Russel adamantly affixes a bright blue plaster to your hand.
“That’s rubbish.” You sneer, affronted by the total lack of swear words printed on the plastic.
“It’s professional.” He corrects.
“Have you heard Gordon Ramsey?”
Russel huffs a sigh, leaning over to inspect your bowl.
Whilst he’s occupied, you check in with baby bird, and find him shaking like a leaf.
Oh. Oh, baby bird…
He turns his face away from you, hiding his own bloody hands.
“No more grating.” You feel yourself say aloud, and your voice sounds frayed.
Russel regards you for a long moment before he speaks. “Got it.”
Does he really have it, though? You kneel down to card your hands through baby bird’s thick curls. Hair you haven’t felt for a long time.
“Mudz?”
“Mm?”
“You feeling okay to carry on?” he asks in a low voice. “We can stop, if you need. Take a break?”
You shake your head, slightly dizzy. Slightly unsure. “S’okay.”
“If you’re sure, man.” His brows knit together, but he doesn’t press. Doesn’t squash you down in questions that feel too hard to answer right now.
A lot of things feel very hard. Your seat feels hard beneath you. The table feels hard when you walk your fingers up and down the wood. Your teeth feel hard in your mouth.
You brux and bite.
Russel doesn’t comment. He slides the milk carton over.
“Don’t like it.” You look away.
“You don’t have to drink it.” Russel’s voice sounds jumbly to you, but you can’t say that. “Just measure it out for later.”
“Don’t like it later.”
“Murdoc, look.” He helps you up, and walks you over to the stove. “We’re just putting it in the sauce, see?”
You do your best, and try to see. You see bubbly water in one pan, and bubbly butter in another, and…and no milk.
“Not.” You point to the pans. “Not drinking that. Or milk.”
“No.” says Russel. He’s holding a…a thing in one hand, and a bigger thing in his arm. “Gotta add the pasta now.”
“Not milk?” you think your head might be hurting. You pinch your forehead, and stare at the milk on the table.
“We can do that later, man. It’s all good.” Russel tips pasta into the bubbly water pan, and a big whoosh of steam goes everywhere, and your face and your eyes feel very steamy and foggy and cloudy and very, very hot.
“What’s that?” you point at the other thing he’s holding.
“…It’s mustard, Murdoc.”
“…Not milk?”
“No.” says Russel. Firm. Calm. He unscrews the lid. Shows you yellow. Like paint. “You want to do it? Just a little bit.”
“Just a little bit.” You agree. Russel holds the mustard thing still, and you spoon a very, very little spoon.
“Nice.” He gives you a thumbs-up, and shows you to drop it into the bubbly butter pan.
“Very yellow.”
“Mm.” Russel nods. “Cheese goes later.”
“And milk?”
“You’re not going to taste the milk, man. It’s what makes the sauce thick and creamy.”
“Don’t like milk.” You grimace, and push the carton away.
“Some of your favourites have milk in them. Ice-cream. Chocolate. Doughnuts.”
“Hmph.” You tell him, thunking your chin on the table and not getting up.
Russel turns away, and does something you can’t see on the worktop. And when he turns back, he’s holding a new thing.
A wooden spoon.
“Help me stir in some flour?”
“No.”
You stand, and you walk over to the sofa, burying yourself in the cushions again. And you don’t talk, or look, or anything.
“You feeling stressed out?” Russel’s voice peeks through the mound of fluff and fabric. “No worries. Take a breather.”
“No.” you grouse, with tosses and turns and tics. Your head bangs the arm of the sofa, and a couple of cushions fly across the room. Your voice feels so small, and hard to use, and it struggles to make words. And Russel and his talking about milk and cheese and mustard and, and it’s so fast when your head is feeling all little and foggy and not belonging on top of your body.
You sniffle. Snuffle to yourself. Swooshing noises keep going on outside. You smell gas, and cooking smell, and you can’t remember what Russel said he was going to do, but you don’t like it. You don’t.
You’re not hungry.
You’re not.
Your tummy gurgles a loud, loud gurgle, and you shush it, because it should know that it mustn’t do that.
You sniff.
And you sob.
“Murdoc.” Says Russel’s voice, but it still feels far away. Not like he’s peeping, and prodding, and poking at you. “Remember, you don’t have to eat it, if you don’t want to.”
You whimper at him, instead of real words.
“I’m not gonna force you to eat anything you don’t want. You hear me?”
You think you hear. And so, you make a little noise.
“And you know what else?”
Beneath the cushions, you shake your head. There are lots of things you don’t know. Like they’ve all been zapped out of your mind by a big Something.
“I’m not gonna be mad, if you don’t like it. Or if you just don’t wanna eat it. Hell, you don’t even need to give me a reason.”
You lie still, and you think.
And then you feel hot, and bright, and fiery.
You feel hot bright fire surge through your skin and in your blood, and all over. Every bit of you is fire.
“No!” you shout, and you throw a cushion towards the sound of his voice. You hear it flumping to the ground, and not hitting him. “No!”
You flail, and kick, and all the cushions come tumbling off you, and you spring up, your hair sticking out everywhere. Whirl around, and the kitchen blurs, but you see everything at once.
Russel stands next to the stove, whisking milk into the pan.
“I hate you!” you bellow, and your voice echoes against the low ceiling. You say it again. And again. And again.
“Murdoc, can you put the cheese in, please?”
You seize the bowl in question. Snatch up a huge handful of cheese, and hurl it towards the hob. And then another. Then another.
“Thank you.”
Still gripping the bowl, you pivot.
Fling.
And it smashes against the wall.
Glass rains down.
Like a flame, you flicker. Twist, and crackle.
The house sways. Pulsing light and dark in a strobe.
And you are here, and you are there, and.
Your head breaks the surface.
And then sinks back down.
Into the dark depths.
Sound foams.
A wordless roar, a smash, a cry.
And then the soft ticking of a clock.
Back and forth it rocks. Your pirate ship. Your cradle.
Howling, screaming winds.
And quiet.
Only a dim and distant murmur.
Words you can’t work out, before they’re ripped away by the tempest.
Before your body’s ripped, and torn, and everything is raw again.
Everything is fresh, and new, and you are cold, and naked.
Shaking.
In a storm.
And then, thrust into a dry house, but shaking still.
Dragged back.
Pushed forward.
Stretching. Snapping.
Your legs pulled apart.
You hiss at something foggy. Rock back on your feet.
Feel smooth laminate. No creaking.
Just a soft sweep, repeated. Solid in its sound.
Your eyes still swim in the deep daze of a kaleidoscope. You reach, and try to touch the shapes that dance and shimmer and sparkle.
There’s a rumble, and a weight. Holding on. A something holding on.
Holding you.
“No, no, no.” it rumbles, and keeps holding.
“No, no, no.” you reply, and your voice is loose, and mumbled, and jumbled, but it is yours.
You think how there has been a smash.
Because you remember a smash. And you remember a roar, and a cry.
You don’t remember a smash, and no roaring. A smash, and then holding instead.
Brand-New. Not Same Old.
You itch. The Same Old skin itches, and the you inside that skin rolls its shoulders.
Baby bird inside that skin buries his head in a warm place. A sort of place he hasn’t known before.
“It’s bad.” Same Old you whispers.
“Mm.” hums the rumbly, Russel-y voice that comes right up from his chest, and buzzes against your ear.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just shifts, to show you a clean and swept and not-bad floor.
You stay still. Wiggle your toes. Feel your nails click against the ground.
Here.
Not there.
“You aren’t bad.”
Russel makes a noise.
“When do I…” you pause, and start again. “When does it stop being bad? When does it go away?”
He sighs. “I can’t tell you that, man.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t work like that.” He shrugs, and your head bumps up and down on his shoulder. “We ain’t the same.”
“Then why bother?”
“…Mudz, you don’t deserve to be alone in those moments.”
Your brow knots.
“Sure, we ain’t going through the same shit, but I don’t wanna see you sucked down into those dark places, cause I sure as hell know how that feels, at least.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, so—” He clears his throat.
You tic loudly before he can get a word in edgeways. His mouth twitches.
“It’s all I can do to show you some of the ways I deal with stuff. Some might work for you. But some might not. What matters is keeping an open mind, and not…shuttering it off at the first sign of trouble.”
“I don’t shutter anything off.”
Russel gives you that sad sort of smile that may as well be code for ‘Murdoc’s Said The Wrong Thing Again.’ You wriggle out of his grip, and decide on a whim to go and inspect the spot where the broken glass lay.
You stand in it.
Cold. Like a ghost trying to pierce its way through time.
Baby bird trembles.
You hush him. Press your bare feet all around that spot, and feel no sharp stab.
A door closed. A draught excluded.
Safe now.
“What’re you doing, man?”
“Checking.”
“Alrighty.” He responds, but doesn’t question further. Instead, he ambles over to the worktop. “Wanna get this in the oven once you’re done?”
You’d almost forgotten about the food. Almost pushed it to the back of your mind. A reflex, with only the sharp eyes and sharp ears to show for it. Any cries from your stomach come in fleeting whispers.
But still, out of (very) mild interest, you slink over, staying a few paces back as Russ sprinkles the last of the cheese on top of his stoneware oven dish. You’re pretty sure it’s the very same one he forbade anyone from touching after last week’s extremely boring trip to Lakeland, when you had to stand outside because you were having a really bad tic day, and you’d already put the blokes from B&Q on red-alert for vocalising too loudly in the lighting department.
Baby bird peeps out to watch the pasta slide into the oven, staring through the window as Russel sets the timer.
“Twenty minutes.” He says, perhaps to himself, or perhaps to you.
“Twenty minutes.” You repeat to baby bird, who sometimes finds time hard, and can’t always be patient.
Russel turns, and looks at you with an unusual sincerity. “Thanks for your help, Mudz.”
You sniff, and shrug, and turn away to stare at the furniture in a very concentrated, deliberated fashion, and don’t think at all about everything that’s happened tonight.
Everything Russel’s seen.
You don’t think about anything like that. Not at all.
You look back over your shoulder at the oven.
Nineteen minutes.
“It’s not going anywhere.” Russel tells you, voice calm as he wipes down the worktops, shooing away errant cheese shavings.
You bristle. “I know.”
“Sometimes it helps to hear it out loud.”
“W-Well, you don’t need to.” You sneer, collapsing into a chair with your arms folded.
“Y’know, sometimes things aren’t necessary, but it’s still nice to do ‘em.”
“Waste of time.” You grumble, chin firmly rooted to the table.
“For you, maybe.” Russ hums. “Not for me, though.”
“Well, goody for you.” You swing your legs beneath you in exasperation, ready to kick your chair out at a moment’s notice. “I’m glad you feel nice.”
“Mudz, it is okay for you to let that happen to you. Even in the face of everything. Hell, especially in the face of everything.”
“Easy for some.”
“It’s really not.”
You falter. Nibble your lip. Squeeze your eyes shut.
Then open them again, with a quick glance to the clock
Sixteen minutes.
You stand, and walk over to the sink, tugging the sash upwards. A blast of crisp air greets you as you stick your head out of the kitchen window.
Your cheeks inflate. Your eyes become watery.
You twist your neck, and stare at the moon.
Sickle-shaped. You could block it out with the end of your finger.
You inhale through your nose. Let the air sit there, for longer than it should.
The last train thunders past.
You comb your fingers through your hair, and then reel yourself back in.
Russel pads to and from the fridge, slotting the used ingredients back in a systematic way that you’ve never been able to make sense of.
You absently grab a dirty spoon, and dump it in the sink with a clatter.
“Sorry.” You tell the air.
He regards you with confusion.
“For…” you gesture with both hands.
“I’m not mad.”
“…Oh.”
You lick your lips. Start pacing one way. But then, stop. Double back on yourself.
Your skin starts to itch in a prickling, too-tight way, where things feel out of place, and the air’s too heavy on your body. Doesn’t seem right to look at anything.
Just stand still, and not really talk.
Not really…not really be here anymore.
“Murdoc?”
“Mm.”
“You doing alright?”
“Mm.” your mouth keeps answering for you, but…but you’re not sure if those are words. You don’t think they sound like words. But. You. You don’t. You don’t know. You. You can’t.
“Need some help again?”
“Mm.” You. You can’t. Think of. Of words. What words. Words are…are happening. And. And Russel is saying. But. But nothing.
You shut your eyes. Russel’s…Russel’s words. A..again? Again. What. What is again? What is again?
Hands. Hands, says your body. Hands…hands again?
“Aah!” you make a sound. Because. Because not. Not hands again. No!
And Russel. Russel makes lots. Lots of sounds back. Words. You think. Shushing words. Quieting words. And hands. Hands are there, but. But shush. Shush Quiet Murdoc.
But then. No Hands. And down. Oh. Down. Um. Good. You think.
Nice to be down. Not up. Lie down. Nice. Shush.
“Relax.” You hear. And you relax. Your body goes floppy. Loose. Relaxed.
“Listen.” You hear. And you listen. To breath in and out. And a beating heart.
“Look.” You hear. And you look. You see light, and colour, and shapes, and things.
You touch. And you feel softness. Between fingers. Around you. Your body.
You sniff. And you smell the smell of food. Nostrils quiver.
Your tongue. Feels warm, wet. Flops out.
You blink and blink your eyes. Russel sits near.
“You’re back now?”
You move your head, and feel it nod, although you don’t know where you were. Where you’ve been.
“Don’t push yourself, okay? Be gentle.”
And so, you gently move yourself to watch the clock.
Three minutes.
“Ah.” You say, in a voice that belongs to you. You touch the tip of your finger to your teeth, one by one.
“S’okay.” Russel follows your eyes. “You just got a little stuck. Happens sometimes.”
You curl your toes. Shift your feet from side to side. They don’t feel stuck now.
“How’s your friend doing, man?”
“He.” You pause for a moment to feel for baby bird. His presence peering out from around a doorframe. “I don’t think he liked that.”
“I’ll bet he likes it when you’re home.”
You give him a small nod. Feels strange to talk about baby bird, but Russ would know. Russ would understand how it feels to have houseguests. “…Russ?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“Not a problem.”
“I. Um.” You snatch up a cushion and fiddle with a handful of frankly unnecessary macrame tassels. “I do, actually…y’know…mean it.”
“I know.”
“Okay.” You let out the tiniest relieved breath, absently plaiting together some trailing strings.
You can’t recall if there was ever a time when Noodle’s hair was long enough to plait, but still. You would have done it. If she’d asked.
At least, you think you would.
Russel sniffs the air in a very obviously deliberate way. “Mm. Smells good, right?”
“S’pose.” You shrug. Smell’s hardly your most important sense, after all.
“What’re you thinking, then? Wanna give it a try?”
“…Maybe.”
“Sound.” The sofa creaks as he stands up. “Y’know, things always taste better when you make ‘em yourself.”
“Doubt it’ll taste much different, then, will it?” you argue. “All I did was dollop in a bit of Colman’s, and then pelt you with cheese.”
“It’s about the experience, man.”
“…The experience of being pelted with cheese?”
“You made a contribution.” The smile he’s wearing would surely be enough to infuriate you, were you not doing your level best to be gentle with yourself. “Sure, it was a small one today, but it’s progress, right?”
Before you can respond, the timer beeps shrilly. Russel dons a remarkably clean pair of oven mitts-you presume another purchase at Lakeland- and pulls open the door. Steam billows out into his face.
You find yourself shrinking back into the sofa. Perhaps it’s the loud ringing, or the ominous way he pauses before dragging out the dish, but something makes you not want to take part in this. An odd ritual that you can never remember being involved in.
Despite yourself, you peer through the mists when he places it down on the table. You can hear it bubbling from here. Crispy on top, and molten underneath.
You tuck your knees under your chin, feeling baby bird creep over to watch as well. He isn’t sure. You can feel it in the way he clings to you.
Russel retrieves a bowl from the rack, and a big serving spoon from the cupboard.
You hear a sharp intake of breath as he stands over the dish, and it doesn’t occur to you that you might’ve been the one to make it until he pauses. Looks across at you.
A glimmer of understanding flits across his face.
He puts down the spoon.
“Do you want to come and do it yourself, man?”
Wordless, you nod, edging over with tiny, baby-bird pigeon-steps. You tilt your head, assessing.
“You can have as much as you want. Or as little. It doesn’t matter” says Russel in a low voice.
You chew the inside of your mouth. Baby bird’s tummy gives a tiny gurgle.
Slowly, slowly, you take hold of the spoon. Suck in another breath.
And then, you cut a little slice in the corner to pile into your bowl.
Mind on autopilot, you drift to the cutlery drawer, swiping a fork. A spoon. A knife. You begin hazily shambling your way back towards your room, until Russel takes your shoulders, and guides you over to where you were sitting before.
You stare into the depths of cheese sauce and pasta, poking and prodding with your fork. Checking underneath the golden crust on top.
“Take all the time you need, Mudz. No rush.”
“No.” you reply, feeling distant and breathy. “No rush.”
Baby bird nibbles at his fingers. You show him the bowl. Coax him.
Gentle with him. And gentle with yourself, because things feel…fragile. And you feel fragile. Your bones are hollow. Your skin is thin, flecked with goosebumps, in this ancient, creeping cold.
Come on, baby bird. Have a tiny piece. That’s all.
Nothing else.
Baby bird gives you a shaky nod, and you spear the smallest little tube of macaroni. You twirl it on the fork for just a moment.
And then you gulp it down, without pausing to chew.
Baby bird opens his eyes a tiny crack. He wonders if he can have another.
Baby bird, you’re…you’re sure?
And baby bird tells you yes quite chirpily.
“What’s the verdict?” Russel asks you as you’re mid-chew.
“Alright.” You mutter, already loading another forkful.
He grins. You ignore it, in favour of gobbling up more. The tension in your stomach starts to shift. The knots begin to unclench. It’s only now you realise just how big they were, wrapped tightly round your guts. Around your everything.
For a while, you allow yourself to sit and eat. Russel doesn’t feel the need to comment on your table manners.
Of course, you’re still watching. From the corner of your eye, you scope out the dish.
“Not going anywhere, remember?”
And maybe…maybe you did need to hear it this time. For baby bird’s sake. Baby bird isn’t used to this. Isn’t used to things that won’t just disappear. He worries about tricks, and secrets, and surprises.
But no, baby bird. Not this time. Never again.
Your bowl shimmers, blurs in front of you, but you carry on eating. Carry on until your fork scrapes the bottom, and you’re licking the sides clean.
Full, and sleepy, baby bird nestles into your chest. You hold him close. Play with his hair until you feel your own eyelids drooping.
“Mudz?”
“…What?”
“Thanks.”
You frown, rolling your shoulders against the arm of the sofa. “Didn’t you already do that one?”
“This is for something else.”
“Spit it out, then.”
“Thanks for letting me in. I know it’s damn hard to do, so—”
“Hardly like I had a choice.” You grumble, eyes very determined in their shut-ness. “None of you know when to leave me the fuck alone.”
“You don’t do well on your own, man.”
“I did fine without anyone for thirty fucking years, Russ.”
He's silent for a moment. You have a sneaking suspicion that he’s doing the Murdoc Said The Wrong Thing Smile again, but don’t bother opening your eyes to check, because that’s the last thing you need to be seeing right now.
“That’s your cue to leave, by the way. You watched me eat; You’re not gonna watch me sleep as well. Soz.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Here’s an idea: Go to bed. You can do all the dreaming you want there.”
“Alright, alright.” You can hear laughter in his voice. “Want me to turn the light off for you?”
“No.” you tell him. Quietly.
“Okay.” He replies, at the same volume. “G’night, Mudz.”
“Yeah yeah, sleep tight, whatever. Don’t let Katsu bite you on the arse again.”
“I didn’t know she was there.” He pouts. “She blends in with the couch downstairs.”
“Noodle should dye him purple.” You feel around for the fluffy cushion from earlier, waving it around to demonstrate.
“But then we’d sit on her down here.”
“Go away.” You demand shortly.
There’s silence. You crack open one eye.
Russel’s gone. You can hear his heavy footfalls slowly fading as he climbs the stairs.
You huff, staring into the corners of the room where the light doesn’t quite reach.
Baby bird dozes, wrapped in a satiated sleep. Perhaps his first. You can’t be certain.
The bulb glows bright above your head. The fridge buzzes in the corner. Through the window, you’re ogled by a blue-black slice of sky.
Despite the noise, there’s a stillness in the air. An empty, hollow feeling that raises your head from where it rests in vain. The pasta dish gleams on the table in golden splendour. Still full to the brim, save for the baby bird-sized square you claimed. You pull out a chair. Sit yourself down.
Blissful, peaceful, baby bird dreams on.
But you shiver. You shudder.
Not going anywhere.
But…But…but what if?
What if there is a trick? A secret? A surprise?
And what if they see baby bird, sleeping so soundly, and they…
And you…
You feel things spiralling, like pasta shapes splurging out of a machine. Baby bird is still asleep, but. But your heart is so fast, and…and what if? What if? You shouldn’t, you mustn’t let them!
Quick! You need to be quick, you need to be fast, like what your heart’s doing, pounding, pounding, pounding.
Noodle, 2D…you can feel them. Hear their voices talking, about how…how they’re going to eat so, so much, and Ha Ha Ha, Baby Bird Won’t Get Any! Even Russel, Ha Ha Hee Hee Baby Bird Wasn’t Quick Enough! Wasn’t Fast Enough, and Now His Tummy Will Be Empty Empty Empty!!
The spoon finds its way into your hand. Presses into your skin.
And you dig and dig and dig, and stuff it into your mouth. More, and more, and more, until your mouth is so full that you can’t breathe, you can only chew.
And when you’ve chewed to mush, you load yourself with more.
More. Your jaw snaps tight and mashes to a pulp. Opens like a hinge.
You can’t taste. Saliva wells up. Spills out between your teeth.
More. You claw it out with your bare hands. More.
More.
And then.
And then.
It's gone.
You rock forward.
Moan.
And then slump over the tabletop, out cold.