#surro writes: tabte

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

WT #1: "How many fingers am I holding up?"

The Aftermath before the End - Speculative/science fiction universe.

TW: Mentions of suicide attempt | references to self harm | drug abuse | depression | emetophobia WC:

Summary: Jack visits Mitch after a troubling night.

WC: 684

The soft thud of fabric on his chest swore him to consciousness before he could even comprehend it.

Like the desert, his mouth was parched; his lungs heaving for the dry air his surroundings had to offer. Exhaustion carried his limbs while his heart beat to its own erratic drum.

His eyes were open, staring as they always were. How long had they been open for? The grittiness to his vision suggested a while, yet the fresh tear tracks trailing his temples suggested otherwise.

His sense of hearing was the last to come back, like a reluctant tide it washed in, first with static then with details of his surroundings. The rustle of fabric, the scrape and stomp of worn feet on an even more trodden carpet. Next was the grumble of the ancient boiler, followed by the fan of an overworked computer in the corner. A clatter in the kitchen and traffic outside developed more of his soundscape, whereas an argument on the floor above rounded him back to the room.

The steps approached. Stomp, drag, stomp, drag. Somewhere in there was a curse, and maybe even a sigh.

A man dropped into his periphery, a stilted action that landed him on one knee with the other leg stretched elsewhere.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Jack asked, showing him the backs of his index and middle finger, the others were tucked into his palm.

“Two, you tosser.” He groaned, rolling his head to get a good view of under the sofa. In hindsight he was ashamed.

“Yep, that’s you alive.”

And if the man strained, he may have heard pity behind the thinly veiled relief that was Jacks anger.

“You’ve got to stop doing this Mitch.”

“I know.”

“I know, you know. But knowing is different to acting upon it.” Jack huffed, hauling himself back onto his feet.

“What was it this time?” He asked, taking back the hoodie he had previously tossed onto Mitchell’s chest, and folded it over the back of the sofa. “Rich said you were pretty close to offing yourself this time before they intervened. Apparently you were trying to toss yourself in the estuary.”

“Probably coke then.” Mitchell groveled, his heart pounding in his chest, so much so he wondered if a heart attack was on the way.

“One of these days someone’s not gonna be around to stop you. To haul you back here and call me.” Said Jack, returning from the small ensuite where he had turned the shower to warm. But by the time Mitchell would get to it, the water would only be halfway to tepid. 

"I know."

"I know you know." Jack said. The mantra had long lost its anger - it's ire at Mitchell's lies. He stood patiently, watching the husk of his friend slowly gather himself. He crawled up the edge of the couch, fingers clawing the cracked, faux leather as he went. Splashes of mud and vomit and traces of road salt from the winter slush coated his trouser legs that hid scarred skin, and eventually Mitch managed to get standing on the shaking appendages. Jack crossed his arms, more in an attempt to get warm as opposed to a refusal to help. There was a rattle of pans, startling Mitchell from his concentration. Jack appeared nonplussed. 

"Lisa insisted on coming too. She's starting dinner; figured you might need to line your stomach with something."

Mitchell stopped, swaying on the spot. He frowned as he tried to comprehend the scenario; he didn't have any meaningful food beyond the few old vegetables in the fridge. And how did Lisa get in? How did Mitchell get in? 

A migraine began to spark behind his eyes as he tried to shift the cogs in his mind into remembrance. 

"She bought stuff from our flat.” Jack filled in, stepping forward and taking Mitchell's arm. He gripped hard, and Mitchell hissed in pain. Jack immediately softened. Specs of dried blood soaked through the thin cotton of his old plaid shirt. 

“Come on Mitch, you’re the one who has to pay the water bill.” 

“I know.” 

“I know you know.” 

#whumptober2023 #surro writes: tabte #whump #original work #original writing #speculative fiction #science fiction #suicide tw #depression tw #angst #emetophobia tw #self harm tw #drug abuse tw

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

WT #8: Overcrowded ER

[TABTE is a speculative fiction/sci-fi story - the current novel I'm working on (link in pinned post). This is a small flashback snippet I wrote to get back into it]

Summary: Mitchell's surgery incisions get infected, and Jack drags him to the ER.

WC: 567

“How’re you doing, Mitch?” Jack asked, wincing at the full-bodied smell of an overcrowded A&E. The aforementioned man was slumped into Jack's side from where they sat against a wall, his stomach tying itself in knots as the acids raged like a tidal wave of mixed emotion and his chest pulsed in agony. For everything Mitchell wanted to say, he found he couldn’t settle on a word to describe just how rough he felt. It was though his body was trying to bake itself from the inside out, meanwhile his chest had an aching, numb pain that split his body in two every time he tried to raise his arms. 

On the one hand, he supposed he should have been grateful for the surgery, ont he other he was vehemently bitter about being left to the wolves after. With little aftercare and opportunities supplied by an underfunded division of the healthcare service, it was no surprise that his drains and incision sites had gotten infected after being left in for too long. While the surgery was necessary to improve his quality of life and mental health, the resulting complications and lack of support had him feeling utterly useless. Regardless of how thankful he was for Jack's presence and help in his recovery, Mitchell had tried to take his recovery into his own hands as he didn’t want to burden the man, not when he too was still reclaiming his independence. 

Nevertheless, it was Jack who had limped into Mitchell’s house-share situation, and dragged him to A&E after Mitchell had sheepishly admitted over text that he was not feeling well. His follow ups had been canceled, and his painkiller prescription delayed due to shipment issues, therefore he blamed his misery on his admittance of vulnerability. The blond had tried to argue that Jack had a job to do, but the data analyst had dismissed him with the promise his code was sorting the data supplied to him as they spoke. He must have contacted Lisa too, as just half an hour after her shift ended, she strode into the packed waiting room and spotted them against the wall. 

Guilty. 

Guilty was the word Mitchell supposed he was looking for. 

“Tired.” Came the translation. 

“You’re always tired.” Jack huffed, greeting his fiancé with a small smile. 

She resolutely sat on the other side of Mitchell, still in her uniform and brandished a small chocolate bar from her bag. Mitchell’s stomach flipped, and she obviously saw his pallor change from pale to green. Nevertheless, she broke a piece off and handed it to him, and repeated the action for Jack, both of the boys accepting the treat and eating it with fervor, Mitchell less so, as he settled to let it melt on his tongue as chewing was too strenuous of a task to attempt. 

“Thanks.” Jack uttered, grateful for the small comfort. Mitchell let his head drop to Lisa’s shoulder, eyes cast on the small TV screen he couldn’t quite focus on. Ultimately, the events on the screen offered a distraction for the ailing patients, as several years following the bombings, the Archaean government was finally able to supply their own account after an intense but prolonged investigation. Despite the trio being victims of the event, Mitchell paid little mind to the proceedings, as he didn’t care who did it, he just wanted to know why. 

TBC

#whumptober2023 #surro writes: tabte #the aftermath before the end #original writing #speculative fiction #infected wounds #infections #overcrowded er