Chapter Text
The first thing you notice is the lack of warmth in your body, and, in moving your aching unused muscles, you notice the frosty chill of the long untouched carpet. Moving your legs fills your ears, the shifting of cloth fabric on scratchy short carpet floods the otherwise silent room, and finally urges you to make a noise, a groan of sorts, as your eyes open and you take a conscious whiff of the room. You dont see much before recoiling, closing your eyes again as you start incessantly coughing, pulling yourself up to face the ground, coughing downwards.
It takes a while for you to get over the musk of rot and mildew, and the stale feeling of dust coating your lungs. You finally get a chance to open your eyes and look around, with small coughs still racking your shoulders. The room is dingy, but familiar, with its muted green floral wallpaper, and its warm wooden accents, lit with the sunrises light. You sit up, looking behind you at the big antique bed frame and its tossed unmade bed, and finally glance your eyes around the room, spotting the table with the broken glass and photo frames, and the big wooden closet doors across the room.
Your vision blurs as warm tears drip down your cheeks. It starts with huffs of sobbing exhales, but you get one big breath in, and out comes a loud hollering cry, a full force scream that makes your arms and fists shake, gripping the carpet and ripping out strands. You feel undone completely, nauseous and angry and sad and scared and just,
Tired.
Time passes and you end up slouched against solid wood, breathing shakily as you fight the weight of your lids, finally sighing and forcing yourself onto your legs, standing with a hand of support on the nearest object, the footboard. You make your way across the room, taking note of how you're still wearing the same clothes. You could change that now, the thought flits across your mind, stopping you and urging you towards the closet. You don't know the next time you'll get to change clothes. ‘Should I even leave the manor? It's the closest thing I have to shelter, and I guess, it's mine now, I mean, who else would take it?’ As you think it over you look through the closet, looking at the different pieces hung on tired metal. The clothes smell like him. He always had that identifiable smell, patchouli you assume, but you always thought of it the way it reminded you of a stingy man's office, like some old white balding christian broker. The clothes were well made, though, with the way they were stitched, the fabric it was made with, down to the tag and its placement, everything was very methodical and specific.
After a while of looking one after the other through the selection of clothes, you decide on something simple, pulling out the garments of choice and slipping them on, with the air against your arms, and the new somewhat clean fabric, the way it gently kisses your skin with its cold touch. You missed this in a weird way, in a way you never realized or thought you would, the nostalgia of routine. Once you've donned your new outfit, you walk barefoot out the door frame, onto the chilled hardwood, and finally downstairs, through the living room and towards the kitchen.
Everything is still furnished, nothing touched, except for the obvious disappearance of Lil Buddy, that left an outline of damage in the granite counter. You move towards the pantry, opening the door to find it still fully stocked, from boxes of old cereal, to canned goods. You rack the counters for something simple, deciding on some green beans and other canned vegetables. You move back to the kitchen and begin opening and closing every drawer, looking for a can opener. Eventually, you find one amongst other various kitchen utensils, moving over to the sink and working it against the cans top, eventually opening it with a metallic 'thunk'. The scent of cold veggies blends into the air, it isn't appetizing by any means, but you need to eat, and this is one of your only safe options. You drink the stock a little, feeling it coat your dry tongue and throat, like watering an old plant's soil, then open your mouth to eat. You sit above the sink for a while, moving your arm up and down periodically as you slowly make your way through your makeshift meal. Finally, after your first can, you decide you've finished, holding back the urge to gag as you stare at the faucet for a good long moment.
You snap out of your disassociation after 5 or so minutes, looking around, wondering if there's any way to contact the outside world from this god forsaken manor. You walk back through the house, thinking to yourself as your feet leave little prints against the ground, filling the walls with sound once again. You finally make a mental decision, running now, hopping up the stairs and back into Mark's bedroom.
You start under his bed, dragging out gun cases and half drank liquor bottles, checking in every nook and cranny until you're convinced what you're looking for isn't there. You move next to the nightstand, rummaging through the medicine bottles, loose pills, chapsticks and condoms, then moving around to the other side, doing the same there until you've decided it isn't here either. Finally you move to the closet, opening its whining doors again and using your arm to push the clothing all to one side, you reveal a hidden wall safe tucked neatly into the drywall. To your luck, its cracked open just enough for you to fully wing the door open, revealing a stash of booze, money, passports and other important documents, but you only need the wads of cash.
You grab at it hastily, stuffing a wad into your pocket and nabbing a gin for the road, before slipping on a pair of Marks shoes, no matter the fit, and starting your way down the stairs, out the house, and to the nearest working phone.