Chapter Text
The smell of rotting bodies was potent, thick on Connor’s tongue. It forced itself down his throat, burning his lungs. A blindfold around his eyes encased him in darkness, disorienting him further and stoking the fear that smouldered and sputtered within him. His muscles ached as they strained against the rope until blood coated his wrists. The binds didn’t break. They never did. His breath slowed as he tried not to make noise, afraid of drawing attention to himself, afraid of becoming a source of the smell engulfing the room. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there or even if the person whose return he feared was multiple or one. He knew nothing, and with every noise he heard, his pulse quickened, never allowing him to rest. Not knowing what would happen next, not knowing who, when, or why, was what taunted him the most. His legs were broken, body bruised, and his hope for a saviour had long been abandoned, but all of that paled in comparison to the repeated begging, apologies and screams, constantly attempting to lessen the next beating, the next humiliation ritual, to no avail. None of it ever worked. No one would listen. Nothing ever changed. Despite being a police officer, someone who swore to protect people, he couldn’t protect the rotting bodies around him. He couldn’t even protect himself.
Echoes curled their fingers around Connor, gnashing at him with sharp words “You’re just another object to toy with” they snarled. The dehumanisation gnawed at his bones, convincing him that he was nothing but a possession to be played with and disposed of. No matter how much he tried to eradicate them, the echoes always crept back in, telling him things he didn’t want to believe, but they were so convincing they made him feel drunk on despair.
“No one is coming for you, Connor. Who would look for you?” one sneered, and it was right; he had no one, no one cherished him, no one probably even noticed he was gone. No one cared. And the harrowing thought that he didn’t belong to anyone, that he was alone in his suffering, sank into his bones and encoded itself over and over again into his mind.
The wall swallowed his shoulders, neck, arms, until none of him was left, disappearing into a confusing abyss of nothingness and infinity all at once. It was all too much. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out, and as he touched his throat, he realized that it was gone; his head had no body, had nothing attached. His hands and his legs had disintegrated. Everything was happening too fast. Too overwhelming. It was too painful. It was too much to make sense of. Too much. Everything melted, or maybe he did.
The darkness that surrounded him compressed, squishing his mind painfully before snapping him elsewhere. Cold stone against his cheek became warm bed sheets, darkness became moonlight through a window. Connor looked around, he was in a room, on a bed, next to another sleeping man. It was nighttime and hard to see, but he could make out the red flashing numbers of the alarm clock beside him: 2:34 a.m., it read. His hands shook as he looked down, hadn’t they just been gone? He pressed them to his chest and felt the rise and fall of his ribs. He was alive, he reminded himself, it was all just a dream. His breathing remained rapid but slowed as he reorientated himself, sweat still coating his neck and back. He gazed over at the man next to him, trying to understand who he was. His face was familiar in a way that unnerved Connor, like a sense of déjà vu but without any memory of previous encounters. Had he seen him in another dream before? He was older than Connor was, probably in his 40s or 50s, he assumed, with grey, shaggy, long hair. His face was slightly wrinkled from stress, and his mouth hung open as he slept, snoring softly. The man was larger than Connor too, with a beer belly, and he wore an old graphic band t-shirt as his pyjamas of choice.
Connor stood up, tiptoeing to find the kitchen and fill up a cup of water to hydrate his parched throat. Surprisingly, he knew the layout of the house despite not remembering it, making his way to the kitchen quickly as if he’d been through each room a hundred times. He tried to remember if he had, but it all felt too blurry and made his head hurt the more he tried to probe his mind for answers. His feet moved to the sink, a path he knew without knowing how. His hands found the glass and filled it. It all happened without him. None of it felt real. Where were his keys? The station. Work. Nothing was familiar.
Connor was snapped out of his daze as the light in the bedroom turned on and footsteps creaked toward the kitchen. He remembered the sounds of footsteps coming toward him, he remembered what came next, and he knew he should hide. He quickly placed his glass on the counter and dropped behind the island in the kitchen, covering his mouth to not make a sound and analysing his next actions.
“Connor?” A man’s voice groggily sounded, half-asleep. The footsteps stopped at the end of the kitchen, calming Connor a bit before they began to step closer. How did the man know his name?
“Shit,” the man whispered to himself before yelling louder, “Connor!” as if hoping if Connor was anywhere else in the house, he would hear him and make himself known. The man stood in the centre of the kitchen for what felt like forever to Connor. The room was silent as both had ceased movement; Connor could hear the bushes waving in the wind outside and the squirrels scuttling on the roof. The man’s breath became laboured. His footsteps faltered, moving fast then slow then fast again. Frantic. He was becoming more impatient.
The man began to move again, and suddenly a crashing sound came as the glass that Connor had left was flung onto the floor in the darkness.
“What the fuck?” the man exclaimed before the lights were turned on, likely to view the mess that he had created. Connor stayed very still, his heart pounding in his chest. Every movement he made, he feared the man had heard him. He waited behind the island for a while, and just before he thought the man had gone, he turned over to peek around the corner and came face to face with the same person who he was in bed with not 30 minutes ago.
Cowering in fear, Connor pulled his hands up to cover his face, ready to defend himself from any possible strikes that may come his way.
“Connor, it’s me!” the man proclaimed. He sounded like he was trying to reassure Connor, but all he did was further confuse him.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Connor’s voice trembled, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar to himself. It all felt too surreal. He hadn’t even felt acquainted with the floor he was sitting on before being forced to defend himself.
“Connor, look at me. Breathe.” The words were repeated to him, like the man had spoken them a hundred times, like a script in a speech that had been memorized to the point of redundancy. “You’re home, you’re safe. No one is going to hurt you now, love,” his voice crackled, as if he had swallowed glass, desperate for Connor to listen to him.
The petname ‘love’ pulled something deep within Connor, slamming on a door within his mind that had been shut, making his ribs ache and his heart flutter.
“It’s me, Connor. It’s Hank.” Hank’s hands hovered close to Connor but far enough away to reassure him that he wasn’t going to do anything to harm him. Connor peeked up to Hank’s face. His eyes were watery and furrowed, displaying hidden panic and deep concern. At once, his memories erupted. Hank’s laugh, loud and hearty over a coffee date, a secret kiss shared between the two during a late-night work shift, Hank’s whispers of reassurance during every one of Connor’s nightmares.
Connor’s breath hitched. The flood was too much, too sudden. His skull throbbed, but beneath the pain and chaos, the memories settled inside Connor like a returning family member.
“Hank?” he whispered. His hands lowered on their own. The name fit his mouth like a key in a lock.
His lovers name hung in the air between them, adrenaline still pounding in Connor’s head. The kitchen fell silent, save for laboured breathing. Bodies tense and restless with every uncertain word and fear neither shared. They stood still for a long time, neither sure whether they should move, scared of what could happen.
Finally, Hank’s dog, Sumo, came between them, whining to go outside and nudging Hank’s hand in desperation.
“I’ll… clean this up. You should take him outside” Connor finally stated matter of factly, with a controlled neutral tone masking the guarded warning of his words. He’d already begun to stand and focus on his self-assigned task, a wall to any prying conversations.
“Connor…” Hank began, with a hushed whisper, words unsaid.
“Hank. Take the dog outside.” Connor reinstated, with a chilling expression.
“Okay…” Hank finally conceded after some moments of silence. The door to the backyard shut behind him with Sumo in toe, leaving Connor alone with his thoughts.
The room was silent once again, suffocatingly so, threatening to swallow Connor whole like his dreams. Crouching down, he observed the glass that had scattered across the floor. It felt like the only information he could bring himself to process; everything else was too much.
Without thinking, Connor reached to pick up a shard, cutting his fingers with a numb sting. He watched the blood trace down his fingertips, contrasting against his white skin. His hands used to be a lovely golden tan from the sun’s warm rays as he worked as a capable officer, protecting those in need. Now, they were a sickly white. They shook and hid. They hesitated even to turn the knob on his front door.
The door melted beneath his fingertips. The walls closed in around him. And then, he was there. The potent scent of blood. Rotted. Spilling across the floor. The metal door. Rusted. Stained with browned blood. He stood before it. Chest heaving. Ribs aching. Three months, two weeks and five days he’d been told later on. Gun shots rang from the outside, screams erupting from behind the door. He wanted to leave. To run. To move. His muscles strained with freedom, but his chains bound him. Kept him still. Kept him subservient. Thoughts raced through his mind, hope, grief, longing, terror. His heart pounded, imagining being free, hoping to any God it was the police. Please God let it be a saviour. Not them. Please not them.
Pounding against the door, he threw his head back to scream, to say anything to tell them he was there. His throat was too strained. Vocal cords long damaged. His voice, his identity, his words had been taken. He’d been silenced long ago. All that remained was a whimper. Realisation hit him like a truck. They wouldn’t find him. They’d leave him here to die. He was just an object, of course they weren’t looking for him. This was all just misguided hope. No one was coming to save him. Who would look for him? He wasn’t even human anymore. Even if they found him, what would they think? Would they be disgusted? Of course they would be. A police officer that couldn’t even save himself. That let his body be used by others. Bruised and beaten? He was nothing. He was disgusting.
Reality yanked Connor back as he grabbed fistfuls of glass in his hands, squeezing down tightly. Pain erupted into his palms, but he didn’t stop. He had to stay present. He couldn’t go back there. Not again.
Blood poured from his hands and onto the floor as he finally released his grip, breath heavy but feeling real once again. Finally. Tears streamed down his face.
The backdoor opened and shut. Hank stopped dead in his tracks, processing the bloody scene in front of him.
“Connor. What the fuck?” Hank blurted out as he processed the image in front of him, frozen with shock.
“Hank. It’s not what it looks like. I’m not, this isn’t. I’m here again. It took me away from it” Connor pleaded, his explanation fragmented and disconnected as he rapidly attempted to process his thoughts.
“You said you weren’t going to hurt yourself again… I trusted you weren’t… I shouldn’t have left you alone. This is my fault for leaving you. I’m so sorry” Hank stammered, walking over to hold Connor’s hands gently.
“We need to clean your hands up” Hank relayed, prompting the both of them to stand up and walk to the bathroom.
They sat in silence and Hank ran cold water over Connor’s hands, turning it red as it ran into the sink. Finally, Connor spoke.
“Hank, I wasn’t trying to hurt myself. I didn’t lie to you. You can trust me” He pleaded, trying to regain his lover’s trust. “I’m not a child. Hank?” Connor questioned as Hank’s face remained deep in thought, unresponsive to his attempted reassurances. “Han-“
“Then what am I supposed to do?” Hank asked, softly, as if he was about to cry. “How do I protect you? How do I trust you?” Hank looked up to face Connor, tears in his eyes. “I want to trust you Connor, I do trust you. I trust that you’re a wonderful person. That you don’t want to be this way. That you are trying. I trust that I love you. I trust that you love me… So how do I trust that I won’t come home to something worse than this one day?” Hank explained, fear in his voice. “No matter how much time passes, you always forget me. You always end up like this.” Hank gestured to Connor‘s hands, now being disinfected and bandaged by Hank. “I trust your heart, love. But I can’t trust that your mind won’t betray you. Won’t make you do something you can’t undo” Hank finally admitted. Pressing his head to Connor’s shoulder to hide his tears.
“I’m sorry” was all Connor could respond with. The words sat between them, honest but insufficient. Nothing Connor could say felt like it could be enough. He wanted to scream, and beg, and promise over and over that things would get better, but he didn’t. And they both sat in the silence.
Before either could say more, a ring from Hank’s phone on the sink echoed against the walls. ‘Station’ displayed vividly on the screen.
Hank flinched, eyes darting between his phone and Connor’s bandaged hands. He seemed torn, his body still turned towards Connor with his hand half stretched. The phone rang again, this time, it felt more insistent.
“I… I have to…” Hank murmured, pausing to stop himself. “I’m sorry” he stammered toward Connor before snatching the phone and hesitating once more in the doorway before stepping out to answer the phone.
Connor sat on the stool at the sink and looked down at his hands. They felt warped and unfamiliar again. He sighed. Everything he did. All the hurt he caused, and he was back to square one. His mind still raced with images and thoughts from returning to the station after being saved, bright lights blaring in his face and reporters shoving microphones against him as police officers did their best the clear a path and escort him safely. He’d been the centre of attention for months. ‘Police officer kidnapped after failed police investigation’ the headlines had read. And now, no one could care less. The system had forgotten him. He was just another number to be processed in a report. The same reports he’d closed and filed away after giving up. The same people he’d failed once before.
“Connor.” Hank appeared in the doorway once again, snapping Connor from his self-loathing. His previously vulnerable posture had been stowed away, replaced with a professional facade. His eyes didn’t quite meet Connors.
“It’s work… I- I’m sorry, but it’s urgent. I have to go.” Biting his lip, he’d already begun to back away to the front door. “I left some food on the table. I cleaned the glass. Just… please eat something? Take a rest day.” As he reached the front door and opened it slowly.
“I’ll be home soon. Call me if anything happens. I’m always here for you” he shouted, almost desperately, before shutting the door. Leaving Connor alone, once again.