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Deep breath, hold… one, two, three, four, out.
Wendy doesn’t register the world around them with their eyes. They feel a tear in the wallpaper as their hand slides along it to help brace and guide them. Their lower back screams when they try to straighten their posture. Every step sends a shock up their legs that makes their hips feel like they’re melting away from the inside out. Their face went numb when the skin on the back of their thighs did. Wendy doesn’t know how long it lasted. They don’t know how long it’s been since he left the room or since they left afterward. They just know where they need to go.
Keep going.
They don’t remember why they need to move, but they know there’s a reason. They know that whatever lies beyond the front door of this godforsaken place is what they need to reach.
Keep going.
Despite the pain in their back, in their stomach, and heart and mind, they lose track of how many steps it takes to get to the exit. They lose track of how long it takes, but they can’t find the energy to care when they pull the door open and stumble to the side to avoid Stan’s open arms.
“No, no, please,” They say. Their voice cracks harshly and they taste blood. “Don’t touch me. I’m- I can’t-”
“Oh, Wends,” Stan breathes. His eyes are red and his cheeks are stained from tears.
“-Home, home, please,” They croak, threading their hands through their own hair and pulling. The sting grounds them, keeping them on earth in Denver on this house’s patio with Stan and-
There’s a door slammed close to the entrance on the inside of the house and Wendy’s skin constricts around them.
“You thought you could get away,” The monster says.
His skin freezes and their chest is molten heat and they slam their body against the ground.
The carpet is rough on their face where it drags after the initial impact, but they don’t have time to acknowledge it.
The pain feels real again as they push themself off the ground, barely able to stand alone. Their legs wobble violently and get them as far as the end of the bed before they collapse onto all fours again.
They heard Stan and Kyle wake up behind them when they first fell out of bed, but now they can see them.
They don’t dare touch without permission.
“Wendy, hey,” Kyle says, dropping to his knees beside them. He leans in just to get a closer look at their face and holds his hands up. “It was a nightmare. We’re right here.”
“Know,” Wendy croaks, but they both hear “no” because their voice fails them during the first word.
They don’t wait for a reaction or bother giving an explanation because they don’t have time to.
They stumble forwards and wince at the shocking pains that shoot through their wrists, but they can’t focus on it too much as hot vomit surges up from their stomach. They barely make it to the toilet, the first burst spattering against the edge of the bowl and coating their shirt when they lean forward to heave.
The force of their gags makes it hard to breathe. Their lungs shrivel and burn with every wave and it makes them dizzy. They can’t tell if the colors behind their eyelids are moving from nerves or lack of air.
Their back and chest boil, burning every pore and it feels the same way his nasty, grubby hands felt.
“Fuck!” They gasp, hand tangling in the front of their shirt to try and rip it away from the skin, as if that would make it easier to breathe.
Their hand feels wet and grainy when it squeezes puke between their fingers.
It feels like his mouth did, and they finally start sputtering without ejecting something from their stomach. Their cries make their throat feel bloody not because of the volume, but because they were quiet. They were near-silent sobs that got lodged in their chest. They wouldn’t budge to let the anguish out, which made them ache with something like heartburn.
Their muscles throbbed, tired of being flexed by the excessive pressure in their body. Everything felt hot, too hot and too much, and they needed to be clean. If they could remove their skin, they could be clean.
“Wendy,” Kyle says, “Wendy, babe, c’mon,” He urges them by gently tapping the floor near where their free hand rests.
Their fingers scrabble to respond to his signal, shaking over a pill and nearly sending it flying across the tiled floor. Even through the panic, they know what it is.
They don’t consider the sanitary concerns about eating something off the bathroom floor and just take the pill.
It stings going down dry. They knew it would.
It’s not instant relief- it never is- but it’s helpful to know that they might soon get the breath back in their lungs and the feeling back in their fingers and the taste out of their mouth. It helps having Stan and Kyle there with them.
They wait diligently, busying themselves with preparing a change of clothes for Wendy and drawing a bath, doctoring the water up with lavender-smelling bath salts the way they like it best. There’s a glass of water placed next to them at some point.
Their head stays tucked in the toilet bowl for some time that feels like hours and seconds simultaneously. It’s always a strange sensation when they’re backed into a corner at the edge of terror and given a little pill that makes the coils around their bones unwind.
“Where are you at, dude?” Stan asks after long enough for them to start to feel like they could fall back to sleep. His voice makes them startle, and he hisses through his teeth. “Oh, sorry- what are you-”
“You don’t-” Wendy clears their throat and rises from the bowl. “You don’t have to repeat yourself.”
“I was just gonna say it quieter,” Stan clarifies.
“I know, baby,” They amend, stretching their arms above their head.
Kyle smiles weakly and takes Stan’s hand, giving it a squeeze.
“Sorry,” He chuckles dryly, scratching the back of his neck. Kyle just kisses his forehead before sitting on the floor.
“Why don't you go call Kenny, baby? See where he’s at,” Kyle suggests.
Stan nods, but they both look at Wendy when they stutter.
“I, uh- actually, Kyle, can you?” They ask, shoulders hanging forward defeatedly.
They’re nervous about his reaction, but they know they shouldn’t be. They watch him take a deep, soft breath, watch his face morph into a knowing look, and watch him get off the floor.
“Yeah, I gotcha,” Kyle says with a smile, patting Stan’s shoulder as he scoots by him to get out of the bathroom.
Stan yawns and tries to smile around it, raising his hand to cover his mouth anyways. He uses the back of his hand instead of his palm because he’s holding a beer bottle.
Non-alcoholic, of course.
“You wanna take a rain bath?” He asks, scratching his stomach with his free hand.
Wendy smiles.
They strip clumsily and then maneuver themself into the tub. Stan sits on the edge wielding the showerhead to let the water stream down the back of their head.
“Was it the same one?” Stan asks. His tone is blunt, but not harsh. He understands what it feels like and because of that, Wendy feels safe.
“Mostly. You were the one to pick me up instead of Ky, though.”
Stan hums in acknowledgment.
“I don’t know if I want to, um- I don’t think I want to talk about it.”
“Oh, no, Wends, we don’t have to talk about it. I was just curious if it was a new dream.”
Wendy sighs contentedly and rests their head between their knees.
They know why their reaction was amplified. They know it was fear for Stan rather for themself. They couldn’t bear the thought of someone hurting Stan like that again.
They would’ve reacted similarly if it were Kenny, they’re sure.
“Actually, I might want to talk this one out.”
They clench their jaw, feeling unclear like dirty water.
The water on their body runs clear.
“Do you want to talk or do you want me to ask questions?”
“I think I’m feeling creative, actually,” They say, smiling tiredly even though Stan can’t see their face. “Do you want to get your guitar?”
Stan hums and sets the showerhead down to dangle, water hitting their back.
“No, I wanna take care’a you some more. Just tell me what’s on your mind. I know it’ll be pretty whether we have a melody or not.”
Wendy huffs and looks down at their feet, resting their chin on their knees.
“You don’t have to baby me, Stan,” They grumble, anxiously scratching their upper arm.
“I know,” Stan amends, tapping their hand to try and guide it away without being too forceful. “I like to. We all like to.”
Wendy rolls their eyes, but smiles fondly.
“Fine,” They say teasingly, and Stan chuckles behind them.
“So, are you feeling, like, creative? Or is it, like, poetic?”
Wendy laughs at that, and the sweet sound makes their throat ache from the sudden shift in behavior.
“I don’t know. Can I just start talking?”
“Babygirl,” He says, completely foolish with the way he laughs too hard at himself to be taken seriously. “I was born to understand your visions.”
“Okay, freak,” They snort, leaning back as Stan rubs shampoo into the ends of their hair. “It’s like… I don’t want to, like…”
They trail off, closed eyes clenching slightly in concentration.
“I don’t want to die,” They decide after a moment. Stan doesn’t react. “I never wanted to die, but I wanted to get away as if I were dead. Does that make any sense?”
“Mhmm,” Stan hums in agreement.
“I want to get away from, like- okay, this is going to sound suicidal-”
“What-”
“-But hear me out, I want to get away from myself, too. Out of my head.”
“Okay,” Stan says after a moment.
“Just okay?”
“Yeah, I don’t know what else to say yet.”
“Okay, well, I have more prophetic visions or whatever Kenny calls them.”
“Yours are prophetic visions,” Stan snickers, leaning forward a bit and bumping their chest against the back of Wendy’s head. They don’t startle, surprisingly. “He says his are shamanic visions.”
“Oh, Kenny,” They sigh, melancholy dancing on the tip of their tongue.
“Continue, though. Out of your head?”
Wendy takes another deep breath, collecting themself.
“Yeah, kinda like the mirror thing. I just don’t- I can’t, like, see- my- self.”
Stan retracts his hand from their hair and bends forward awkwardly, chin doubling from the angle he tilts his neck to look at them.
“Are you crying?” He blurts, searching Wendy’s face with a blank expression.
“I’m- No, I’m not. I’m good.”
They sniffle and blink several tears down their cheeks.
“Don’t cry,” Stan offers.
Wendy nods, not wanting to cry as much as Stan didn’t want to see them cry. They reach up and motion to the showerhead, which Stan hands down. They turn the knob to blast cold water on their face. It shocks their system and makes their head feel like it will implode for just a moment before their eyes feel normal again.
“Okay, yeah, I’m good. Anyways-”
“Nice.”
“-Thank you. Anyways-”
The flash of a camera grabs both of their attention.
“Sorry, sorry,” Kyle rushes out, flipping the phone to show them. Stan leans forward to look. “You guys just looked really cute. I thought Kenny would like to see.”
“I don’t want to see it,” Wendy blurts, looking back down at their feet again. “I trust you, though. You can show him.”
Kyle just nods after a second of hesitation, still not comfortable with Wendy’s disdain for themself.
“Ah, Wends, we look adorable,” Stan says with a grin, leaning back. “Can I wash your hair?”
Wendy nods and tilts their head back a bit.
“When will Kenny be home?”
“Soon,” Kyle answers, sitting on the toilet lid and scrolling through his phone. “He said he was leaving early anyways.”
“I don’t like that he works overnights.”
One of their arms drops down to toy with the anklet Kenny made for them.
Stan’s taking his time working shampoo through their scalp, massaging gently. He gets the conditioner rinsed before either of them responds.
“I don’t like it either,” Kyle says softly. He gives them a sympathetic smile.
They just smile back.
They often find themself missing him the most. They think it’s because they have the least of him to hold on to.
The least memories, the least experience. The least knowledge and shared (stolen) or gifted belongings.
They just had the least time with Kenny and it made them miss moments together even more.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Kyle asks. “With him, or like… with us?”
Wendy shrugs, heaving a sigh and leaning back against Stan’s thigh. They don’t acknowledge the little gasp he gives when their wet hair soaks his pant leg.
“I’ll think about it.” They cross their arms over their chest for a moment, content to settle in before cringing at the sight of their skin. They lean forward again and nod their head to the towel rack on the wall. “Can I please have a towel?”
Kyle obliges, shuffling out of the bathroom with Stan following close behind.
Wendy dresses and in a moment of confidence, leans over the sink and brushes their teeth. They use a spare toothbrush, as theirs stays in the kitchen because there’s no mirror above that sink.
They don’t really look in mirrors anymore. They can stand the appearance, but their face and their chest has unsettled them since. Their eyes look foreign and empty, like deep holes. It’s like the monster brought on parasites that eat away at them in every way; physically, mentally, and emotionally.
The worst part of it all, they think, is that they can’t even escape the thoughts in sleep.
The quieter nights, the ones where Wendy doesn’t wake anyone up with them, are nights that challenge their statement to Stan. Few and far between as they are, they make Wendy sick with fear.
Those nights, they hope they won’t wake up the next morning.
When they exit the bathroom, they don’t check to see if the mirror is unfogged yet.