((trigger warning for some abuse-type things in this particular post))

Friday, September 21, 2012 -- late morning

"You have to have a clear idea of where you want to go." Ben's heard the speech before -- last time, it earned him half a day or more of lost time. This time, though, he's not sober, harder to rattle -- and besides, he knows what's coming. "People in your condition shouldn't attempt nexus travel." The stout little mage in front of him folds her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at Ben. The last time this happened, that a mage mentioned his condition, it felt like the mage had been looking through him, peering right inside, like he could see that it was more than only Ben standing there. This time, it doesn't feel that way. Maybe Ben's too intoxicated to get that feeling, that she's looking right at his 'condition.' Maybe the condition she means is his intoxication.

"I'm fine, and my condition is fine," he's tapping one temple with his index and middle fingers. "I know where I'm going." The little mage gives him a flat look, but she does move out of Ben's way.

"Where are you going?" She asks him, and Ben's not sure if she needs to know or if she's just making conversation, so he keeps it vague and only answers, "Home."

He's never done anything like this before, and it's all he can do to keep repeating it in his head like a mantra, home, home, home, when he steps into the shimmering gateway--

There's a rush around him, a whooshing, home, home, home--

The word in his head doesn't change, but all of a sudden it doesn't feel like his, like his thought, like home isn't the home he wants; it feels ugly, sinister, broken--

It all goes black--

When Ben lands on his back in the grass in someone's yard, it feels like it's after falling from a second story window, from a tree; the wind is knocked right out of him for a moment. Eventually he's able to sit up, though he's still having trouble breathing, he's coughing-- and he notices somebody standing in a pair of boots just a foot in front of him. Glancing up, it isn't anybody he recognizes: a man in his 20s, maybe, with nondescript features that Ben wouldn't be able to remember if he wanted to (but there's some familiarity there, though he can't put his finger on it) -- and how is he going to explain this to him? He turns to look at the house, finally, then back up to the man -- and then he's doing a double take, staring wide-eyed at the building, the color draining from his face. Again, Ben can't breathe.

The man grabs Ben by the back of his jacket, hauling him up to his feet -- there's a rush of static when he does, and a screaming headache so acute it feels like an ice pick between the eyes -- shoving him toward the house. "If you want to get rid of us," Ben's never really heard the voice before, low, rough and menacing, but he knows it's Sam, the way you know people in a dream, "maybe you should know what we're doing for you first."

"No," Ben's trying to back up, stumbling forward when Sam gives him another solid shove forward between the shoulderblades; he hasn't been here since he was eleven years old, but the house still dredges up feelings of dread, terror, even if he doesn't know why he feels that way, "I don't want to know--"

"Of course you don't want to know," and Sam sounds amused, darkly, condescending. "That's why we're here: because you didn't want to know." He puts a hand on Ben's shoulder, and Ben is weak enough in the knees that it's easy for Sam to force him down to them, in front of the basement window.

Part of the scene that Ben sees through the window is familiar, in isolated, disjointed memories that he usually can't string together to make a narrative out of: the stark light of a bare bulb, the odd shadows it creates in the cluttered basement, a boy's bare shoulder, wrists tied with rope to the arms of a low-backed wooden chair. "No, no," Ben is trying to scramble backward, away from the window, but Sam is right behind him, digs a knee into his back to push him forward again, grabs him by the hair to hold him there. And then he sees it, the shadow of a man looming behind the boy in the chair -- and then he hears it, the crack of the belt against a body, the boy's screaming, pleading -- and then he feels it, biting into his own back. "Why?" All he can manage to choke out, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene in front of him.

"Why what? Why is he doing it? Because Roland is a f*cking piece of sh*t, that's why." Sam's answer is so casual it would be disturbing, if Ben had the capacity to think about it right then. "Or why don't you remember this?" Ben's nodding dumbly, looking horror stricken, but he still can't look away, doesn't cover his ears. "Because we took it for you. We let you go away. But if you want us to go away, Ben?" Sam curls his fingers more tightly into Ben's hair, painfully, pulling him forward until his face is inches away from the window. "This is what you get -- and this is just the tip of the iceberg. You won't go away anymore, but neither will this little boy, the one you used to be. You will remember everything, because everything will happen to him, to you, because you don't want us to take it away from him. You won't let him go away." It feels like a knife twists deep inside every time the boy screams. The feel of the sharp bite of the belt he can take, but the screaming, the muffled pleading--

Ben's leaning back from the window, and Sam actually lets go. At first he's still staring at the boy -- at himself -- through the window, at what his stepfather is doing to him. His mouth is moving, but he isn't making any sound at first, though finally, "Let him go away," and his voice breaks. "Let him go away, let him go away," he's more frantic with each repetition, he's pleading too, finally tearing his eyes away from the scene in the basement -- but he can still hear it, still feel it. "I didn't know, I didn't know," between sobs that hurt. "Let him go away," he's getting shakily to his feet, grabbing onto the front of Sam's shirt, "Let him go away! Let him go away!" He's screaming it now, over and over, in Sam's face, as desperately and as pained as the tortured boy in the basement.

"Shut up," and Sam's too close to do it well, but he's still throwing a punch; it catches Ben high on the cheekbone, just under his right eye, near his temple, and it does shut him up. "What are you, some hysterical little girl? Listen," he hisses, and Ben listens.

He can still hear it, the sound of the strap, but that's all he can hear. The child is silent, and he can't feel it anymore. "Do you get it now, you idiot?" Sam's asking him. Ben's still clutching fistfuls of Sam's shirt in his hands. "This is why you have to f*cking trust me, Ben." Even when Sam's voice is quiet, it's never quite soft; there's still an undertone of violence, hint of condescension. "Because you don't know a g*ddamn f*cking thing." Ben is searching Sam's face -- it isn't his own face he's looking at like he might have expected, but they are his own eyes, pale blue, though a sharper version of them, a knife's edge of a threat within them. And then all at once Ben's letting go, stumbling toward the front door.

"Where are you going?" Ben can hear Sam calling after him; there's laughter in his voice, mocking.

"I need to help him--" The front door is thrown open from the inside, and the boy is practically flying through it, races past Ben like he isn't even there.

"We're helping him already," Sam tells him, a note of derision in his voice, and Ben turns to watch the boy -- it's him, isn't it? His younger self? It is, but it isn't; Ben doesn't remember any of this, because it's not Ben at all at this point -- running across the grass, racing down the street.

And then suddenly, behind him, Ben hears it, his stepfather bellowing his name. "Ben!" And he's whirling to face the man, so fast that he nearly loses his balance. "Ben, come here," that's mocking too, almost sing-song, and it seems as though he's looking right at Ben, only standing a couple of feet away. "Come back, son," The boy doesn't stop, but Ben's only slowly backing away, taking one step back, two, shaking his head, wide-eyed and fearful; he's trying to protest, let him go away, but he can't get the words out; he trips over a crack in the front walkway, falls backward--

"Holy--" The mage that had been talking to Ben just a few seconds before is barely able to avoid him when he comes flying back through the shimmering portal like something had thrown him. She can't do anything but watch as the right side of his face cracks against a handrail on the dias and he crumples to the floor, but he's only out for a few seconds more after that; she doesn't even make it to him before he's already struggling to a seated position, head in his hands, forearms against his knees. "Are you okay? I told you you shouldn't go through, so you had better not--"

"I know, I know," and Ben's faintly surprised to hear his voice sounding so ... normal. Not hoarse, not ragged. "I'm fine," he's dropping his hands from his face and getting slowly up to his feet, like it hurts to do. "I'm fine." The little mage doesn't believe him though, and she's eyeing him suspiciously the whole time he's limping to the exit -- the odd way he's rubbing at his own wrists, lifting his shoulders and rolling them back uncomfortably, whispering to himself, too wide-eyed, like he's seen a ghost.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012 -- mid-afternoon

The bleakness. The blackness. It doesn?t get any easier, it doesn?t feel any better. It?s been two weeks since Ben?s been able to manage it again (and it?s not for lack of trying). The house looks the same as it did the last time, the sky still has that hypersaturated look to it. But this time, Ben doesn?t hesitate as long outside. It isn?t that the anxiety is gone, that he?s comfortable with what he?ll find inside the house (or that he is even completely certain of what he?ll find), but he has to try. Even when that darkness threatens at his periphery -- he has to try.

There still aren?t any lights on, but this time, Sam is pacing the front room -- the energy that rolls off of him has a dangerousness to it, a vicious rage, something physical to it, like that of a wild animal -- caged, maybe, but never subdued. He doesn?t seem to notice Ben until he shuts the door, but even then, Sam doesn?t seem surprised to see him -- just stops the leonine strides across the dim, ill-kept room, turns to face Ben, fixing him with a dark, same-eyed look.

Neither says anything for a moment, until almost without thinking, Ben asks, ?Why was he here? That first time, when you showed me what happened.?

Sam?s eyes narrow, and something shifts in his posture, something guarded in it, though the change doesn?t make him seem any less dangerous. ?That wasn?t here. Christmas Past,? and there?s a sharp little smile along with that, as if he knows that Ben knows that Sam sees everything -- that it hadn?t just been Ben and Harper alone together the last time they?d spoken, when Ben likened that memory, that first experience, to the very same thing. A second for that to sink in (though Ben had never doubted that it was the case), and then Sam is tilting his head to one side, something dangerous in that, too. It?s hard to trust him even more then, the feral way it makes him look, something a little unhinged in it. ?Why, do you want him to be here??

There?s a creak of a floorboard upstairs; Ben feels the sudden rush of fear, fight or flight, rabbit-hearted beating stuck in his throat. There?s a cacophony in his ears -- a screech, a sharp crack, raucous laughter -- ?No.? -- and it silences. A door closes upstairs, locks; it sounds close enough to be right next to Ben, but he knows, somehow, that it?s the door at the end of the hall upstairs, his mother and step-father?s bedroom. ?I want this to be a place just for us.?

?Us?? Sam?s raising a brow, skeptical, condescending.

?You and me -- the others, too. The five of us,? and he bites his lower lip.

Sam doesn?t seem capable of softening, but he relaxes, fractionally but perceptibly, after Ben says that. ?Why??

Ben takes a moment to carefully consider his answer; he takes that time to study the bookcase behind Sam. The books have no titles on their spines, the picture frames littering one otherwise empty shelf are either blurred, unrecognizable swirls of muted color, or completely empty, grey nothingness. He turns his gaze back to the man in front of him, the embodiment of the rage he should have experienced but never did -- never experienced the things that would have led to the rage to begin with. ?Because you?ve all done more for me than I understand, and you deserve better than this from me.? A sweeping gesture with one hand, encompassing the room, the house, the disrepair. The neglect.

Sam?s head cants a touch further to the side, his lips purse, jaw shifted a little to one side; there?s something defiant in the look. Challenging. He doesn?t say anything. Ben?s not sure if the explanation is good enough.

?Can I talk to--? He should have been ready for it, should have been bracing for an impact the entire time, but he hadn?t been, and unprepared, when Sam shoves him, Ben stumbles, falls back. Before he can even think about catching himself, Sam is on top of him. That?s enough to start the near-blinding headache. Pinning his shoulder to the ground with one hand, throwing a left hook at Ben?s face with the other -- that doesn?t help it.

Sam comes in close, right in Ben?s face. He?s always a bundle of vicious anger, of violence just waiting for a target, and Ben knows the feeling, when Sam?s sights are set on him. There?s a twinge of fear that cuts through the haze, the darkness looming at his periphery; the last thing, low and threatening, that he hears before it closes in is, ?You talk too much.?

* * *

Ben?s on the floor when he wakes up, in the space between his couch and his coffee table. He decides that that?s a perfectly good place to stay, cradling his head in his hands for a good half an hour that feels like forever, before he finally talks the thoughts inside that aren?t his into letting the headache subside to the point of being bearable. Somewhere in the midst of it, he realizes that he?s actually speaking out loud to an empty apartment, but instead of dwelling on that, he stumbles to the kitchen to ice the bruising on his cheek that he doesn?t question, trying to shake the memory of it, the way it lingered -- seemed too real to be in his head, and when he couldn?t reconcile that with the fact that it must be, he simply puts it out of his head -- all of it except for the repetition, you talk too much.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013 -- afternoon

For some reason, the front door is locked when Ben first tries it. His brow furrows, he rattles the doorknob, and when it doesn?t budge, he lets go and takes a step back. Part of him feels compelled to go around back and try that door instead, but there?s an incomprehensible panic that comes with that thought, a fight-or-flight fear coupled with dread. Ben swallows it down and tries the door again, and somehow, it swings open this time.

Sam is waiting for him there in the living room, glowering, his arms folded across his chest. The dust seems thicker in the air than it had the last time Ben had been there; things seem more muted, faded. Neither man says anything for a long moment, and just when Ben opens his mouth, takes a breath to speak, Sam cuts him short.

?You f*cked up in Vancouver.? It?s not an accusation. It?s not even particularly mocking, which is surprising, considering whom it?s coming from. It?s just an observation, and after another moment spent biting his lower lip, Ben nods once.

?Yeah. I did.?

Sam gives Ben a long look; uncharacteristically, Ben actually looks away after a couple of seconds. The pictureframes on the shelf there that contain nothing more than a cloudy grey swirl are more unnerving this time than the last time Ben saw them. Eventually Sam breaks the silence again, an undertone of threat in his voice, though it?s vague, general. ?We got you out of there in one piece though, didn?t we? --well, five pieces,? and there?s a dark kind of amusement in his voice then.

A ghost of a wince passes over Ben?s features, but then he?s nodding again. ?Yeah, you did.? His focus settles on Sam again, who?d never looked away.

"And you f*cked up here, too, after you got here and decided you wanted to go away. Most people don't get to do that, Ben. You would've had to just suffer through it -- but you went away instead. We took care of you. You finally goddamn get that, don't you? 'My hands, my life'-- see why that doesn't work? You can't handle the life you have."

The repetition of Ben's declaration to Sam the last time they'd seen each other -- delivered while Ben was beating Sam's face in with his fists -- stung inside. All he does is nod.

?So you trust us now? We?re only doing what?s right for you, you idiot. We always have.?

Ben flinches again, bites his lower lip again. ?I know.? He means it, voice quiet. ?And I know you?d never hurt Adam. But Jackie...? His fingers curl into his palms, briefly -- a flash, and he can see the purplish-red bruising around her throat, the pattern of it a perfect match to the way his fingers would fit around her neck -- and then Sam is standing a little more closely, eyes narrowed at Ben, though the threat in his posture and his voice remains an undercurrent.

?She just needs to keep from messing with you, and she?ll be fine.? There?s a hint of something reluctant in the growl of his voice, the truce made begrudgingly, but Ben doesn?t care. A truce is a truce. ?So why are you here?? It?s not the first time Ben?s been asked the question -- and that first time, it hadn?t gone very well. ?That forgiveness sh*t she?s been feeding you? That?s dangerous, you know. F*cking stupid.?

Immediately, Ben?s dropping his eyes, shaking his head. ?No, not that.? He glances over at the opening of the stairwell; it?s silent, as far as he can tell, both upstairs and down in the basement. It?s still -- the entire house feels still, stagnant, and when Ben notices that so suddenly, it?s eerie. ?That?s...? His gaze moves to Sam again. ?It?s too hard. I?m not equipped to deal with that.? There?s something sad in his expression, but it?s honest, open; it only turns pained when Sam jabs his index finger into Ben?s chest, sets off a white-hot flash of that familiar screeching headache between his eyes.

?That?s right. You?re not f*cking equipped. Good for you -- you can learn.? Ben doesn?t react to the verbal jab, just holding steady eye contact with Sam; that seems to bother him, but he doesn?t say anything else or harass Ben further just then.

?I just want to learn how to work together. I want to talk more, write more. I want to be a team.? Ben can see the change in Sam, going from more or less conversational to outright threatening; Ben takes a step back and puts up his hands in something of a surrender. ?Not to get rid of you. But to make it easier for you. And safer for Adam.?

It?s at the mention of Ben?s son?s name that a flare of anger visibly courses through Sam, but then, unexpectedly, he cools, backs down.

?We?ll see. But you have to trust me, and you have to listen to what I say. I know how to run this show. You don?t. So if you want in, it?s on my terms.?

There?s a sick feeling in the pit of Ben?s stomach, like he knows he shouldn?t be doing this -- like he?s making a deal with the Devil -- but he chews his lower lip and nods, and then he opens his eyes and he?s alone in the quiet mid-afternoon of his empty office.

( trigger warning, self-harm struggles )

It's bad again inside. If houses had feelings, had emotion, and they could express it somehow-- well, this one did, and it could, and it's fearful and angry, almost overwhelmingly so, a silent cacophony of it. Briefly, Ben wonders if it's only like this when he's here, if they're all angry at him -- or if it's hell like this all the time for them. If this is how they live the majority of the time, inside, suffocating with this kind of negativity.

There's no sign of anyone in the front room, and he can't hear anyone elsewhere in the house. Instead of going looking (there's a spike of terror in him when he considers it), he just explores that first room. Notes the thick layer of dust on everything, drags a fingertip through it, across a shelf on a bookcase. None of the books have titles, but instead of pulling one and checking if the pages are blank too, he picks up a framed photo from the endtable next to the couch -- at least, he assumes it's a photo; the frame just contains grey, murky swirls. Ben squints down at it, like that might make some memory come into view (it doesn't), and then he turns the frame over, flipping the tabs that hold the back of the frame in place, trap the photo inside--

He doesn't expect it, doesn't hear it coming, but he knows the blow to the head that sends him reeling sideways and makes him drop the frame in a second of stupor has to be Sam. "What the f*ck," whirling to shove the other man, the personification of his protector (and persecutor, these days), "you can't just say hi like a normal person?!" He bends to pick up the pictureframe, but Sam snarls, pushes Ben away from it, hard. He has to catch himself on a small table near the front windows to keep from falling.

"You shouldn't be here." Sam doesn't pick up the frame himself, but he does position himself between it and Ben. Standing guard, almost. He's as fierce as Ben's ever seen him. "Go back outside. You're too weak for any of this in here, and I don't want to take care of you when you can't handle it. Already inside, nowhere else to run. Nowhere to hide. No blackouts here, coward. Can't go away." There's a little mocking in the last words. Ben remembers the first time he and Sam met. He hates it, but he feels that panic again -- not the kind he'd just experienced here when thinking about checking out more of the house, but the desperate kind he'd felt when Sam gave him the choice. When Ben begged him to let things stay the way they were, the way they'd been for almost always.

"I can handle it," and the clutch of the fear and the rage of the house tightens, redoubles; he can feel it squeeze on him physically, and he shuts his eyes, puts his head in his hands. He can hear Sam scoff. Nowhere else to go. "I can," a little breathless, but he drops his hands, lifts his head, opens his eyes. Sam hasn't moved, just watching Ben, dispassionate. "I could've handled Jackie, too--"

The punch from Sam comes without warning, and already overwhelmed from fighting through the feeling inside the house, Ben can't do anything but lean more heavily against the table, press one hand to his face, instinctive. "No, you couldn't. You can't even handle this," the house creaks, groans. Like it's alive, too. "You couldn't handle the bad then. Couldn't do anything when he hurt her. What makes you think it's different now? Because you're older?" Sam takes a step closer, gets right in Ben's face; his voice is low, the threat in it magnified tenfold from the tension living in the house. "Just means you've had all this time, decades and decades, to learn how to handle it -- and you didn't. You don't. You learned to go away. To make one of us handle it. That's never gonna change, you p****. You don't really want it to. You're f***ing scared. Worthless. Scared to be whole -- to be real."

Ben doesn't know exactly when Sam means, but that last part, being scared to be real -- he's terrified then; everything slows, he can hear his heartbeat in his throat, feel his stomach lurch. "But I am real. And even if I can't handle it all -- I'm real. You're not, you're just-- you're made up, a defense mechanism. Symptom. Way to cope." He swallows thickly, but it doesn't alleviate the dryness in his mouth, the hoarseness in his voice. "But you don't exist without me. I created you." An attempt at a flex of power -- a poor one, a sort of pathetic one.

It only makes Sam laugh, quiet, dark. "We're all in this together, Ben, you goddamn failure. If you really think you're more real than us, or more important -- who steps in when you're too weak? Who stepped in when your dumb ass almost got blown up? Who takes over when you p**** out and can't get rid of monsters because of 'morals' and 'rules?'" Sam pushes him; he's trying to instigate something. Ben just doesn't know what, or why. "What have you done? Nothing. Worthless piece of s***. Couldn't even save your own wife and--"

It isn't even a word, just a sound of frustration and rage, when Ben attacks Sam. It's hard to say what pushed him to it -- Sam's goading, or the maddening pressure from simply being there. It's over almost as quick as it begins; a rush of static, searing, white-hot pain, and then he opens his eyes with a start, back in the bedroom in his apartment.

The taunts, the internal bullying -- it doesn't stop just because Ben's on the outside again. He's in the apartment for another hour at least, at first just trying to pull himself together, function normally. Trying and failing to do a little reading. Checking out the surprisingly non-existent injuries from his internal run-in with Sam (because somehow, they always manifested here in the real world).

Maybe it's because it's been days, and he's just tired of listening, or maybe it's because the internal interaction had been more stressful and rattled him worse -- it's hard to say. But at some point, he finds the razorblade in the medicine cabinet (one he doesn't remember putting there), paces the hallway with it in his fingers. Talking to the walls -- to himself -- to the voices only he can hear.

It's crazy, he looks crazy, sounds crazy. Is crazy, probably. Sure feels like it, when he has a moment of clarity, realizes how he'd look to anyone observing, and just laughs about it -- helpless, overwhelmed. It's too much. And he should call Jackie, lean on her, let her in -- like he'd promised, in this very apartment, just over a month ago -- but he doesn't. Can't. Not after he's failed her. Not after he couldn't save her.

Where his thoughts end and yours begin. He isn't even sure anymore.

Eventually, he's sitting in the hallway, pushing up the right sleeve of his hoodie, razor in his left fingers. There are still thin pink scars visible across his forearm from months ago, over the summer -- white, barely visible ones alongside them, ones that maybe he'd only ever even notice, years and years old. Decades.

It never feels like anything he wants to do. It isn't a choice -- it isn't even a compulsion, or giving in and doing something he's been trying to resist.

It's giving in and letting something else take over, something that hates him, hurts him. Something that, Ben wonders, detached from the scenario playing out-- Something that is truly dangerous. Something he doesn't know if he can stop, but doesn't want to let go of. Something that, maybe someday, could have very permanent consequences.

It doesn't get much more real than that.

The razor presses to the skin at the inside of his forearm, but before it bites, "You're real." He barely chokes it out, and the noise inside intensifies, incredulous, disappointed, so-close-and-yet-so-far. "You're real, you're real. This is real. As real as I am," and inappropriately, he laughs; the razorblade falls from his fingers; all at once the chaos inside is cut off, silent.

Ben sits there with his head in his hands for a moment, breathing heavy, shaking. Eventually, he has to drag himself to the bathroom, throw up from nerves, from strain. This was real. It was all real. They were all real.

He's not sure if he should feel worried about this realization, or feel upset, or confused, or terrified, or relieved -- but it doesn't matter. He's still sort of laughing, out of breath and misty-eyed, when he retrieves the razorblade from the hallway -- right-handed, this time -- and puts it back on the uppermost shelf of the medicine cabinet (because getting rid of it is useless; there will always be another -- or kitchen knives, or fingernails, or shattered glass, or broken mirrors). He swipes at one of his eyes, pulls down the sleeve of his hoodie; the noise he makes sounds like the end of a laughing fit or a crying jag.

They're real, and maybe he needs them, is incapable of existing without them -- but right now, he's winning, and that counts for something. It's that that he focuses on, that he's won this one battle, that he's physically unscathed in the face of previously unconquerable odds, when he pulls himself together, goes home to his wife.