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The Earth had been plagued by monsters far before the discovery of Visitors was unveiled — individuals such as the man who seeks solace in subjecting me to his twisted perversions are no better than those flesh-eating beasts we humans seek protection from each night. For a cause I’m unsure of, I have grown keen on ensuring his safety despite knowing there are many others much more suited for my efforts. It’s ironic considering he cares very little for it and actively encourages his own demise. I couldn’t possibly bring myself to say it directly to him, but the idea of ramming his skull into a wall is tempting on occasion. The foulest part is knowing he’d enjoy each second of it.
I have never thought of myself to be a man drawn to those carrying a head crammed with filth on their shoulders; quite the contrary. My slim history of romance consisted purely of vanilla ladies and gentlemen with hearts large enough to compensate for the absence of my own. For a short period of my life, I’d felt a sense of normalcy with these lovers that anti-psychotics failed to provide me. I foolishly presumed love must have been the answer to the issues I found myself having at the time. Perhaps, in the midst of a death-driven cataclysm where human connection is scarce, it is. Although, I certainly could have chosen a healthier counterpart. I often question if I have this ill desire to mend this man together like he’s a project rather than his own person — it must be the pity I feel for what may have caused his behavioral deviancy.
Pathetic groans caused by what I assume to be a sickening mix of pain and pleasure remind me of why I’d woken up mid-day in the first place. I’d had a dream much more horrifying than I’d like to admit about the smug creep meeting an end similar to countless of my previous guests: being ambushed by FEMA. Despite the fact that allowing people to take residency in my home was an idea I’d rejected in the beginning, I care much more for my houseguests than I tend to let on — including the freeloaders who have treated me as if I’m worth less than a dime. This is precisely why I’d strayed from civilization prior to the apocalypse, for loss is an imminent pain.
I snag the last beer available in my critter-infested fridge and swallow down the painful memory of my generous neighbor who’d gifted me the pack alongside a slew of advice days before his slaughter. A deep surge of regret courses my veins for not having done more to protect his beloved daughter. She was far more deserving of life than the wretched bastard who has me wrapped around his finger. Perhaps the suffering I’m enduring now is my punishment for all that I’ve failed to do.
If I did not know any better, I’d think he values his privacy and would prefer for me to knock before barging in. I swing the door to the storage closet open and grapple around for the light switch. The man’s immediate eye contact causes me to flinch — I’ve never been decent at it, but the crazed expression permanently etched in his eyes makes it all the more daunting. If one’s eyes truly are the window to the soul, he mustn’t have a soul.
“Did you miss me alrea..? I surely missed you. Teehee! Are you here for those… ‘routine checks?’ Reminds me of my years at the looney bin, you know. Or maybe you’re here to finally put me down like a filthy little dog. How exciting!” Timofey’s hands remain tucked between his chafing thighs as he tilts his head against the shelves. My eyes dart around the cramped room for any potential remnants of bodily fluids. I haven’t caught it quite yet, but I suspect he has been routinely pleasing himself whilst the others are fast asleep. As strange as it may be, I wouldn’t mind it if it were true. Fantasy is all that many have left now, and so I couldn’t blame them if their imagination grew to be sexually explicit. Masturbation is human — in a world of blood-lusting creatures, I cherish humane qualities.
“No… although, you certainly aren’t lying when you compare yourself to a ‘filthy’ dog. When in God’s name was your last bath?” I shut the door behind myself and sit a conservative distance from him once I’ve determined the area is free of blood or semen. The stench of body odor and wet socks intensifies immediately, causing me to plug my nose with my fingers. I attempt to focus on the glimmer of light reflected on my half-empty beer can to distract myself from staring at Timofey. The way he presents himself is akin to a car crash; pitiful, yet difficult to keep one’s eyes off of out of utter astonishment.
“Hmmm… I think it’s been months, or years, or centuries! Teehee! Time just flies sooo quickly when you’re having fun, doesn’t it? But lots of men are attracted to stinky, pathetic snobs. I’d bet deep down, you are, too!” He progressively crawls towards me, eliminating the invisible barrier I’d placed between the two of us. With trembling knees, he kneels to prop himself up against his sweaty palms to inch his face closer.
“Calm yourself! Good God, and don’t you dare accuse me of having a fetish for arguably one of your most repulsive traits! I can tolerate your ill mind, and perhaps your stalking tendencies, but the smell you emit drives me mad.” I groan and suppress a gag.
“Awww, I’d be offended if I didn’t know that you were lying. Teehee! Why else have you chosen to spend your precious time with me? I wish you were a little more honest. You know I’m not judgey-wudgey!” He’s practically hyperventilating as he caresses my face. I often notice that despite the violence he wishes to be inflicted upon himself, he is always uncharacteristically gentle with me. My severe deprivation of touch has me subconsciously leaning my head into his slender fingers.
“I’m real glad that the few other people in this house have chosen to remain in the living room, otherwise they’d hear you shamelessly sucking up to me every damned day. Although, I bet you couldn’t care any less of how poorly others may think of you. That’d be a good trait if only you knew how to be a functioning member of society and look after yourself. Sure, it may be true that I… condone your company, but that doesn’t mean that I do not wish for you to improve certain aspects of your personality. I know it pains you to stay this way.”
“I’ve got nooo clue as to what you’re talking about, but I quite appreciate how much you care for little old me! I don’t understand it, though. Who wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to have their own personal punching bag? Of all people, I thought you would! Teehee! Why don’t you release all that pent-up frustration on me? Break my ribs, smash my fingers, tear the flesh off my bones! Do it, do it!” He corners me between the shelves and slots both his knees against the sides of my thighs, blocking my ability to escape his grasp. It’s clear he’s itching to provoke a violent reaction out of me — one that I’m fighting off the urge to give. I graze my hands on his shoulders in an attempt to ground him, eliciting a soft whimper.
“…I really don’t know as to why I even bother giving advice, it’s clear it flies through one ear and out the other. I think it would be far more beneficial if we took action, instead. Get your ass off of me. I suppose I’ll be giving you a bath — you surely need it.” Thinking of a way to settle him down before he mentally crumbles, bathing him is the first idea to rush to my mind. I’m confident that my other houseguests would appreciate it if I were to eradicate his odor, as well.
“Is that your excuse for wishing to run your hands all over my body? Perhaps you’re thinking of dunking my head down in the water and wringing my neck out whilst I claw at your forearms? That would just be so… delightful…” For the first time in our conversation, he dips his face away from my gaze to veil his reddening cheeks. He obeys my command and sluggishly climbs off my lap without much resistance.
I ignore his evident arousal and tread towards the bathroom, careful to prevent waking anyone. I would feel especially guilty if I were to disturb the burn-ridden firefighter who can only feel peace in his short-lived slumbers. My heart throbs each time I catch sight of his scorched flesh. The resistance of the human body is truly incredible.
“Is this the part where you strip me bare and make me feel worthl…? Point out every flaw and punish me? Teehee!” Timofey locks the door as I adjust the water temperature. Hearing him voice his fantasies aloud never fails to irritate me.
“I don’t know if it’s purely for your degradation fetish, but you should stop speaking so poorly of yourself. I understand that you get off on it, but it’s doing you no good… Not to mention that it makes me feel like puking my guts out.” I resist the compulsion to admit that most of what he has to say about his likeness is objectively true. He’s quite self-aware for a person as ill as he is, which plays a key role in the difficulty of his recovery. It’s clear he does not wish for assistance in becoming a better person, nor does he care to be one at all, but I can’t help needing to see him succeed in this one-sided goal of betterment. These conflicting feelings have me sick to my stomach most nights.
“You’re no fuuun, you know that? I wish you’d meet my so-called ‘masochism’ with a warm embrace!” He begins to undress without further comment. I avert my eyes as he does so; it’s strange considering I’m going to see him bare regardless. It feels much too intimate.
“Quit your nonsensical blabbering and get in the tub already. The water shouldn’t be too hot.” I turn to face him and encounter a sight rather unsurprising: a bony body riddled with scars and burn sears. Many appear to be unintentional, in which I presume to have been imposed during his stay at the psychiatric ward. He timidly covers his manhood as he submerges into the water.
“Not so confident once you’re actually in a vulnerable position, huh?” I tease as I squirt a generous amount of shampoo in my hand. His hair is possibly the greasiest I’ve ever laid my eyes upon — Visitors included. I wouldn’t necessarily consider Timofey to be an unattractive individual, rather the perception others have of him is dwindled by the simple fact that he refuses to tend to his hygiene. I think he’d be arguably handsome without the layers of grime coating his features.
“Just a little stage fright is all… Teehee!” He knocks both knees together and runs a hand through his mangled hair. I’ve never seen him exhibit shame before, but I quite like it.
His irises remain trained on my jaw whilst I lather his thin locs. The tips of my fingers brush over large lumps on his scalp, likely caused by severe oil build-up. I begin to wonder if he’d ever had somebody to care for him, let alone teach him how to do it himself. His eyelids suddenly flutter closed and a grin that seems to be genuine plasters his face. Due to his tendency to stare, I’d never noticed the near minuscule birthmark hidden on his left eyelid. To discover a feature of such little significance feels so profound. He no longer looks to be a pervert without an ounce of dignity — though, perhaps I’m only feeling sentimental to witness him in a true state of bliss that doesn’t include pain. He’s likely fantasizing about having his throat sliced open, but I’d prefer not to acknowledge that.
“You’re quite… tender. The last nurse to have bathed me was too rough. I really didn’t like it, not one bit! He treated me like some sort of monster over an itty-bitty hiccup… as if he was a saint worthy of passing judgement…” He lightly scratches at one of the scars located on his thigh. He seems to be reminiscing of his past, but unlike the previous times, he appears bitter over it. He always gave the impression that he cared very little for the torment he endured throughout his life, or that he believed it was something to relish in. I can’t quite understand his desire for pain, for the bits that I experienced were highly unwelcomed.
“Didn’t enjoy it, huh? You’re always begging for a beating of some kind.” I rinse his hair, shocked by the ease in which I can stroke the strands without catching my fingers in a knot. His eyebrows knit together as the warm water coats his scalp.
“No, no, no — it was different! Reeeaaal different! I’m not some sort of punching bag for just anyone and everyone. I only accept punishments from specific people… like you. Teehee! Pretty funny considering you refuse to take up the offer!” He heaves a groan. I seize a clean washcloth to finally scrub at the weeks-worth of muck build-up. I know that doing so will likely cause him to revert back to making his typical crude remarks, and so I attempt to quickly glaze over his sensitive areas. Unfortunately, he’s sensitive everywhere — it’s as if my touch sends him spiraling.
“Oh, goodness! You’re tortur… me with your gentle hands! I swear, I can’t help it!” His palm shoots to his mouth to suppress a moan, eyes rolling back into his skull. Ignoring his antics, I continue exfoliating his arms and lean down to begin with his legs. The best way to deal with his behavior on certain occasions is to pretend as if he isn’t doing anything strange at all — he rides off the attention whether it be negative or positive. I can appreciate that he’s at least trying to conceal it this time.
“Why don’t you stay here for a minute and rise yourself off? I’m going to grab you something to wear that isn’t caked with sweat. Don’t make a big deal out of it, either.” I exit before an odd comment about sharing my clothes slips his lips, although, his taunting giggles manage to follow me to my bedroom. I rummage through my drawers packed with unorganized clothing, back-up cigarettes, and miscellaneous items that I feel heavy bouts of guilt for having kept. For a moment, I’m distracted by the heavily faded and routinely bleached blood splotch spanning over my bed covers. I still feel unclean when I remember how I’d exposed my most vulnerable state to a Visitor. I cannot fathom as to how Timofey fancies the feeling of vulnerability; it’s debilitating.
I meekly push the bathroom door open to find that he has already wrapped himself with a towel. His thin legs tremble as the cool air hits them, and it’s now that I discover many of the scars I previously assumed were randomized were the furthest thing from it — many spell out initials. There are at least a dozen of them, concisely carved in areas traversing his calves to his thighs. A few are far deeper than the others, as if they display the level of commitment to each individual. I suppose I’d been too busy tuning out his abnormalities to take a better look at his skin.
“Teehee! Bet you wanna make your mark on me, too. Go ahead!” He shuffles close enough for me to listen in on his heartbeat steadily mounting. I whirl my head away and begin to hope that the fear isn’t readable on my face.
I have but a clue as to how to respond, and so I simply let the words roll off my tongue, “God, no, I don’t! And is that to say that each specific person that represents these initials carved them themselves? I was thinking for a second that you’d done it yourself. I want you to really reflect on that and understand how truly disgusting that is.”
My face crumples into an expression of dismay. I likely could have chosen better phrasing, but I doubt anything that I say will change how he feels about what these people had done to him. I thought we’d been making progress, but I know better than anyone else that it isn’t linear. I can’t necessarily blame him, for I shouldn’t have been staring in the first place. Remembering that will be difficult.
“You really are toooo kind! Too kind, indeed… Don’t hold your breath if you ever change your mind.” His manic grimace relaxes into a solemn smile. I offer the sleepwear and he dresses himself whilst I pretend to focus on my disheveled nails. I should clip them more often to avoid their constant shattering — especially now that disposing of corpses has become an inevitable part of my routine.
“These are so warm and smell of your favorite brand of cigare..! Gosh, sometimes, I can’t help myself from digging in your ashtray and… Teehee!” He claws at his neck as he typically does when attempting to soothe his racing mind. I’d been wondering why I’d find ash scattered across the same table that I keep the tray on; I assumed the cat was at fault for that.
“Stop acting like a disgusting pervert and I’ll allow you to sleep with me tonight… I mean, you’d break into my room to watch as I sleep, anyways, wouldn’t you?” I shut off the lights and begin tip-toeing to my bedroom, paying little mind to the heavy breathing that my suggestion evokes. He had mistakenly admitted to watching me sleep once, and I’d felt too enraged to speak to him for the remainder of that day. Now, I’ve come to accept that I must tolerate these little quirks of his for as long as he’s ill — which may be a long period of time. Unless he and I succumb to the threats lingering outside before he can become better. The outcome will likely be the latter.
He mimics my movements as I sit at the edge of my bed. Goosebumps spur across my body once he wraps his chilly fingers around my bicep, but unlike many of the other times he’s tried to feel for my muscles, I don’t find myself rejecting his touch. I’ve lost quite a bit of mass since the cataclysm began, although, I suppose he doesn’t care for that; he only wants to be in contact with the warmth of my skin. Leaning in for a loose hug, I get a whiff of his new, bearable scent of cheap soap and cigarettes. They aren’t truly my favorite brand, but they’re the least expensive.
Timofey’s arms suddenly sprawl over my chest and trap me in a hearty nuzzle. We lower our bodies to revel in the comfort the blankets provide whilst eliminating the bits of space between us. Had he tried cuddling with me before being bathed, I would have declined the advance. He isn’t half-bad once he’s been thoroughly washed up.
“I couldn’t imagine going such a long time without feeling clean. I’d bet it feels quite nice, now doesn’t it?” I instinctively rub his lower back, stunned to not hear a moan of sorts.
“…It does. It really, really does.” His tone no longer carries its typical lewd air. My weary mind eases as he relaxes himself against my torso, intertwining his fingers with my own. I nearly fail to notice the way he gradually mirrors my breathing whilst he drifts off.
My own intentions for aiding his unrequited recovery were previously unclear to me — the few aware of it even advised against it as it appeared that my mentally strenuous efforts were futile. Lying amongst him with his leg wrapped over my hip, the guilt for all my unspoken judgments suddenly ignites the heart I’d always denied having. Perhaps I’ve been rendered delirious by love, but I’d like to believe that Timofey is capable of growth.
He wasn’t fibbing when he’d told me that people look younger when they’re in a state of rest.