Chapter Text
He is walking down a wide street, battered shoes sliding on the still wet cement, fingers tight as they clench and unclench in his pockets, fidgeting, starving for comfort.
Starving.
Murphy almost chokes on his own scowl. He glances at his feet- they seem to be moving on their own, dragging his body along against his will. His eyes shift around, lazily, he wants to think – truth is they’re actually frantic.
The street lights turn away as he approaches, they guard their light away from his path, but Murphy barely notices the darkness. The ache in his stomach is taking over most of his senses. It was maybe two nights ago when he felt his insides growling in complaint, loud vibrations and heavy emptiness reaching up his throat. And then, the pain that begun soon after, digging down to the bone, a blurry guide to tensed and tight movements.
He walks, and the pain and hollowness etches deeper and deeper. It makes Murphy feel empty, like his very bones are empty. In his head he's floating, but it’s painful. There’s a few picks in his pocket and he starts twisting them between his fingers.
The street is quiet. Almost too quiet for his liking, too empty. Part of him is glad – the less life around him, the less possibilities to do anything stupid.
He picks up his pace. The metallic picks start jiggling louder in his pocket. It’s the first sound he notices, then he feels his heart; it’s beating loud. He wonders what caused it. A few meters later, and suddenly, he stops. His eyes dart sideways. The last sound dies in his pocket. His fingers still.
Murphy breathes a chuckle, but it’s nothing pleasant. He turns, eyes landing on the two-story building on the side of the road. Somehow it’s standing out, even with no lights on. Maybe that’s what catches Murphy’s attention in the first place. Or maybe it’s the way it seems to be waiting on the corner of the street, dark and simple, and with a, hopefully, easy-to-violate lock.
He starts walking towards the house, practically rolling his eyes at himself.
Guess he is doing the stupid thing after all.
Three minutes and a lot of sweat later, Murphy stands up and kicks the door with all his strength. Which... Honestly, it’s disappointing. The wood barely even rattles. He crouches back down. He’s done this before, he tells himself, he should be able to do it again. His hands work with the picks again and he licks his lips in aching concentration.
There’s suddenly the taste of blood on his tongue, and he tries to grind the metallic scent against his teeth. How long has that been there? He doesn’t remember the last time someone punched him. It could’ve been a week ago. It could’ve been yesterday.
Murphy holds his breath, keeping his hands perfectly steady. Then he exhales. The pick moves up and the lock clicks, the handle turns. He would’ve smiled at himself if he hadn’t rushed on his hands and knees to get inside – barely remembering to kick the door closed behind him.
He hurries to the kitchen – somehow knowing exactly how to get there, even though he can’t see past his own nose. Running through the thick veil of darkness, it’s a miracle he doesn’t run into a wall. At first, he stumbles and feels with his hands to find the food, not even bothering to turn on a light. Then he realizes it’d probably be bad to knock something over and end up making a mess, so he grabs a small flashlight from his jeans’ pocket and slams it down on the counter.
There, he thinks, as the weak light struggles to give him a sense of vision, now where’s the food.
First thing his eyes land on is a bag of crackers and he grabs it in his hands, tears the plastic open, and shoves three of them in his mouth.
He bites down and they break between his teeth. He ignores the stiffness, the salt that bites his lips and focuses on the fact that there’s something solid going down his stomach.
At first, it feels good. Small, slow bites taking him a step closer to sanity. Then Murphy chews on the crackers, faster, harder.
Then...Then it gets bad.
He coughs, trying to get rid of the stiff, full sensation crowding his mouth. Tiny crumbs travel down and stick at the back of his tongue, scratch his throat like glass shards. The dry bread refuses to move around in his mouth – it becomes something thick, that he can’t breathe through.
The next moment, Murphy is choking, tears prickling at the bottom of his eyes. His hands search frantically around the kitchen until they grab hold of a glass bottle. Whatever it is, it’s liquid, and Murphy downs a few large gulps without hesitation.
A moment passes.
Then, another.
Murphy doubles over and starts coughing violently, his eyes now visibly red and tearful, breath knocked out of his lungs. He stumbles back and turns around, gagging and almost vomiting above the sink – the freaking sink – it was right there in front of him all along. He turns the tap on and puts his mouth under the spout, drinking until the fire in him has calmed down.
When he stands, his throat, lungs and guts are burning with a hot that’s almost cold and he has to take small, calculated breaths in order to not pass out. He sits down on the hard tiles, with his head on his knees, feeling nauseous and aching all over. He only hopes the residents won’t decide to return any time soon, while he’s unable to hold himself up, let alone fight his way out of the house. The dread sends chills running down his spine.
It takes him only a few minutes, however, to snap out of the pain, to ignore and push down what he realizes could've very well been a fatal experience, as he realizes he’s running out of time. He forces himself up, gripping on the counter for support until his vision clears, and his knees stop shaking. With an arm wrapped around his stomach, Murphy carries on with the task of finding anything edible and preferably non-traumatic, in this goddamned kitchen.
In the end, he settles for chocolate biscuits and a glass of milk. The first cookie he takes out of the packet is a perfect shade of dark brown, decorated with even darker flakes of baked chocolate. It’s round, yet the surface is uneven and cracked. He dips it in the milk, then bites off half of it. The biscuit crunches and breaks under his teeth, then crumbles in his mouth. The chocolate melts on his tongue, and he’s glad no one is there to hear the sound that escapes from deep below his throat. Especially since murder would’ve then been the only appropriate solution.
Murphy wants to take his time savoring the sweet, rich flavor that explodes and engulfs his tongue. To keep hearing the satisfactory crunch just before the delightful taste floods his senses, and the soft, delicious cookie melts like butter in the warmth of his mouth. So enticing, calling him to indulge in the pleasure, yet he knows it’s too dangerous. Time is too much of a luxury right now and he’s already running low on it.
He ends up shoving the biscuits in his mouth, one after another, forcing them down with milk, barely chewing and almost hating himself. At some point he starts drinking straight from the carton just to avoid choking again. On the bright side, he’s only wasted five minutes when he walks out of the kitchen, thankfully remembering to grab the bag of crackers before leaving. He’s about to turn down the hall when something flickers in the corner of his eye, and he finds his attention drawn to a warm light coming from further inside the house.
Murphy turns left and carefully starts approaching the light while pocketing the little plastic bag in his sweater. Captivated, he walks up to the warm hues of orange and brown dancing and swaying on the wall across from another room. He approaches cautiously and peeks around the corner, only to find a living room with two couches around a wooden coffee table and a sofa next to a wide fireplace.
Murphy frowns as he slowly steps into the room. Was there a fire burning when he first came in here? He hadn’t payed much attention to his surroundings, that’s true. But he’s pretty sure he’d have noticed something making so much light when he almost ran into a wall. No, this fire was definitely not here ten minutes ago.
He takes a tentative step further into the room, eyes searching around warily, hands itching for a weapon. He studies the fireplace, mostly looking for a poker, and that’s when he notices. He tilts his head, eyebrows set in a frown. Something feels...off. Murphy gets closer, and as he does, he starts to notice the machinery that’s only an imitation of real wood. His fingertips touch the glass, then gradually his whole palm rests on it. It’s cool, he realizes with intrigue. Though he knows what an electric fireplace is, he’s never seen one up close before.
Murphy stands up, letting out a semi-relieved breath. It was probably programmed to turn on at a certain time, he muses, as he takes a step closer, bringing his hands above the fireplace. Warm. It tingles on his skin, dives through the cold, hard barricade and reaches his bones, engulfs them like a blanket that brings them together, soothing and calm. Something in him suddenly becomes softer. The dread seeps through his feet to the floor beneath them and his self-preservation instincts falter. His eyes get heavier, as if an invisible force is pulling them down, and his mind feels fuzzy, transparent.
He drops himself on the sofa, and stays. His eyes are sparkling against the flames, the colors shift and dance and burn in them. Murphy lets his eyelids fall, and pretends.
He pretends that he’s home – that he has a home. That this sofa is his, no one can grab him by the hair and kick him out in the cold. He pretends there’s someone who cares; he’s walking through that door right now and has no intention to hurt him. He pretends that this body belongs to him, and only him; that his parents never died, he never killed them, and they love him. Murphy pretends. And as he does, it becomes harder and harder to lift his eyelids.
“Five minutes,” he mumbles, but he’s not sure if he even makes a sound, if his lips move at all. “Just five minutes, and I’ll leave.” He doesn’t know whether he’s begging himself or the house to not hate him for staying.
After all, it’s just five minutes. He only pleads to be let to feel human for five minutes.
The warmth cradles him, hums to him softly, and Murphy is gone.
When consciousness starts to come back to him, the flames are still burning. But this time the room is cold, uninviting. A threat hangs in the air and Murphy inhales it. Reality knocks down on him too hard, and in an instant he realizes where he is, what he’s done, and the reason why he’s now awake. It’s pressing against his forehead, cold and round and hard. There’s a click and his eyes shoot open wide, his muscles lock.
He’s suddenly met with a tall man with dark skin and eyes fierce and glowing; arms big and strong and trained, they could so easily crush Murphy, use him, tear him to shreds.
“Who the hell are you and why the fuck are you here?” a deep, vibrating voice growls, and Murphy just shatters.