quietly clicked shut. He dropped his hand from the window and felt 
his heart race more, his breathing slightly shallow. The flat was tidy 
— painfully tidy. Suffice to say, he had learnt his lesson with burning 
rice on the stove. Gabriel didn't exactly appreciate that, and, in his 
current sober mind, he understood why totally. He scrambled to his 
feet, his bare toes curling into the warm carpet. He tried to focus on 
the sensation that caused him, and absently snapped the elastic 
band around his wrist, the sharp pang of pain bringing him back 
more into reality, just as Gabriel entered the room. 


For a while, they just stared at each other. Kit wanted to run over, 
wrap his arms tight around Gabriel, greet him home, babble about 
his day — the squirrel in the garden stealing from the bird feeder, 
finding a book he needed, eating lunch without reminder or making a 
mess... But today wasn't the usual day. His phone, disregarded on 
the kitchen counter, painfully reminded him of what was happening 
now, and everything felt in slow motion. 


"Kit..." Gabriel breathed, softly. He was in his work uniform — an 
insignia Kit neither knew or cared to know on the breast of his 
jacket. Gabriel worked hard, Kit knew that much. Most days, he 
disappeared early in the morning, came back for a couple of hours 
in the evening, then disappeared at night. Kit had gotten over his 
fear that Gabriel had someone on the side, and accepted the fact 
that the care home he worked at meant he had sleeping shifts. Kit 
suddenly realised that his whole world revolved around someone 
else, and that someone else said they needed to talk. The most 
cliché way in the world, the most inexcusable way also — through a 
text message, scared to say it out loud. 


Gabriel stepped forward, his body position somewhat closed off, not 
inviting a hug or any contact, even though the look on his face was 
decisively caring. 


"I'll make us some tea." He invited, daring to smile at Kit, who 
snapped the elastic band on his wrist again in response, silent for 
now. There would be time to explode later, Kit felt sure of it, and he 
was certain Gabriel could feel the tension in the air too. 


Seeking familiarity, Kit followed him from the open plan living room 
into the kitchen area, still focusing on what his feet felt — warm, 


rough carpet, followed by cold, hard tile. He absently watched 
Gabriel go through the motions of preparing two cups of tea, before 
looking away to stare at his phone, the text message still open with 
half a reply written - 


'You can't fucking do -' 


Kit locked his phone so the screen went dark, then looked up as he 
grew aware of Gabriel standing right at his side, holding two mugs. 
"Living room?" He invited, as if talking to a stranger rather than his 
boyfriend of almost a year. Kit nodded, unable to find his voice, 
aware of the anger and fear that was bubbling up inside him. He 
followed Gabriel into said room, feeling like an alien in the flat he 
knew so well, knew well enough that the majority of his things had 
made their way over here, knew so well because he spent most 
days curled up on the sofa or window seat, waiting for his boyfriend 
to come home. 


He decided to sit on the sofa, this time. Whatever was about to be 
said, he didn't want the memories tangled up on his favourite resting 
place, the window seat. The sofa could absorb all the badness that 
came from the conversation, the argument he felt certain they would 
have, and then the make-up session afterwards. The worn fabric 
knew all their most intense moments, and the various stains attested 
to that. As Kit folded his legs under himself, and hugged a cushion 
to his chest, he absently thought that they should buy a new sofa. It 
was amazing that he wanted to think about anything apart from what 
was going on. 


For a while, they both sat in silence, Gabriel sipping his tea. Then 
Gabriel dared to — quietly, as if the silence was smashed with a brick 
if he raised his voice — ask about Kit's day. Kit sat on the normality 
for a short while, trying not to get his hopes up that something had 
changed between the text message and this conversation. 
Eventually, he told Gabriel bits and pieces about his day; applying 
for the college course, reading up on mortician practices, realising 
that he was reading about practices in the States and having to visit 
the library to find one based in the UK, and — he was rambling. His 
words were shaking, and he felt like he was desperately trying to 
prove his worth, that he would be focusing his attention on his 
studies, that he really felt that undertaking was the right job for him. 


But he realised midway through the sentence explaining that 
embalming was rarely done in the UK that Gabriel wasn't really 
listening. That Gabriel was just waiting for him to shut up, to get his 
words out. 


So Kit shut up, abruptly. 


Gabriel almost instantly spoke, fumbling over his words. It was 
clearly a practised speech — something he was leaning on heavily to 
say right, and say clearly. 


"I'm sorry, Kit. This isn't working. You can't just... burst in here and 
graffiti on my walls. You can't burn experimental blue rice in the 
kitchen and, at the very least, not clean up after yourself. | didn't 
appreciate that time you set the toilet on fire. And | really didn't 
appreciate the time you pretended to be dead. 


| can't do this, Kit. | love you, but... | don't need you." 


Kit felt himself nodding in reaction to the words, but they didn’t feel 
like they were sinking in. It felt more like the sofa was absorbing 
them, like it had so many times before. "Oh." He eventually said, 
emptily, staring down at his full mug of tea, focusing on how it was 
more green than brown, how the honey Gabriel had mixed in gave it 
an odd shine. "I... okay. | guess I'll... whilst you're at work, I'll..." He 
knew what he was trying to say, and he suspected Gabriel knew too. 
He felt oddly bad that he didn't have a speech to reply with, but 
Gabriel had had all day to think about what to say. What if it hadn't 
been just today, but days? What if he had been thinking about it the 
last time they slept together? What if he had been distracted at 
work? Had he been thinking about it when they domestically went 
shopping for a bookcase the previous week, for all the books Kit 
needed for school? 


Gabriel finished his tea, raising an eyebrow at Kit's mug. "Drink your 
tea, love. Or you won't sleep." It was clear that the 'love' came from 
habit, and Gabriel flushed at the slip up, at the fact he still seemed to 
care about Kit, cared if he slept. Kit nodded, but stood, staring at the 
floor. 


"| guess you're going to go to work, right?" He asked, very softly, 


slowly looking up to glance at Gabriel, who had the decency to look 
embarrassed and nervous, an emotion rarely shown by the 
unshakeable care worker. 


"Yeah." Gabriel replied, simply, and stood too. He moved close to 
Kit, his body warm and safe, familiar with the way Kit's head 
automatically rested on his shoulder, the way his arms wrapped 
around his waist, resting on his lower back. A position that they had 
adopted many times — a greeting, a farewell, an apology, a 
forgiveness. What followed was almost painful in how familiar it was 
— Gabriel gently nuzzling Kit's head up and catching him in a kiss. 


Kit thought he could make him stay and undo all the bad things if he 
kissed back hard, if his lips moved in the right way, if his tongue 
delved deeply, if he fisted the fabric of his lover's jacket hard enough 
and brought their bodies close together. But Gabriel broke away the 
kiss, gently used his hands to pry Kit free of his jacket. 


"You don't have to..." Gabriel hesitated. "...Disappear. You don't 
have to leave quickly, and we should still be friends, and..." 


Kit shook his head, stepping back, trying to take some control in the 
situation. "I'll be gone by the time you get back." He promised. 
Gabriel's twelve hour sleeping shift should give him enough time to 
pack his things and arrange a taxi to take him back to his dingy flat 
on the other side of the city. 


Gabriel bowed his head, but nodded, his cheeks flushed with some 
emotion that Kit couldn't place — something akin to shame, but 
something was hidden under that, something he would never be 
able to dig out. "Bye, Kit." He stated, finally, turning away, pausing 
only to dump his mug in the sink before heading to the front door. 
Again, it clicked open, then quietly clicked shut behind him. 


Standing still in the living room, Kit couldn't help but to remember 
something he had read in a book once, long ago. "The expectation 
or hope that two people are fated to be together does not 
necessarily mean unending bliss."" He hadn't been naive enough to 
expect unending anything, but he thought maybe it would last longer 
than this. He thought maybe they loved each other, and he thought 
maybe they were meant to be together. But clearly, fate had other 


plans for them, as individuals. 


Kit's stomach was roiling, and suddenly even his evening herbal tea 
didn't look appealing to him. He wouldn't get to sleep tonight, 
chamomile and lavender be damned, so he poured the lukewarm 
sleep aid down the sink. 


Kit tried to pack up his stuff, but his hands were still shaking with the 
adrenaline that was leaving his body. Instead, he sat on the window 
seat for the last time, a long-forgotten sketch pad he had found 
under a pile of books in his lap, a mechanical pencil fisted in his 
hand. He stared outside at the encroaching night, at the garden 
where he had napped and kissed and fucked. He hoped he could 
get the image stuck in his brain, but, just in case, he decided to 
record his memory. 


He sketched the ghosts of trees for a bit, and thought about 
memories. 


He tried to capture the ethereal feel of the light, and thought about 
changes. 


He drew leaves on trees that didn’t have them, and thought about 
the future. 


He blocked in shadows as deep as the night, and thought about the 
past. 


His past was just arriving at the secretive facility on the outside of 
the city. After passing all the necessary checks, he reported in to his 
supervisor. 

"Good evening, Agent. Did you manage to get rid of the subject?" 
Gabriel swallowed, and lied. 


"Of course. Target was neutralised." 


He thought of the amnestic in Kit's tea. He thought of the mission he 
was supposed to complete. He thought of the time Kit pretended to 
be dead. He thought that maybe he had done the right thing. 


But doing the right thing was rarely easy. 


« That One Time Kit Tried to Kill Himself | Hub | Live Now. 
Tomorrow, We Die.» 


kit's Horror Hospital Of Horror 


Things were so wrong here. 


His clothes felt starchy, and well-worn. Not dirty — Kit could smell the 
spice of orchid and patchouli oil wafting from the knitted jumper that 
came up short on his arms, the sleeves concluding just above the 
raised scars present on each wrist. 


But it had been previously worn; second-hand. Wearing at the 
elbows and fraying at the hem. Kit swallowed as he peered down at 
himself. This wasn't right. This wasn't him. He could feel the spirit of 
the man who had lived in these clothes; died in these clothes. He 
was a gardener — nettles prickled at each elbow and it chaffed in his 
armpits. One night, he just fell asleep in his comfy chair and never 
woke up. In these clothes. Not even in pyjamas. 


Kit's whole spirit ached from the high emotions as the old bloke was 
found by his son. Felt the emotions dry out like raindrops on his skin 
as the clothes were dumped in a box for charity. As they travelled in 
a van to the hospital, as they span in machines, the memories dried 
like the laundry water as the dryer ran through the sweater's 
memory. And now they were on his back, the emotions lingering like 
cigarette smoke. You could never truly make second hand clothes 
clean. 


Dismayed, Kit checked each pocket of the jogging pants he wore 
that dangled around his shins — too short. The pants weren't 
haemorrhaging emotions, but Kit was the second he realised his 
knife was no-where to be found. He was, in short, defenceless. 


And the final indignity? 


They had stuck a needle full of anti-psychotic in his ass and now it 
had a bruise the size of his palm gracing it. 


He folded his arms across his chest, protectively, scowling at the 


room he was in. It was all very controlled — bright, white flat sheets 
on the bed, arranged with precise hospital corners; a bedside table 
that was subtly bolted onto the floor; curtains with strong, metal 
hooks; a window that opened enough to maybe sneak a hand out 
and nothing more. 


The chirpy nurse - who had also had the joy of seeing his bare 
backside, alongside a doctor and two huge orderlies — had told him 
that he had ""arrived at a perfect time,"’ because it was long before 
lights out, and the patients were free to roam. A brusque tour had 
shown him the TV room, a games room, a carefully designed 
smoking area, an equally carefully designed outside area with a 


pond, and a room that she said was "space to calm down". 


Only the TV room had been occupied, with a few of people of 
different ages staring blankly at the TV as it screened a gameshow. 
Sometimes, one individual clapped in reaction to the middle-aged 
couple getting the question right, but otherwise it was silent. Kit 
wondered if they all had identical bruises on their backside, making 
them like zombies, silent and malleable. He decided that, as long as 
he was able to fight against the drug, he wouldn't become like that. 


The tour ended at the nurse's station, with the woman showing him 
the book he had to sign in and out of if he decided to go outside, 
instructed him of the time to come and queue for his medication, and 
told him to come here if he needed anything. Well, not anything, she 
gabbed, but some things. 


As light-hearted as the rest of the tour had been, her tone became 
very serious when she spoke of "med time” - '"You have to come 
here. If you don't come here and queue up within five minutes, we'll 
have to send our orderlies come to find you. It would be a shame to 
have to force you to take your anti-psychotic again.” 


Kit felt like he had been incredibly patient, and equally receptive 
whenever the nurse had expected him to answer some 
inconsequential question. So when he rolled his eyes and got a 
stern look, he decided he couldn't care less and asked if he was 
finally free — well, as free as an inpatient at a mental health facility 
was. The nurse tutted and nodded, calling one last warning after him 
about the all-important drug enforcement time. 


First, he had gone back to his room to see if any of his belongings 
were there. He checked the drawers, the wardrobe, and even under 
the bed, but found nothing. No knife — which wasn't a huge surprise 
— but also, no cigarettes. He was sure there was some trading 
situation in place where a Valium would get him a cigarette or two, 
and he had become an expert in tonguing his meds some time ago. 
But for now, he had nothing to call his own, and nothing to occupy 
his still racing mind. 


He wandered out into the hallway, pausing by the TV room. Sitting 
down didn't feel very inviting right now — how did they expect you to 
relax after a prick up the arse, if you couldn't even sit? 


So, he wandered the corridors. Patients came in, and out — some 
had thick bandages around their wrists, some walked with their 
heads bowed, arms crossed protectively, never making eye contact. 
Some still were wilder, louder, drawing attention to themselves from 
other patients and nurses alike.