Hook Echo

 📅 early September, 2021

【ᴛᴡ ғᴏʀ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ sᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ, ᴀɴᴏʀᴇxɪᴀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ】

The scent of blood had been choking Kohao for days. He knew it wasn’t real, it never was. But the episodes he had where he watched Seth die at his hand in vivid detail didn’t get any less disturbing just because he knew they were the result of psychosis. And they had gotten so frequent, recently, as September had drawn nearer.
Ten years.
Soon it would be ten years since the day he’d been ready to throw everything away, ready to cut down anyone in his path. August had come to a close and with the approach of the anniversary, the scent of copper was thick in the air. Kohao sat on the edge of his bed and choked on it, on his guilt. For three nights he’d been lucky to get more than an hour and a half of sleep; for days and weeks he’d struggled to function as he pretended he wasn’t watching Sethfire bleed out in front of him. Again. And again. And again.

He’d tried starving it out and purging it away; it helped that watching the light leave Seth’s eyes made him feel sick. He felt unworthy of everything he ate anyway, but the weak limbs and dizziness after emptying his stomach into the toilet or down the shower drain didn’t clear the air of the smell of copper, didn’t clear his mind of the guilt or self hatred.
The guilt.
That was what it was, what always was at the root of these nights where he sat on the edge of his bed, the muzzle of his Glock 19 pressed to his temple. It was overwhelming—and sure, it always was, but it was such loud guilt this time; tearing at his stomach, ripping at the back of his throat as he tried to resist crying.
His thoughts swirled in his head, vicious and unforgiving.
Killer. Killer. Killer.
You would’ve fucking murdered him.
How could you?

Kohao’s hand shook, his mind unrelenting.

You would have watched him bleed out on the floor, you monster.
Your best friend’s brother.
You would have left her to die without him.
You’re sick.
Sick.
Sick.
Sick.

…click.

The shock of hearing the gun dry-fire against his head was enough to quiet his mind. He lowered the pistol from his temple to stare at it; at his hand. There was a numb, ticking time-bomb sort of weight that settled in his gut as he realized what he’d just done, or almost done. He slowly turned his head to look at his wall, his desk—both of which should be spattered in blood. But weren’t. He looked back down at his hand and felt cold. He hadn’t realized he was exerting enough force to pull the trigger. Hadn’t realized he was actually ready to die. But apparently he had been and it was pure luck that he wasn’t dead—and that just felt like too much to handle, so he focused on the fact that his gun was unloaded. Feeling numb and dissociated, he walked over to his desk lockers and pulled down his Glock 21, just to check. Empty. His Uzi was empty too. After finding his Tec-9 to also be unloaded, he turned around and almost mechanically lay the gun in his hand on his bed, unlocked his door, and walked straight across the hallway into Anarchy’s bedroom.

Chey had left for a DJing shift at Neonize, so Anarchy lay alone on his bed, thumbing through his phone—though he looked up as soon as Kohao entered.
“Did you unload my fucking guns?” Kohao asked stiffly, before Anarchy could offer any greeting. Silence hung heavily in the air as Anarchy tensed up and stared, foreboding overtaking his expression.
“...Kohao, you best have been fucking cleaning them or some shit,” he said slowly, his brow furrowed, eyes wide and anxious.
“Is that a yes?”
“What were you doing, K?” Anarchy asked, sitting up. 
Kohao just shook his head and turned around. 
“Don’t touch my stuff,” he said flatly.
“Would you be dead?”
Anarchy’s voice was sharp and tight and scared and it was the last one that made Kohao freeze in place, though he didn’t—couldn’t—face his friend.
“Would you be fucking dead right now, Kohao, if I hadn’t?” Anarchy repeated, sounding desperate, sounding close to tears.

Kohao couldn’t figure out how to answer, couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the truth of a “yes” but couldn’t quite force the lie of a “no” from his mouth. His silence was answer enough, though, and the choked noise Anarchy made in response to it hit him like a punch in the gut. He turned around to face his friend and the feeling redoubled as he saw the first, silent tears roll down Anarchy’s cheeks.
“I don’t know what to do,” Anarchy said, the lump in his throat audible, “Storm texted me last week or something, saying she was worried about you, and I’m doing everything I can think of. I can unload your guns, I can hide your ammo; I’d take your blades, too, if I could dig through your room long enough to find them! But I can’t control you. I can’t make you eat. I can’t make you keep your food down. I’m trying so hard to save you, K, but I can’t force you to save yourself.” He took a shaky breath that broke into something painful, halfway to a sob, and Kohao felt frozen. Anarchy wasn’t supposed to cry. That wasn’t how things worked, that had never been how things worked. 
“‘Key…” he started awkwardly, but there was no continuation; he had no words of comfort. He just trailed off, feeling wrong-footed.
“You’re sick, K-O,” Anarchy said, standing up and taking a pleading step forward, “You’ve gotten so fucking thin, and now this…Please, let me take you to a hospital.”
Kohao stepped backwards to stay out of Anarchy’s reach, and shook his head sharply.
“No, I’m not,” he said with a liar’s defiance, “I haven’t. We have a show in three days, anyway. I’m not fucking that up, not after we had to cancel everything last year! I’m fine, I’m good.”

Kohao was painfully aware he was lying through his teeth. He had felt his heart struggling to keep pace with the ways he was running his body into the ground; he knew exactly why he could no longer keep warm even when standing in full sun, why his hair had started falling out and his bruises failed to fade—and he knew why Storm had tipped Anarchy off. His breakdown in front of her hadn’t been intended as a cry for help—the opposite, really—but it had apparently functioned as one, and Kohao straightened his back in an effort to seem stronger, more stable.
“You’re not fine,” Anarchy said, unfooled. “Stop saying you’re fine. I don’t give a shit about the concert; we could cancel it, it literally doesn’t matter—”
“No we couldn’t! The band is the only thing that matters,” Kohao snapped. He turned to go, feeling increasingly trapped, increasingly guilty; lashing out, as ever, at those who tried to help him.
“You’re part of this band, Kohao!” Anarchy said, lunging forward to grab Kohao’s arm and prevent his retreat. “We’re not anything without you, K, don’t you get that?”
“Then I can’t be in a goddamn hospital during a show, can I?” Kohao wrenched his arm out of Anarchy’s grasp. “You gonna hold me down and haul my ass to a ward? Dump me there like garbage? You know there’s no way you could get me committed; call the cops and see what happens. Just drop it. I’m fucking fine.”

Kohao turned tail and fled back to his bedroom, pretending his venom was warranted, pretending it was heartfelt; pretending, desperately pretending, that the sound he heard across the hall was anything but his best friend crying, helpless, into his hands.