ecstasy | corpse husband

chapter 35.

SEATTLE POLICE DEPARTMENT
DAY NINE

"My name is Hudson Joel Hendrix."

Hudson rests his head back against the concrete wall, eyes closed and eyebrows pinched together, his voice barely substantial enough to be considered a whisper.

"I was born November 1st, 1996. My parents were Ada Lane Hendrix and Joel Hendrix." He pauses to lick his dry lips. "My sister's name is...Monroe. Her name is Monroe Cher Hendrix."

He keeps forgetting that bit.

His head tips to the side a little, as if he's suddenly falling, but he quickly picks it back up and opens his eyes. It feels like there's static in his head. The darkness of the room swells, everything hazy, and he blinks a few times but it doesn't improve anything. Ever since the lightbulb went out, it's difficult to keep himself upright anymore, to keep himself awake. But he refuses to let himself sleep, won't let himself even lie on the ground.

He won't wake up if he does.

It shouldn't be as difficult for him as it is; he's trained how to keep his body functioning efficiently even without proper sleep for long periods of time. It's the dehydration that's fucking with his head.

Nearly four days without water...

For a while now, he's questioned why he has to be so damn unyielding, even on the brink of death. Any sane person would give in already, fall into permanent sleep and relieve themselves of this fucked-over world. There is peace in death, and yet, he wrings himself through this incessant torture, burning inwardly at his powerlessness to change his fate. These blood-streaked walls will be the last thing he sees, that ravaged corpse his last company, the darkness his only savior.

Still, he chooses to suffer. He doesn't want to leave his sister alone in this world. She saved him once and for that, he will be perpetually in her debt.

More than that, though, he wants his vengeance.

Hudson grits his teeth as he forces himself to his feet, a torrent of new energy driving him, and he uses the wall to give him strength, his limbs trembling under his own weight. He thinks now would be a good time to do another round of the room. Every so hours, what he estimates would be every new day except time feels so warped trapped in here, he makes himself walk the perimeter of the room, running his hands along the walls, checking every damned corner twice, listening for anything hollow as he knocks with his knuckle along the surfaces. He goes through each of the cells, already having memorized the layout of them even in this dark. He won't give up so easily. There must be a way.

A notion occurs to him. This room is sealed. Air has to come in from somewhere or else he would've died days ago. It would've been a kinder death, strangulation, than this slow end he's stuck with now. Except, he's checked all the walls multiple times over. No vents. No fucking anything.

He would hit something if he wasn't so weak already.

Hudson slides his back against the wall, needing to sit, an abrupt dizziness overwhelming him, and his head pounds like it's hollow. Light. Spinning. The room's spinning or he is, he can't much tell the difference.

Goosebumps erupt across the skin of his arm and neck, startling him. A draft. There was a draft. Was he imagining it? Has his brain resulted to cruelty and empty hope?

It doesn't stop him from following it, the fleeting gust of air he isn't sure he fabricated in his own desperate mind. Maybe he'd fantasize a water drop falling from the ceiling next.

In the dark, his hands touch the metal of a tall filing cabinet. It's thrown against the wall opposite the door and must've gotten moved around during the hell that ensued in this room.