COCONUT RUM -corpse husband-

PROLOGUE

TW: self-harm

Corpse couldn't often go anywhere else, except the roof of his run down apartment building. He already lived on the top floor, furthest from human interaction, but sometimes he needed the wind to hit his cheeks and remind him he was real.

Corpse was struggling; that much was obvious.

He hadn't produced any significant content in months, he rarely spoke to his friends outside of streaming, and he hadn't actually finished anything since his last song. He felt... good.

Oddly, Corpse was better, physically, than he had been in two, maybe even three, years. He had a treadmill in his living room, he could get out of bed daily, and he actually had desire. It made him uncomfortable.

Mentally, though, he was shit. Nothing felt good enough, he realized. At least months ago, he was able to curb that feeling with a bottle or two, then he would post the video, or upload the song, or whatever it was he felt anxious about, then he would sleep the alcohol off and wake up surprised at his own success.

Now, nothing worked; not even the nasty habit he had created of smoking cigarettes.

Corpse sat on the ledge, his feet dangling over the building into the abyss. He felt much higher from the ground than he knew he was, but he ignored that, and kept his gaze out, into the sky. He could see the smog floating over California, and oddly he felt at one with it. He didn't know; maybe he had a buzz from the nicotine.

Corpse took a long drag from the cheap cigarette. He was almost done with this box, and he had promised himself he wouldn't buy more. It wasn't an addiction, more of a habit, he decided. If he didn't have them, he would be okay with it.

He was surprised by the slam of the door from the stairwell, signaling someone had joined him. His anxiety spiked, forcing him to smudge the cigarette into the ground before quickly standing and pulling his hood over his head. He was stupid to have forgotten a mask, the most he could do was hide his unruly, oddly recognizable, curly hair.

"Oh, sorry," the woman spoke, her voice nearly trembling. She was clearly nervous, from what Corpse could see, ringing her hands together, her head permanently facing the floor in submission.

    He couldn't risk using his voice to respond, and she wasn't looking at him, so he chose to stay silent. Opting to use physical communication instead, he returned to his seated position on the ledge, hoping it would signal to her that he was okay with her presence. He kept his hood on, as he heard her shoes shuffle the pebbly rocks beneath them. She didn't sit close at all, staying far away from Corpse.

    He glanced at her, seeing her head still tilted down. She had long dark hair, falling past her waist. He couldn't tell much about how she looked, but he could see how small she was. Corpse guessed that she was maybe 5'3, and very thin.

    His eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the long scars all over her thighs, down to her knees. He quickly looked away.

    Corpse wasn't stupid, but he wasn't quick to assume. Actually, he didn't know why he even cared. He tried to keep his head out to the sky.

    It was interesting, he realized; how she looked down and he looked out. He tried his best not to make a metaphor of it.

    He didn't know how long they sat out there. Maybe, an hour or two, maybe longer.

    Corpse was the first to leave, shuffling away silently from the ledge, and off the roof. He wanted to say goodbye, but decided not to risk it. He never knew whether he would be recognized or not; he didn't want today to be that day.

    She turned her head slightly to look at him, before he opened the door and left the roof.