He Makes Me (Queen AU)

Chapter 61

The snow crunched beneath Tim's feet as he trudged through the thick blanket covering the yard in the back of the complex. He hugged himself for warmth, but the blistering wind bit viciously at his skin, freezing his bare arms and legs to the bone. He'd lost all feeling in his toes and fingers, and the makeshift bandages he'd wrapped around his waist and tucked into the neckline of the corset were loosening up and falling out of place.

He ignored the vehement shouts and incessant pounding from the shed behind him, where on the opposite side of the doors locked shut were Neil and John, pleading for release. It didn't matter how long they screamed, or how hard they banged their fists against the wooden barrier. The brunette planned to keep them out there as long as he saw fit. It could be for a few hours, or maybe a few days if he really felt like being evil, but it might just as well be the result of plain forgetfulness. After all, he had more pressing matters to deal with.

Tim shivered through the empty, quiet halls, his knees creaking with the floors and more and more color returning to his skin with every step he took. He managed to drag himself to the bathroom that he'd brought Roger to after he tore all his portraits off the wall and smashed them against the ground. He had yet to reframe the pictures, and the matter of rehanging them had yet to cross his mind.

He staggered over the threshold and stumbled into the sink, gripping it like he did the one in the basement to catch himself. With labored breaths, he hung his head and tried to ground himself. The world around him tipped to the side, and he squeezed his eyes shut to keep from falling with it.

When the wave of nausea passed and his surroundings fell back into place, he opened his eyes and slowly lifted his head, his tired eyes meeting those of the man staring back at him.

Pathetic, the reflection in the mirror growled derisively, its lips glued shut. You should be ashamed of yourself. How could you let them go like that?

Tim clenched his jaw and plucked one hand from the sink, wrapping his fingers around the mirror's edge and pulling it out to reveal the medicine cabinet hidden behind it.

Everyone's gonna know now, the imaginary man jeered, his voice still ringing in the brunette's ears despite being out of sight. They're going to come for you. They're going to find John and Neil, and then they're going to find Nana. They'll lock you away forever.

"No, they won't," the brunette mumbled to himself, grabbing the aged bottle of rubbing alcohol and slamming the built-in cabinet shut. The figure that reappeared startled him, looking more sinister than it did before.

You had him, it deadpanned. He was all yours, and you just let him leave.

"I didn't—"

Nana was right, you know. You are just like your mum.

Tim ripped his eyes away from the reflective surface, shifting them to the towel that hung limply on the rack beside the sink. The voice inside his head rambled on, taunting him in hopes of pushing him to action; to go after the blonde and finish what he started. However, with the storm of emotions brewing inside of him, and the holes burning in his chest and stomach, he couldn't fathom even leaving the bathroom.

After snatching the thin, shabby cloth from the rusted bar, he turned his back to the mirror and craned his head over his shoulder, ignoring the string of insults still ringing in his ears as he examined his back for the two bullets' exit wounds. The only wound he saw was the one that tore through his chest—leaving behind a grisly hole in the center of his left shoulder blade. He groaned, realizing that the one that penetrated his stomach was still inside him.

The brunette set the rubbing alcohol and towel on the dirty bathtub's edge, facing the mirror and his reflection once more and tearing into the cabinet again. He rifled through the crowded shelves for something he could use to try and extract the bullet, and when the glint of metal caught his eye—the dim lights hitting its surface just right—his heart started to race, and his barely healed wounds started to ooze with new blood.

The corners of Tim's lips twitched as he picked out his father's old straight razor, the blade peeking out from behind the embossed handle it was attached to. He remembered his father would yell at him when he was a child for touching it, wrapping his big hands around the brunette's tiny wrist and ripping the sharp tool out of his hand so harshly that he left behind bruises and cuts—injuries he would blame on the boy instead of himself. Now that he was dead and Tim was grown, there was no one to snatch it from him; no one to cut him with it except himself. It excited him.

Perching himself on the edge of the tub, he laid the razor atop the bunched towel, needing both hands to untie the corset from around his torso. He immediately gasped, a shot of pain exploding from his shoulder as he reached behind. His gasp swelled into a painful groan as he first untied his grandmother's pant leg from around his waist, and then, one by one, unwove the lace from the eyelets lined down the back of the bodice.

A sigh of relief emanated from the back of his throat as the corset loosened around his chest and waist. However, it didn't shed like skin as he hoped it would. Instead, it stuck to the dried blood around the wound in his abdomen, peeling off like Velcro only done halfway. Pulling the garment completely from his skin replaced his breath with an agonizing scream. Tears distorted his vision as he hurled the corset across the small room, grabbing again the rubbing alcohol and the towel.

Tim held the bottle and ragged cloth in his hands for a moment, the anticipation of the excruciating pain holding him back from soaking the towel in the alcohol and washing his wounds with it as best he could. He knew it needed to be done, but he wasn't sure how much more pain he could endure. His world was already starting to tip to the side again, and the taunting voice in his ear hadn't stopped talking; in fact, it had become louder—upset that he wasn't listening.

Stop acting like you never dealt with a gunshot wound before. Just do what you did with those other boys. It's not that hard, Tim!

A single tear trickled down his cheek. Biting his quivering lip, he set aside the towel and bottle and ripped off one of the garters strapped across his thigh. The metal clasps instantly snapped together like a trap, and the near translucent fabric it stretched over his leg contracted so that it now sat just above the brunette's knee.

He wedged the garter between his top and bottom teeth and picked up the two innocent items he'd grown fearful of. He breathed in deep through his nose and covered the lip of the bottle with the towel he folded haphazardly into a square. The scratchy cloth grew wet with the pungent liquid as he tipped the bottle on its side.

His hands trembled as he placed the old container beside him and brought the towel closer to his stomach, the circular wound glistening under the dim light. He swallowed hard—his throat suddenly as dry as desert. His bite on the garter tightened, and turning his head to the side, he touched the sopping cloth to his stomach.

Instantly, he cried out through the garter, fighting the strong urge to fling the towel aside like he'd done the corset. It felt as though a fire had been ignited right in the center of his abdomen, and he'd been the one to set it.

The burning sensation only worsened with the insertion of the straight razor—treated with the same alcohol—and the brunette's desperate search for the bullet. The sharp edges sliced the tender flesh as he drove it deeper and deeper inside of him. When he finally scooped it out, his hands and thighs drenched in a shimmering sheen of crimson and the decorate band spat out to the side, he lost consciousness and fell forward onto the cold, tiled floor—the razor slipping out of his slick hand, the blood-spattered bullet rolling behind the toilet, and a puddle of red slowly spreading from his stomach out.