Trigger Warning
This story contains content that might be upsetting to some readers such as mentions of suicide and self harm.
Ezekiel's Body
There are five people living in Ezekiel's body. It sounds impossible, and wholly disconcerting, but I tell you no lies.
The first person is very much like a bird—always hopping, always twitching, and never at rest. All it takes is a little startle, and you are blinded by a rush of wings as she flutters away. A feathery coward, if I might add, although she sleeps in a bed of delusions that crown her as the voice of reason in Ezekiel's comminuted mind.
The second person glares and spits and hisses. I doubt you would ever want to meet him. He bleeds a never-ending stream of profanities, and marks his skin with black ink whenever he gets the chance. He also has an affinity for wild parties and women in sinfully short skirts.
The third person is perhaps about as sane as a broken clock. He is always in a fit; clutching his head and screaming at things that other people cannot see. His words recall a time long past, and fist guilt and pain and regret that hold on to him and pull him further into an ocean of insanity. He used to be the most dominant inhabitant of Ezekiel's body, but now he has grown far too quiet. Sometimes, it feels like he no longer exists. His usually panicked eyes and trembling fingers have gone cold. I do not hope to see him again, because Ezekiel might not survive a seventh suicide attempt.
The fourth... The fourth is a construct of what Ezekiel wishes he is. A man of honor. A man who can do no wrong. A man that can fix everything. A god caged in human skeleton, muscles, and skin. A man that only speaks and acts responsibly. A paragon of human perfection. His straightened spine and constantly unturned nose make him look more haughty and less than approachable, though. A book is usually trapped in his hand, even though it is questionable if he is actually reading or just pretending to do so.
I am currently watching the fifth person. He moves about without a care in the world; lips pulled to the side in a smile that spells nothing but trouble. It is a wonder how he can see me always hovering about. But then, this part of Ezekiel is by far the most cunning and dangerous. His gaze suffocates and pricks; burns and freezes. You'd do best to avoid him. A single word from him would ensnare you, and keep you hostage. Once he is done with you, he will definitely dispose of you. A keeper of secrets, and a concealer of truths, he is the one that still makes my ghostly spine shiver. His heart is far colder than a ghost's caress.
He picks up a mug from his mother's cabinet, before going over to the kitchen sink to rinse it. He shakes it twice to remove excess water, walks over to the raised kitchen platform where a sachet each of milk and milo awaits.
When he places the mug down, and picks up the sachet holding milk, he tilts his head to the side and looks at me.
"Hm. It's you again abi?"
When I do not respond, he straightens and turns to face me fully. He doesn't take his eyes off me as he brings the sachet of milk between his teeth and rips it open. Powdered milk sprays out of its destroyed entrapment, softly drifting through the air like snow.
Ezekiel no. 5 dusts milk off his bare, tattooed chest. He pours what's left of the milk into the mug.
"You know, I really didn't mean to push you into that river." He runs his tongue over his teeth.
The animal. I long to rip into him and pull out his heart while it still beats. I snarl and shift just a little bit closer, my initial caution dismissed.
