Mumble

②⓪①⑤ - C H A P T E R [8]

James kept touching him. Little touches. Grounding touches. Touches that kept him from spiraling. James was a steady hovering presence beside him. A faint nudge against his side. A tap against the back of his hand. An arm around his shoulder. I'm here for you. I've got you. You're not alone, dude. Ozzie needed it. He knew without James his mind would've been a million miles away—stuck remembering a night that was eerily similar to this one—thinking about his parents and—

There was a pinch against his elbow, sudden and hard and the faint scent of jasmine left his nostrils. Now all that remained was the smell of pennies and iron. Blood. Somehow that was better. Ozzie blew out a breath, his body sagging with the motion and he blinked, bringing his focus back to his surroundings.

They were sitting on the cracked edge of a sidewalk—one that was just outside of Limbo—and red and blue lights flashed over their faces. Ozzie bit his lip, worrying the chapped skin between his teeth. He felt James shift beside him, bleeding warmth past the leather of Ozzie's jacket. Knee to knee. Shoulder to shoulder. Ozzie breathed.

Don't cycle out, he pleaded. Don't. Just focus on the now. He closed his eyes. Focus on what's in front of you, he commanded. Ozzie opened them. He was in L.A. Hollywood. He knew that. He was a couple blocks away from the Kodak theatre and Ripley's. Or...was it the wax museum? Nah. It was definitely Ripley's. He knew that too. Just like he knew his name. Knew his age. Knew that he was surrounded by caution tape and streetlamps. Chewing gum and stop signs. Knew that the brick wall Ozzie had leaned against earlier bracketed his left and the police cars that'd answered the 911 call bracketed his right. The scent of blood still lingered. It made him hardly want to open his mouth. He saw a gurney, one with a large black (body) bag attached to it. Ozzie winced. (A flash of gleaming bone in moonlight. A thought he tried to erase. Ozzie. Ozzie. Ozzie. Ozzie.) Fuck his breathing was all fucked again and his hands were trembling, his heart was racing, can't breathe, can't breathe, can't—

James squeezed his thigh.

"—saw him come out here," He was saying, his breathing slow and deliberate. His chest heaved with it. Focus on me. It said. Another squeeze. Copy me. Ozzie tried to match it best he could. It was probably an odd sight, James taking these long deliberate breaths in the middle of a sentence and Ozzie barely hanging on... At least the officer talking to them had the tact not to comment. Well...on that.

"And what exactly did you see Ozzie?" They asked, turning their attention onto him. He felt James tense and Ozzie slowly brought his eyes up towards the officer's face. He'd zoned out, not even realizing he'd started trying to count how many creases had formed in the officer's leather boots. He'd gotten up to about thirty on the left one.

Ozzie blinked. "What'd I see," he probably looked dazed. He certainly felt it. Unfocused. Unhinged. A rope hanging on by a thread. His mouth twitched, "when I got outside?"

The officer nodded. "Yes."

"I saw," (Hayley. Bone. White. Viscera. Muscle that looked like ground beef. No head. No neck. Chest cavity broken open like the maw of a rotting clamshell. Blood oozing around her like the yolk of a cracked egg.) Ozzie dropped his gaze. Leaned more obviously against James. Shivered. "A fuckin' dead girl."

"Ozzie!" James hissed.

"Now, sir," the Officer began placatingly, "we're just trying to understand what happened here."

Ozzie looked back up at the officer. He jerked his chin over in the direction of the rest of his force milling about the scene. "Ask one of 'em. They already got my statement."

"Ozzie!" James nudged his side with an elbow before addressing the officer standing in front of them. "Sir, sorry, uh, he's usually...not...uh, anyway," he licked his lips nervously and cleared his throat. "I don't understand why you're asking for his statement again. Like he said, he gave it already."

"Well you see—"

Ozzie cut him off. "They're at a loss James," he mumbled, "don't have any leads 'sides me so they wanna see if my story changes by—," he shot the officer a level look before flicking his gaze back down, "—asking me the same question over and over again," he spoke deliberately, voice scratchy and low, hardly louder than a whisper, "'what did you see?'" He scoffed, the noise bitter and dark, "isn't that, right?"

The officer blinked. Then coughed into the back of his hand. "Now, I wouldn't say that. We understand that this has been a...traumatic experience. We uh...just... want to know if you've remembered anything more in the time that's passed."

(A figure in all black at the end of the alley. Pointing. The Buzz that yanked at his skin like tiny fish hooks telling him were to go. Ozzie. Ozzie. Ozzie. Ozzie. The skull that gleamed white and soulless back at him—a bonafide reaper from hell. Hayley Matts. Hayley Matts. Hayley Matts. Words that thrummed through his very being like the echo of death itself.)

Ozzie shakily rose to his feet. James was quick to follow. Ozzie wobbled for a moment, listless and looking somewhat precarious, but he stabilized. He smacked James' helping hands away.

"Got nothing more to say," he said, after a moment, "so I'd like to go."

The officer opened his mouth, then clicked it closed, finally flicking his gaze between the two of them. They probably looked gaunt and weary. The officer sighed, scratching the hair on the back of his neck and apparently thinking better of saying whatever it was he was about to. "Go on then," He said. "Do you need a ride?"

Den/Den

"No," Ozzie mumbled, "we got it covered, right James?"

James threw an arm over Ozzie's shoulders. "Yeah, lemme just text Clint. See if he got home okay." It took all of Ozzie's willpower not to roll his eyes. He hummed in response though and James took out his phone, unlocking it one-handed.

Ozzie wrung his hands together. Counted his fingers. Ten. Nine. Eight... Down to one and back. Back and forth. Breathed. If it weren't for the fact that he knew he'd fall flat on his face if he took a single step by himself, he'd have shoved James off him. As it was though, Ozzie was tired. It was after midnight, and he just wanted to go home, crash in bed and hopefully not have nightmares involving dismembered teens. If James wanted to help with that, then... Fuck it. Also...he suddenly had this weird ass craving for a Big Mac and fries.... He probably shouldn't think too hard about that one.

"Okay," James said.

"We good?"

"Yeah."

"Cool," Ozzie flashed the officer a drowsy two-fingered salute as they started walking down the street. "Peace, love and happiness, dude," he called over his shoulder, "get yourself a Big Mac when you're done here 'kay? You totally deserve it."

"Jesus!" James coughed, his sides shaking with barely contained mirth, "you're awful," He cleared his throat. "What the fuck, dude?"

Ozzie shrugged. "'M craving McDonalds."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Ozzie nodded, rubbing his thumb against his bottom lip, "think it's a weird coping mechanism? Like I know it's weird but..."

"Some fries sound nice right about now," James squeezed his shoulder. "I think the one by Hollywood and Highland's still open."

"Cool," Ozzie said.

"Cool," James echoed.

That was all they needed to say.