Page 42 of You Weren't Meant to Be Human
The last time someone tried to crack open the hive and get their hands on a worm, Levi put the Mossberg to the side of Harry’s head and pulled the trigger.
WE HAVE GIVEN YOU EVERYTHING YOU HAVE ASKED FOR, EVERYTHING YOU HAVE EVER WANTED.
He doesn’t want this make it stop make it stop he’ll do anythinghe’ll take the shotgun he’ll take it he will—
BUT PERHAPS WE HAVE THOUGHT TOO HIGHLY OF YOU.
PERHAPS OUR CHILD NEEDS A FIRMER FUCKING HAND.
Crane tries to fight but can’t. Stagger is too strong. Crane is too tired. He’s been so tired for so long. With one final moan, he slumps back, falls, helpless.
The hive takes a deep, calming breath.
We did our best for you,they say.We would like for you to know that.
Your mate will come collect you.
We will discuss the matter then.
The swarm congeals, finally making one shimmering mass in the air, before twisting through the open door.
On the floor of the manager’s office.
Sobbing.
You have the sun,the hive growls.You have the sky, you have the world, and yet you act like this. Would you rather be trapped in here with us? Is that what it would take for you to understand, child?
One arm sits tight across his belly. Crane knows that waiting to feel another flutter of movement is some form of mental self-harm, but he can’t help it. It’s better than what his brain is screaming at him to do: to bust his chin open on the concrete office floor, dig his fingers into the wound, and pull pull pull until all the skin on his face comes off in a sheet.
On the floor with him, Stagger hums. There’s no tune. Only a low, imperfect frequency, a dying cat still attempting to comfort. It’s so gentle. Stagger has always been so gentle and forwhat? He’s a prison warden just like Levi. He’s the same as the rest of them.
Staggers says,“Hurt.”
Crane coughs. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
“Hurts.”
Yes, it hurts. His head hurts from crying, his stomach hurts because there is something inside him, his skin hurts every time he moves. Every nerve ending is raw.
Stagger attempts to say something else, but it’s too difficult. He can’t get his mouth to cooperate. The worms shift and move and squirm under the skin and all he can do is croak out some syllable or another.
Crane watches, borderline vindicated. It’s frustrating, isn’t it? To be unable to communicate no matter how hard you try. To have the right words slip through your fingers every time. Hell, you can have all the words in the world, but if none of them can help you, if you can’t put them together in an order that will save you or even get them past your lips, what’s the point? It’s so difficult that eventually you give up.
But Stagger doesn’t stop. He takes Crane’s hand, repositions every individual finger until it’s as close to the letterYas he can manage—and holds it up between the two of them. Makes a mirroring sign with his own. Pushes toward Crane, then himself.
The motion for similar. The same.
And then, the sign for sorry. On his chest first, and then on Crane’s. He’s sorry. Stagger is sorry, is sorry, is sorry.
You useless reject, you pile of disgusting exiles.
Crane, sniffling, wiping his eyes, crawls forward until he’s in Stagger’s lap. He reaches under Stagger’s jacket, under his shirt, and places a hand on his stomach and feels the worms like the kicking baby inside his own.
The swarm eventually returns, with Levi. The bell over the door rings and Crane curls up with his face in Stagger’s neck, doesn’t look up, refuses, even when Levi’s heavy footsteps clomp past on the hardwood and the drone of the flies gets so loud.
“Fuck,” Levi says. “Get off the floor.”
Protector.
