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With Halloween just around the corner, television stations are constantly playing various spooky themed movies and episodes of your favorite shows. When you sit down to watch something in particular, the screen goes static. You try to change the channel but every one of them is static. If you continue to watch (or attempt to fix the television), an eerie voice comes across the speakers begging for help and that they're coming. No matter what you do or say, they only repeat the same phrases. When you turn off the television and turn it back on again, everything has turned to its regularly scheduled programming.
He was so tired.
It was a bone deep, aching tiredness that spread from his fingertips all the way through the rest of his body; a sort of painful and throbbing tiredness that stemmed from long days of emotional baggage and emotional exhaustion. Not the sort of tiredness that came from physical exertion, but another kind of exertion altogether.
Rhys had had too much of that lately.
He lay on the couch in their little townhouse and curled on his stomach with a pillow to his chest, arms around it. The television was on in front of him, but he wasn't really concentrating on watching whatever it was on screen; something to do with a cop procedural and poking bodies and talking wildly inaccurate but entertaining science. Not generally Rhys's forte in terms of things he enjoyed watching, but he wasn't exactly riveted by it, so it didn't really matter as it was. It was just on to provide some sort of background noise and sound to keep him from going stir crazy in an otherwise silent home.
Hitch was here, somewhere upstairs. Probably sleeping. Maybe not. Maybe lying awake just as Rhys was. He had barely spoken at all since they'd gotten home from the incident at the hospital, only managing a curt nod and a few mumbled words about how he was going to go rest, and then he'd disappeared into their bedroom and hadn't left since. And Rhys hadn't bothered him, because heaven knew what it was he was supposed to have said.
He had no idea what to say or what to do. How to handle this.
I'm sorry your mother is a youma.
I'm sorry your husband is weak.
I'm sorry I couldn't protect you the way that I wanted to.
I'm sorry I can't make this better for you.
I'm sorry I can't take your pain away.
All useless. All pointless. He'd said them a thousand times, over and over again inside of his head, but saying them aloud did nothing to ease the pain of what was now lying heavily over Hitch's spirit, his heart, his mind. There was nothing Rhys could do for that, as much as he wanted there to be something. As much as he had practically begged whatever higher purpose there was in this world to take that away from his husband, his lover, his favorite person in the world.
The television screen flickered, the changing colors pulling Rhys out of his own mind. It had gone to static now, fuzzy black and white across the screen, and he gave it a weary look, because this was a brand new television; a gift from Fritz. Maybe something was wrong with the satellite dish.
Rhys reached for the remote and pressed a few buttons without looking. The screen flickered again, this time going to a different channel, but the static was still there. Frowning, he glanced down at the remote, found the channel up button, and pressed it repeatedly, the same way that people pressed the elevator buttons in order to make it arrive faster - as though this helped at all.
Nothing happened. Only static.
Annoyed and tired now, Rhys dragged himself to his feet, left the pillow on the couch, and padded over to the television. He pulled it out from the shelf just a little bit and tugged at some of the wires, making sure that they were securely in place, wiggling a few of the others, pressing them into their sockets and their outlets. Maybe one of them was loose; it had happened before, especially when he'd still been living with his technologically inept twin brother, because Fritz and electronics was the same as a fish out of water. He hated anything to do with them just on principle, and therefore it had always been Rhys to get up and tweak things in order to make them work again.
He finished fiddling with the cords and then pushed the television back into place, stepping back to squint at the screen.
Still nothing. Which didn't make sense, and which probably meant it was a network problem, or maybe just a bad television in general, which would be super annoying, all things considered. Rhys folded his arms across his chest, scowling, and then turned to pick up the remote again.
An eerie, otherworldly voice floated out to greet him.
"They're...coming..."
He whirled around, remote in hand, staring at the screen, but it was still staticky, still glitched black and white bars across the screen. Rhys felt his pulse quickening, felt his heartbeat rising in his chest. Maybe he'd just imagined it. Maybe the sound was working, but the picture wasn't, even if all he'd heard was a fuzzy buzzing sound earlier.
"They....are...coming..."
Impossible, Rhys thought, feeling the fear rise in his throat, feeling his hands begin to shake. He stared at the blank screen in front of him, his legs feeling unsteady, and he took a step back, an involuntary movement, calves hitting the coffee table behind him. He almost toppled over, throwing out a hand last minute to catch his balance, a small gasp escaping.
"Help...me..."
Rhys fumbled for the remote, snatched at the buttons with trembling fingers, and finally found the tiny power button at the top, slamming a thumb on it. The screen in front of him went black instantly, sound and video cutting off, so that it was once more perfectly blank and black.
His chest was heaving. Rhys swallowed hard, glancing instinctively upwards towards their bedroom on the second landing, but there was no sound from above. No sound other than the rain against the window, a gentle thrumming sound that Rhys had long since grown used to.
Tentatively - unwilling to do so but knowing he sound - Rhys pressed the power button again.
]" - do you say, doctor? Should we try and move the patient?"
"No, Anne, he has a severe spinal injury, we should - "
On screen, the nurse was nodding emphatically - and a little soppily - to the surgeon, her clipboard clutched to her chest. It was a rerun of a past episode; Rhys had already seen it, several months prior. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it.
It was just a television show.
Slowly, feeling like he would quite like to sit down now, Rhys sank back onto the couch. He pulled his legs back up beneath him and reached for the pillow again, wrapping arms around it, his mouth feeling slightly dry, his hands still shaking a little.
Imagination, he thought to himself, firmly, because his heart was still pounding. Just your imagination. That's all. Stress. You're stressed about it all; about Logan, about his mother, about everything. That's it. Don't make this into something more, Rhys. Everything is fine.
And with that, he lapsed back into a stupor of thought.
The television played on.
