Animus Anonymous

Prologue

A knock sounded through the small apartment, reverberating through the three rooms that made up the living space. The echo was loud, as there was so much surface area for sounds to bounce off. The apartment had white, paper thin walls, and grimy, brown tile that had once been yellow. There was a rusty refrigerator that sounded like it was working overtime to merely turn the light on when you opened it in the kitchen, and a sagging, cobwebbed plaid couch that had seen better days sitting in the living room. Anyone who found themselves unfortunate enough to collapse onto it after a hard day at work would stir up a dust cloud so disgusting that you had to plug both your nose and cover your mouth, and take cover in the bedroom until the air settled outside. It was no surprise that he was always in his bedroom- but then again, even if he had a couch a millionaire could afford, he would still never leave his room.

Cracks ran across the ceiling and continued down the walls. Support beams could just be glimpsed above the balcony door, as water damage from years previous had eaten through the ceiling.

Besides the couch and fridge, no other furniture frequented the living room and kitchen. No curtains, no TV, no table. The stench, however, was thick enough to be considered a solid presence. A combination of rotting food, mildew, dead bugs, and just the odour of a human with extremely bad hygiene habits all combined to make even the most resilient of noses bolt for the exit.

The knocker, however, was persistent. After no answer was received the first time, the visitor called out, now pounding on the door. When silence met the calls, a key could be heard being slotted into the lock, and with a quiet click, the lock popped.

The knocker turned out to be a young, blond woman. She closed the door behind her, and didn't bother taking off her shoes. With apprehension holding her in a vice grip, she made her way toward the bedroom. She called out again, praying to a God she wasn't sure existed that the apartment was empty. Taking a deep breath, and readying herself for the worst, she burst into the dark, dingy bedroom. This was no ordinary bedroom, however. No bed resided in it. The only thing in this so-called bedroom was a machine. A machine that looked somewhat like a bed, if the viewer was half-blind. A slab of glass was situated on four slender legs, much like a modern coffee table, but higher. There was a keyboard and control panel near the end of it, and it was glowing. So was the visor at the top of the table.

The woman's heart sank. As betrayal and guilt double teamed her, and hot tears rolled down her cheeks, she ran to the machine, keyed in a few words, and successfully turned it off. Slowly, ever so slowly, the visor over the man's head disappeared, and he lay motionless. The woman grabbed his cold hand, whimpered in fear, and touched his cheek. She whispered to him, and he didn't wake. She yelled at him, and he didn't wake. She slapped him across the face, and he didn't wake.

With weak legs, the woman pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and called an ambulance.

How could he have done this? He promised.

Tears splashed on the man's face as the woman shook him, hoping that he would wake up. It couldn't be the end. It just couldn't. There was so much for him, for her. He couldn't be so selfish.

The woman screamed at the man with the pale and drawn face. She was sobbing on his unmoving chest, hugging him to her with all her might. When her voice was hoarse, she whimpered, whispered, and prayed. She begged him to wake up, to twitch, to vomit, anything. She just needed to know he was alive. It wasn't his time. He wasn't ready. She wasn't ready.

The ambulance took forever to respond.

The woman held the man's hand when he was on the stretcher, and climbed into the back of the ambulance with him. As the ambulance disappeared into the fog, and only indistinct red blotches could be made out of the taillights, the woman couldn't help but wonder if that's what it was like at the end.

Everything you love disappearing into the fog.

Chapter One

Shaun Hastings was massaging his temples with one hand, and popping the top off a pill bottle with the other. A stagnant glass of water was sitting on top of a few very important papers at the corner of his desk, and with a sigh, Shaun wiped the condensation off on his shirt. He held up the dripping papers, and with a disgusted grunt, tossed the sopping masses into the garbage.

Swallowing the painkiller, Shaun wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and regarded the office in which he currently sat in. It was a mess. Books about addiction and some from Shaun's personal collection were thrown in haphazard towers, always on the brink of toppling. Shaun always told himself it was a tribute the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which resided in one of his most desired vacation spots, but that would be lying to himself. Papers littered the floor and desk, and even the most important letters and notes were not spared the messiness that Shaun unreservedly bestowed upon everything in his office. The filing cabinet was bursting, and files stuck out of every drawer. Normally, Shaun was a very neat person- his apartment would pass a government test (if they tested for those things, of course). However, with all Shaun had to deal with at work, physically and emotionally, he was never in the correct state to organize his cramped, stuffy office.

One thing that he did keep clean, though, was his bathroom. Nothing annoyed Shaun Hastings more than a dirty bathroom. One fingernail on the countertop, and Shaun was out of there. He was never athletic, but at the first sign of grime, Shaun could accelerate from zero to sixty in less than three seconds.

The sound of a pen scratching on paper was somewhat soothing for Shaun. After a hard day's work, nothing was simpler than penning a letter to a thankful graduate. This particular boy was not exactly special, but he was determined and optimistic. Even if the boy was a complete social reject, Shaun would have returned the letter. Actually, Shaun was very surprised when he received a letter written on paper. His e-mail was just as prevalent as his mailing address, maybe even more so. For a traditionalist like Shaun, a "snail mail" letter was like an archaeologist uncovering the fossil of a thousand year old animal. It was pure bliss.

For many minutes, Shaun focused on merely the words he was writing down. But it became harder and harder as the office grew darker and darker. The novelty of writing an actual letter was wearing off, and his headache was returning.

With a groan, Shaun dropped his pen and stood up and stretched. Cracks and pops accompanied the stretch, and Shaun winced. He wasn't old, and didn't look like he was, but he felt like he was. Being an addiction counsellor was difficult at the best of times, and even with Shaun's thick skin, there had been many nights where he left and never wanted to come back.

Shaun grabbed his leather jacket, and tossed it over his shoulder. He turned his desktop lamp off, and closed and locked the door to his office. He made his way down the empty hallway, and saw that the elevator was out of order. He cursed, and took the stairs.

Four flights of stairs later, and slightly more out of breath than he would like to admit, Shaun was in the lobby of the building. He was halfway to the doors, when he realized that two people were peering anxiously through the glass. When they caught sight of him, the girl knocked on the glass sharply, and the guy attempted to hide in his flimsy, cheap coat.

Shaun stopped for a moment, surprised. Who could be calling at this hour?

He opened the doors, and the woman entered, dragging the reluctant man with her.

"Are you Shaun Hastings?" The girl inquired hopefully, gripping the young man's arm.

"Err, yes." Shaun replied hesitantly.

"Excellent!" The girl exclaimed, shoving her friend with surprising force into Shaun, who stumbled backwards.

She walked out the door with a wave to her friend and a smile for both men.

"Desmond!" She said, "Call me when you get home. I'll wait for you."

And she was gone.

An awkward silence followed. Desmond's face was bright red, and Shaun scratched the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry about her," Desmond eventually said, "She's a little… ah, eccentric."

"No harm done." Shaun shrugged. Why the hell was he being so awkward? "So… You were looking for me?"

Desmond was silent for a moment, then nodded slightly, and somewhat regretfully. "Yeah."

"Do you want to talk in my office?" Shaun asked, putting his jacket over his arm.

"Uh…Sure."

Desmond started to walk toward the elevator.

"This way," Shaun instructed, nodding towards the stairs. "The elevator is out of order."

"Oh," Desmond said quietly. He coloured again, and followed Shaun timidly up the stairs.

As they walked along the dark upstairs hallway, Desmond suddenly stumbled into Shaun.

"Whoa there, Desmond. Are you okay?" Shaun asked, steadying the man.

"I'm fine." Desmond whispered, twisting out of Shaun's grasp.

Shaun backed off right away, understanding the embarrassment in Desmond's tone. He couldn't see anything in the dark, but he was sure that Desmond was flushing again.

"Okay, how about we got a little slower?" Shaun suggested, putting on his best counsellor voice.

"Okay." Desmond assented.

They were about halfway down the hall when Desmond collapsed again. Luckily, it was a narrow hallway, and when Desmond fell, he landed right in Shaun's arms.

"Okay," Shaun explained patiently. "Put your arm around my neck, Desmond. I'll walk you to my office."

There was no answer from Desmond, but he did as Shaun told. Shaun put an arm around Desmond's waist, and they got to Shaun's office without further incident.

Flipping on the light, Shaun escorted Desmond to the couch in the corner, and helped him sit down. Desmond slouched onto his side. He was out.

Shaun held his breath for a moment, puffing his cheeks out. Then, he let it all out at once, in a big, gusty sigh. It wasn't that he was upset, per say. He was just really, really tired. And looking at the man lying on his couch, Shaun figured that this would be no quick fix. No quick jot on the prescription pad, and then sending Desmond on his merry little way. Not that Shaun ever did that, but some counsellors were known to.

No, Desmond was going to be a challenge. Shaun could tell by looking at his haggard face, the way he slept, curled up, like he was afraid that the world was going to get him if he ever let down his guard. Desmond couldn't be older than twenty four or twenty five, but he looked older. It was in his eyes- Shaun had noticed it earlier. They were haunted, as if ghosts were always following him around, hiding behind lamp posts and dumpsters, just to give him a good scare when they felt that he was getting too comfortable, too complacent.

Shaun figured he would sleep in a ball as well if he was as drawn and haunted as this man in front of him.

Running a hand through his hair, Shaun plopped into a sitting chair beside the couch. He was exhausted, but also overtired. He wasn't getting any sleep until he popped a pill at his apartment, and crashed in his extremely comfortable bed. With a big yawn, Shaun stretched his long legs out, and rested his feet on the matching ottoman. With his chin propped in his hand, he rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, and looked at his newest patient. This time, he didn't search for any hidden demons, didn't search for the stories that most surely lied just behind his lips, but merely looked at Desmond's physical appearance. Simple human curiosity.

Desmond certainly looked harmless enough. He had very short, cropped black hair. Or was it a dark brown? Shaun figured he would find out soon enough, and moved on to his patient's actual face. If he recalled correctly, Desmond's eyes were a dark, chocolate brown. There was a crease between his eyes that plainly stated that Desmond didn't graduate from the whole "it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile" school of thought. Shaun figured he would find out the origins of that crease as he worked with him. Desmond had a good few days of stubble going on, but said stubble was interrupted in its growth where a large scar ran down the right side of his mouth. From the bottom of his nose almost to the bottom of his chin. Shaun figured there must be an interesting story behind that as well.

Shaun glanced at the clothes Desmond was wearing. He was dressed in a shabby brown jacket, and jeans that were almost falling apart. His shoes were scuffed up Nikes that had certainly seen better days. They almost looked like Desmond could walk right out of them one day on the street. They could literally disintegrate if it rained too hard.

Shaun tsked, feeling the snob in him surface. Desmond probably couldn't afford nice clothes like Shaun could, but still, that coat, those jeans, those shoes. They were just awful. Especially the shoes.

Suddenly, Shaun had an idea. He looked down at his perfect Italian-made shoes, then at Desmond's scruffy, torn up runners. He eyeballed a size, then smiled, smelling a problem that he could easily fix.

With much more energy than he had had a moment ago, Shaun stood up, and made his way over to his closet. He opened it, to find a few neatly pressed clothing bags hanging, and two pairs of shoes much like the ones he was wearing sitting under them. Shaun had had to pull many overnighters in his line of work, and sometimes went days without sleep. However, he hated the idea of looking like he hadn't had any sleep, so he kept a few extra outfits for nights like these.

With patience learned from years of dealing with unruly participants and distraught family members, Shaun carefully untied Desmond's shoes, holding his breath as if he thought that breathing on his new patient would wake him up. Cautiously, Shaun untied the shoelaces. (Though they were only tied in loose single knots, anyways, so he hardly had to tug at them.) The difficult part was actually slipping the shoes off. Luckily, Desmond wore his shoes about a size too big, which made Shaun wonder. Did he just scrape up the runners wherever he could find them? Shaun wouldn't have been surprised if they had been picked up off the side of the road, or had been found in a garbage can. They were certainly dirty enough to have spent the majority of their life sitting in the sludge, rain, and snow.

Ever so slowly, Shaun eased both sneakers off Desmond's feet, revealing plain white socks that had worrisome red stains on them. Quietly, Shaun loosened the laces of his own pair of gray Italian shoes, and slid them on Desmond's feet. He hadn't moved through the whole experience. Obviously, he was out like a light, though Shaun felt an absurd feeling of pride bubble warmly in his stomach.

He hadn't even had a chance to help Desmond yet, and yet somehow, he felt he already had, no matter how small an amount of actual help he gave, or how much Desmond ended up appreciating it.

It was all in the little things.

A/N: Kay so I have no intention of continuing this story past what I've already written, because I don't really like it. But I feel bad for not posting in FOREVER, and this is what I was spending that time working on. Unfortunately, I'm not that good at time management. Anyways, here's the first chapter of an attempted story that didn't quite make the cut. Hope you enjoyed it at least a bit! :)