Chapter Text
I'll start this off without any words
I got so high I scratched 'till I bled
I love myself better than you
I know it's wrong so what should I do?
The finest day that I've ever had
Was when I learned to cry on command
I love myself better than you
I know it's wrong so what should I do?
Love myself better than you
I know it's wrong, so what should I do? (Ooh, ooh)
- “On a Plain” Nirvana Unplugged
Dawn breaks, and the early light stretches across the water, red and angry, like a curse waiting to be spoken. The horizon bleeds in slow motion, thick bands of fire smeared against the sky. Halbrand hasn’t slept. He rarely does these days. What’s the point, when every night drags him down into the same pit, and every morning spits him back out just as hollow? His chest feels like an abandoned room echoing, empty, filled with nothing but the ache of loneliness rattling around inside.
He sits on a massive chunk of brokenconcrete, the remains of some forgotten structure. Rusted rebar claws out from the sides like skeletal fingers. His old green cardigan, stretched thin, patched with holes, is more memory than fabric now, but it keeps him warm enough. Barely. His jeans, though, are wrecked beyond saving, denim shredded into ribbons that flap against his skin in the morning wind. Pale patches of flesh show through, scraped and raw where the fabric surrendered years ago.
The air smells like brine and old rust. A breeze sweeps in from the water, tugging at his shaggy, reddish-brown hair, strands brushing against his jaw and catching on his stubble. His golden-green eyes catch the sunrise, reflecting it back like tarnished coins. For a long while he just stares, mesmerized, hypnotized by the bleeding horizon. He wonders again, the same tired thought he’s had a thousand times, how the fuck he ended up here.
Halbrand never had much of a chance. His parents were drunks. His father worked graveyard shifts, sleeping through the day, and when he was awake, the house turned into a battleground. His parents fought constantly, always with the screaming matches that shook the walls, arguments that went on for hours until things got thrown, broken, smashed. It was the kind of chaos that made his stomach knot even before it started. More than once, the neighbors called the cops, and the blue-and-red lights would wash through the windows while his mother sobbed and cursed on the porch, his father pacing and swearing at the officers. Halbrand would sit in his room, clutching a pillow to his chest, knowing they’d be back at it the second the police drove away.
His mother, always with a bottle clutched in her fist, had venom ready for him too. Worthless. Useless. Nothing. She’d spit the words like poison, drilling them in until he half believed them himself.
By thirteen, he was done. One night he just walked out and never looked back. The streets were brutal, but at least they weren’t home. At least he didn’t have to hear the screaming anymore. Out there, he learned how to beg, how to lift a wallet without getting caught, how to curl up in alleys and make himself small. For a while, couch surfing kept him clean, but doors closed fast, and friends stopped answering. Hunger became a constant. And eventually, he found the kind of poison that made the hunger fade.
Things were never going to get better, and he knows it. Today is his twenty-seventh birthday. He’d always joked half to himself, half to anyone who’d listen that he wouldn’t live past twenty-seven. Whether by his own hand, by a stranger’s knife, or by the needle didn’t matter. One way or another, his clock was running down. And now, staring at the sunrise, he feels it in his bones. He’s tired. So fucking tired.
By mid-morning, he drags himself downtown, the coins from yesterday’s panhandling clinking faintly in his pocket. Just enough for a tallboy and a pack of smokes. It’ll get him through the day, keep the shakes away.
Cat is already at her usual corner, crouched low with her palms out to the work crowd hurrying past. She looks rough, smeared eyeliner making raccoon rings under her bloodshot eyes, ripped pantyhose laddered all the way up, and that same baggy GWAR shirt she swiped from the laundromat. It hangs off her thin frame like armor, worn soft, cozy in its filth. Her skin is pale, too pale, as if even the streetlights don’t want to touch her. If Halbrand’s ever had a friend, it’s her. But friendships here don’t mean much. Out here, everyone’s just sharing the same misery, feeding off each other’s scraps of pain.
“Got any smokes, Hal?!” Cat’s voice rasps across the street, already needy, already demanding. Always wanting something.
“Hey, Kitty Crack,” he mutters back, voice flat, “yeah, gimme a minute. I’m about to get some.”
The day stretches on, endless and gray, bleeding into itself the way all his days do. He drifts from one cluster of faces to another, transients like him, ghosts of the city clinging to bridges and underpasses. They trade half-empty beers, bum cigarettes, talk shit about nothing, wait for the sun to go down.
By sunset, the itch starts. It’s crawling under his skin, gnawing at his veins. He hasn’t told anyone it’s his birthday. Why would he? It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just another day closer to the end.
“Hey, Chaz.” His voice is low, urgent, hungry. “You got any shit, man? It’s been all day. I’m not doin’ well.”
Chaz, the crusty punk with a mohawk that’s more grease than hair dye, snorts. His bloodshot eyes flash mean. “Don’t give shit out for free, Hal.”
Halbrand grits his teeth, shoving down his pride. Pride doesn’t mean a thing when your veins are screaming. “Dude, it’s my fucking birthday. Just this once?”
Chaz’s grin cracks wide, and he throws his head back, belting out an off-key, mocking tune: “Haaaappy birthday to youuu!” The sound bounces off the bridge walls, jagged and ugly. The others laugh. Halbrand rolls his eyes, jaw tight. Then Chaz shrugs and digs into his bag. “Alright, fine. I’ll help you out. But you owe me one.”
“Fuck, thanks. I’ll owe you, I swear.”
The rig comes out. Chaz sets it up with the casual precision of practice, and Halbrand doesn’t hesitate. The needle bites deep, sharp and merciless, and then the flood hits. Warmth explodes through his veins, his body sinking, surrendering, the world slipping sideways into euphoria.
He leans back into the damp concrete, eyes rolling toward the bruised purple sky. The laughter fades. The city sounds blur. Time slips, breaks apart. By the time he blinks again, the others are gone.
It’s just him now. Him and the mud, the cold seeping into his bones, the pulse in his veins slowing, slowing.
His birthday. Alone. Under a bridge. On the edge of nothing. And he’s fine with it. He’s ready.
The city hum fades. His heartbeat stutters, weaker with every breath. He waits for the dark to take him.
But something else arrives instead.
The air cools, sharp and biting, as if winter itself had slipped beneath the bridge. The hairs rise on his arms. He forces his eyes open, drug-hazed and heavy, and at first he thinks it’s just another hallucination.
But then pale hands, a sweep of black fabric, eyes like moonlight.
