what is this I don't even

Written in an hour and a half in a Barnes & Noble while waiting for my ride to the train station. Not sure if this is TF2 enough.

And yes, it's another songfic. The song's in Finnish, though, so I doubt anyone will recognize it.

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Your head feels heavy when you wake up in the morning. It's been another restless night: you've had nightmares again, and fleeting glimpses of hellish images keep flashing through your brain when you try to remember what was in them. Nothing sticks in your memory. The bed is stiflingly warm and the room around it is too cold, so you hesitate between staying for a few minutes longer and leaving. The person next to you shifts in their sleep and you decide you'd rather brave the cold.

You sneak into the shower as quietly as you can. The floorboards in your apartment have always been creaky, but in the early morning hours when you can barely hear anything, the noise is terrifyingly loud. The hairs on your arms stand up when you consider what will happen if they wake up. You pause for a moment, taking deep breaths to calm yourself - when did you even panic like this? - before taking the last dozen steps to the bathroom.

You're glad, for once, that the shower doesn't have a lot of pressure. The soft drizzle of water barely makes a noise, and you're pretty sure that unless you drop something, you won't wake them up. It's their day off. They deserve to be left to rest. You wash quickly, only soaping up your underarms: turning off the water, you stare absent-mindedly at the bruises on your right forearm. It's hard to tell what color they are - you haven't turned on the lights, it would shine from under the door and might reach the bedroom - but they're pretty visible. It's another day for long sleeves.

Instant coffee never really did anything for you, you realize as you down your third cup. You're not even really sure why you keep buying it - force of habit, you figure. They don't even drink coffee: the only thing that wakes them up is adrenaline, and you don't get that out of coffee. The fridge is empty, you know without looking. It was empty last night when you went to bed, and you're kind of hungry by now, but you're already in a hurry and there will be no time to stop anywhere. It's nothing you're not used to. Besides, they've been complaining about your weight again. It'd be good to lose a few pounds.

You creep back to the bathroom to brush your teeth. As you brush conscientously for three minutes, you stare at your own reflection, marred by the long crack that splits your mirror in half. It disturbs you how it takes you a second to recognize your own face. It repulses you, and you wish you could just wear a mask or something to hide it. Then again, that would be weird. They don't approve of weird. You spit and walk out of the bathroom without looking back.

You greet your neighbor, who is picking up the newspaper, automatically as you walk down the driveway. A dustcloud comes down the street as you start walking. It's not a long way to work, and even if it were, you can only afford to keep one car and the car belongs to them. It's a pretty nice morning in any case, maybe a little windy: winter's finally turning into spring, and after that it'll be summer. You've always been a summer person. The dry heat and warm light has always been something you enjoy. They're much more of a winter person. You don't mind. Differences make good sparks, they say. You just wonder how many differences there should be, and whether you two might have too many.

You're the last one at work again. Everyone gives you a disdainful look as you slip into the locker room and start pulling out your uniform. Laundry day was yesterday and you have a clean uniform again, which is always nice: you'd never admit it to anyone that you're a bit of a germophobe, but you suspect a lot of people have guessed it anyway. You notice that you've been given a shirt that's a size too large, but there's nothing to be done about that at this point, so you put it on without complaint. Everything goes on in the same order it always has, and ten hours later, it'll come off in the same order. Once you finish dressing, you force a smile onto your face. Every cell in your body is screaming and you're not quite sure what or why.

Everyone else is in short sleeves: you're in long sleeves as usual, even though you know it's pointless to hide what they know is there. It just gives you a feeling of comfort to hide your skin from view. You've never had problems with being too warm: mostly you're too cold, and have to bundle up even in the summer. Often, you find yourself wishing your apartment had a fireplace so you could light a fire sometimes and just lounge in front of it, but of course you don't have one. You barely have functional doorknobs. Ridding yourself of the thought, you let your mind slip away. You spend the next six hours on autopilot.

During your lunch break, you sit alone. You've done that since middle school, which was when people figured out you were weird. Sometimes, a kindly spirit tried to boost their own ego by trying to turn you into a decent human being. Eventually, they gave up when they realized what you were: a self-centered, egotistical, pig-headed idiot. At least that's what they told you when they left you. You're pretty sure they're right, seeing as you pretty much hate yourself and that's the kind of people you tend to not like. You deserve to sit here alone, with only the occasional pitiful glance in your direction. They know all about you, despite you never telling them. Sometimes, one of them tells you that it's your own fault for staying, and that you should stop being afraid and do something about it. You want to tell them you're not sure what (or who) you're afraid of, but you can't find the words. You've never been a good speaker.

The walk home feels incredibly long. You know you're going to be hungry again before bedtime, but there's no money in the account right now. You get paid in three days, and you can manage on one meal a day until that. At least lunch at work is still free. They'll be just fine: they have their own account that you don't get to touch, and you know there's at least a thousand dollars in it. It's good to have something to fall back on in case of an emergency, and being a little hungry is hardly a cause for alarm. Besides, there's still that weight issue to look into. You're especially concerned about your hips and thighs: you're starting to have difficulties locating your hipbones, and you know they won't like that.

The lights are on when you get home. Your hands shake when you try to unlock the door: you miss the keyhole a few times and end up making another scratch on the door. Walking into the kitchen, you drop the mail on the table. Immediately you cringe as a wave of expletives washes over you. They're so fast when they want to be - when they're angry, when they're angry at /you/. They're angry at you for not doing the dishes last night. You really would have, but you were just so tired and your arm hurt so much you probably couldn't have picked anything up. They just backhand you and tell you to start washing the dishes now. You nod quietly and turn to face the assortment of cups and plates and cutlery. The taste of iron is flooding your mouth, familiar but not in the least bit comforting.

The topmost item on the pile is the cast iron frying pan. You grab the handle and a split second later a burning pain tears through your system and makes you scream. They've left the pan on the stove before putting it on the pile, and now the handle's burning your hand. Behind you, you hear them laugh, saying you deserve it. Suddenly, the fire burning your hand is inside you. It's inside your heart and your head, and before you know it, you're gripping the searing hot iron harder. They don't even have a chance to be surprised when you suddenly swing around and strike them in the side of the head with the burning hot pan.

You spend several minutes there in the kitchen, pounding them in the head with the pan until you're absolutely sure they won't move. You're familiar with what it feels like to be hit with this pan, and you know how much you can take. Eventually, after their face is as unrecognizable to you as your own, you try to let go of the pan. It's stuck - you can't even pry your fingers off it. Ignoring the pain, which you're surprisingly good at, you tear your hand off the handle. The flesh left behind is black and red and bleeding. A hospital seems like a good idea, despite the fact you know you have no money. Maybe something will work out. You take a quick shower to rid yourself of the sheen of strangely stinking sweat that covers your body, the first shower you've had in years with the lights on. They won't be yelling at you for it. Ever again.

Everything becomes a bit of a blur after that. You wake up in the hospital and the TV tells you it's over a week later. Your hand is heavily bandaged and you can't feel it, though you can tell the fingers move inside the gauze. They're a little stiff, but then again, that was to be expected. for a few hours, you sit alone, staring out the window and listening to the sounds coming in from the hallway. On the outside, you know you appear still and quiet. On the inside, you are ablaze.

Eventually, a doctor comes in, flanked by a police officer. They tell you that you're under arrest for murder and arson. You frown and ask where the arson came from. You're informed that you burned down the apartment building you lived in. The origin of the fire was pinpointed to your living room, and the corpse found in the kitchen had obviously been bludgeoned to death rather than burned. You look out the window and shrug. The doctor and policeman discuss something in low voices, but you don't particularly care to listen. All you can think about is how you're sad you can't remember what the fire looked like.

You're left alone again for about half an hour until the door to your room opens. It's a woman you've never seen before, one with steel-gray hair streaked through with silver: her eyes are so sharp they would terrify near anyone, but you find yourself unaffected by them. In a surprisingly commanding voice completely unpredescented by her bored expression, she tells you you've been monitored for a while now. The thought disturbs you a little. She continues on, ignoring your confused expression. Apparently, the company she works for has decided you'd be well-suited to a position that has just opened up in a new department. Everything's been taken care of for you, she says. Your former workplace has been informed of your resignation, and they've left you a marvellous reference and a good last paycheck. Your hospital bills have been taken care of, and should you choose to accept this new job, your bail will be paid and the charges against you will be dropped. All you have to do is sign your name on the dotted line.

Hesitating for a moment, you glance back outside and see two police cars parked up front, along with a truck from the mental hospital. Evidently, your resilience towards pain and lack of remorse for killing another human being - your long-term lover, no less - have caused disturbance in the authorities. Without looking at the woman, you casually ask what this new job would involve. She tells you it has to do with fire.

Despite having to write with your non-dominant hand due to your dominant one being bandaged, you sign the papers with no hesitation. She smiles quickly, no happiness behind what is essentially just a symbolic gesture of appreciation. She informs you that you'll be picked up tomorrow. You spend the night sleepless, simply not tired. Some part of you wonders if you'll ever feel like sleeping again. The burning inside you just will not let go, both eating at you and feeding you energy until you feel like you could burst. Unable to leave your bed due to the straps holding you down, you spend the entire night wiggling your fingers and toes restlessly.

It's barely dawn when they come for you: men in strange uniforms you've never seen before enter the room and hastily unstrap you, barely giving you long enough to get the blood circulating in your legs again before leading you down the hallways and outside. Despite it being a chillier morning than the last one you can remember - the ground is frosty, and there's a mist clinging to the corners of the building - you feel no cold as you walk to the waiting van barefoot and wearing only a hospital gown. Silently, the men instruct you to climb into the back of the van. Inside, you find a small bench to sit on: next to it is a steel locker, the door closed but lacking a lock. You know at once that the contents of it belong to you and you should put them on, so you open the door and get dressed. You've never worn anything like this before, but somehow, you know how it all goes on. The smell about is strange, but it's not so off that you won't get used to it. In fact, you suspect you'll grow to like it. Finally, you look at the small mirror placed in the back of the locker. It's dark, but you can just make yourself out in the reflective surface. What you see, or rather what you don't see, satisfies you. You turn around and sit down a split second before the van starts to move.

You always did rather like the look of gas masks.