There was never a right answer. There was never a right way, and if there was, Malachi had certainly never crossed it.

Was it truly just him? Would someone else have known exactly what to do instead of stepping out that door? Would they have known what to say to a detective that did not want a lie, and did not want the truth? A doctor that commanded him to walk out, and dragged him back inside?

Maybe they would have.

Malachi sure didn’t.

He just wanted to curl in on himself and let his body just – deteriorate. Perhaps he would have fared better if he’d just remembered that all things were dust, and to dust they would return.

He thought he’d wanted this. Hadn’t he asked for control? For honesty? Was that a lie too, that he’d ever wanted any of it at all, and this was just another part of his sick game?

Not particularly eager to lie, Malachi ignored the question instead and moved to push himself up. He doubted the answer would have mattered, and it hurt his throat too much to waste the words on it. So he stood, somewhat steadier on his feet, and went to pick his clothes off of the floor.

He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. He was nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

“The-n ex-t –” a breath, “-time, I’ll s- ay no.”