The Birth of Wendell Grimes
^{Character: Wendell Grimes (oc)
1578 Words}
_{TW: graphic, mention of death, Starvation and Dehydration, Taphophobia (Premature Burial), Self-Harm / Auto-cannibalism, Psychological Horror & Psychosis, , Bodily Fluids}

These years brought a pervasive sense of urgency and strain to all corners of England. The heavy weight of war still hangs over the land; the battle still present, and the memories and fear still alive and fresh, a thick reminder of what and who was lost ever present in the lives of those who survived. Sickness mixed with the scent of bloodshed, overcrowding hospitals, and stretching the few resources thin. It was during this time that Wendell Grimes, a man who prided himself on his impeccable health, was struck by a fatal, sudden-onset illness. What started as an aggressive fever quickly evolved into convulsions and then a deep, unresponsive coma.The local doctor of the ever-small town, exhausted from endless shifts and the constant pressure that was born from war, made a ruinous mistake. He came to the conclusion that Wendell had fallen victim to an angry, untreatable strain of influenza and pronounced Wendell Grimes dead on the spot. The decision was swift, the examination lazy at best, and the coffin prepared at once, only adding to the lingering fear of illness and the general urgency demanded by the times.However, the one task done with accuracy was the order and preparation of the coffin. By request and explicit instruction from Wendell during his health, a safety coffin was ordered, a modified model of the casket that held a small copper ventilation tube leading up to the surface after burial, and a tiny canteen of water secured inside. These additions were intended to provide a desperate lifeline in case of assumption, something Wendell had held suspicion of. The few remaining distant relatives of his, who barely knew the reclusive man, respected his strange wishes, seeing it as just another peculiar mannerism of the man soon to be laid low. The funeral was a short, dull event, attended only by a handful of colleagues who stood silent more out of duty rather than grief, and Wendell Grimes was lowered into the cold, unforgiving earth. The coffin settled on a pile of others, the cost that came with the many deaths of war.
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When Wendell woke, there was nothing. Not darkness, but an absolute, strangling vacuum. The air around him was dense, unmoving, and tasted of rotting wood and dirt. His initial confusion quickly gave way to a drowning dread as the hard, stiff surfaces pressed in around him, each ragged breath seeming to bring them closer. He was lying down on his back, his arms uniform and his limbs aching. A nauseating realization washed over him: he had been buried alive. Panic grew as reality set in. He thrashed about, pushing against the lid, shouting until his throat was raw and bleeding, each sound amplified inside the small coffin walls. Each frantic movement sent vibrations through the packed earth framing him, adding to the already frightening situation.There was no response, something he should have expected, but it only added to his desperation. His trembling fingers found the rough jute string that led to a small, tethered canteen of water and then the smooth, cold pipe of the ventilation tube. While bringing a small spark of hope, those feelings were quickly snuffed out by the horror of his predicament. His paranoid planning had provided small tools for survival, but not an escape.The first couple days were awful. Every sound roared like thunder, every movement blocked by the thin space he lay in. His eyes were bloodshot and wide, though they saw nothing but the surrounding blanket of darkness around him. His hair, once perfectly combed and maintained, was now tousled and thinning from stress. His clothes, once pressed and clean, were now stained and wrinkled.
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The initial canteen of water, though small, provided a brief lifeline, but it was not enough. By the time the third day had arrived, the last drops were gone, and the thirst became feverish in its intensity. The air encircling him, though vented by the small tube from the surface, grew stale and choking. Wendell became oxygen deprived, and combined with the psychological stress, his perception began to warp.The polished wood of the coffin walls started to move, to breathe, crawling with the fat, pale worms his starving mind conjured in the darkness. He heard whispers, then harsh laughter, the voices of demons mocking him for his thirst and desperation, their cruel taunts echoing within the sealed confines of his skull. The weight of the earth above and all over became a physical press, a deliberate, malicious force attempting to crush him from all sides. He curled into himself, sobbing, screaming until his voice was gone, then falling into restless, terrifying dreams full of soil and shadows, night after night.
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By the sixth day, Wendell Grimes was gone, replaced by a primal, starving animal. His mind, once sharp and organized, was broken by terror and deprivation and had dissolved into a vortex of hunger and chaos. The pain of starvation was an unbearable inferno, one he could no longer stand in the broken state he was in. Visions danced in front of his gaze, ones of bugs crawling over his rotting body and demons poking at what was left of his scarred soul, all summoned by his own fragile brain. The hunger in his empty stomach grew with each hour, threatening to break through and search for sustenance itself.His left hand, immobilized and numbed by the tight confines of the coffin, became the focus of his deluded sense. Though he was unable to see it, he knew it was there. An object, a source, a growing tease that was so near, so close. With the little strength he had left, he raised his hand, bringing it closer to his salivating mouth. In a haze of primal instinct, driven beyond sanity and blinded by the unmoral urge, he began to feast.The act was slow and agonizing as he tore at the skin, the flesh, the sinew. The pain was overwhelming, but it was dulled ever so slightly by the profuse emptiness in his gut and the sheer force of his growing madness. Each tear of flesh echoed off the walls of the wooden box; the chunks of muscle peeled off with a scream or cry from Wendell. He could not see the damage being done, but the throbbing that shot through him every time his teeth grazed his skin was bright and real. Blood dripped down from where his hand once was, staining his clothes and skin a deep, unforgiving red.The act of consuming his own limb drew on, a sickening, desperate act of auto-cannibalism that seemed to rip at his very being. The taste of his own flesh and blood mingled with the tears rolling down his face, mixing in his mouth into a sweet and salty mixture. Skin broke free to muscle, and from muscle, his teeth hit bone, his tongue licking across the smooth surface in order to free the tender meat from it. Each bite was deliberate, as if his mind was savouring the iron flavour his own body produced.The act was not quick; it was a slow, agonizing mutilation that lasted hours, perhaps a full day, ending just above the wrist, leaving a jagged, torn stump. He lay there, delirious, soaked in his own sweat, urine, and blood, clutching the remnants of his forearm, a gruesome trophy of his survival.
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Nine days had passed since his supposed death, and Wendell was barely alive. His body, ravaged by severe dehydration, starvation, and profound blood loss, was beginning to shut down. Early stages of kidney stress and skin breakdown had set in, adding to his already decaying and pathetic form. He was a hollowed-out husk, conscious only in broken, pain-filled flashes, the stump of his arm a raw, weeping, cavernous reminder. The voices were still there, but they were muted and faded in and out. He was on the very edge of true death, his self-inflicted wounds and the situation itself nearly complete.
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It was a stroke of macabre luck, or perhaps a cosmic cruelty, that saved him. A new gravedigger, recently assigned to the local cemetery after the previous one was called for military service, was inspecting the grounds. It was then that he noticed a slight irregularity in the soil surrounding Wendell’s grave, a small, almost invisible change where the ventilation tube met the surface. At first, nothing was thought of it. A heavy rainstorm from the previous night must have caused a minor collapse around the tube, exposing it more clearly than it should have been. Curious, the gravedigger investigated.The discovery was one of unimaginable horror. The police and an emergency medical team were called, and Wendell’s coffin was hastily dug up. The sight that greeted them was truly ghastly: Wendell Grimes, gaunt, skeletal, covered in his own fluids, with a mangled, bleeding stump where his left hand should have been. He was immediately rushed to the nearest hospital.His condition was dire, but against all odds, Wendell clung to life. The physical healing was a long, brutal process. The self-inflicted wound was cleaned and re-amputated formally to prevent further infection, leaving the ragged, poorly healed stump that would plague him for the rest of his days. Yet, while his body slowly mended, his mind remained shattered. The news of his ‘resurrection’ became a local sensation, a horrid tale whispered in hushed tones, but the morbid curiosity only isolated him further.

It’s only been three days since the funeral—a strange thing to see, your own funeral, but necessary for the nightmare to end. Arthur thought about ending it without the lie, taking his life in a welcome silence, and letting his double replace him while he rested deep in the dirt. He didn’t have much to live for in his old life. A lousy office job, a cheap car, an even cheaper apartment—he'd leave it behind any second. But he couldn’t give up, not yet. No matter how pathetic his life was, he wouldn’t let that perfectly mirrored image replace him. He was stronger than that, or at least that’s what he kept telling himself.Even after his untimely death, he still needed to find a way to live. Finding a job was demanding enough when he was alive, but in his hidden state of forged death, the search was endless. The constant paranoia that feeds off his mind drags him behind, the stained image of his mirrored self sketched forever in his mind making it impossible for his sanity to stay awake. The walk to the small motel Arthur was renting was long and tiresome. He no longer had a car since he had to painfully crash his old one to stage his death, so Arthur had to walk through the blizzard that pinched at his cheeks and threatened to bite at his exposed skin. His feet dragged underneath him, leaving long, deep footprints in the freshly fallen snow.The “do not disturb” sign hangs loosely on the doorknob of his motel before he’s even arrived, waiting for him, mocking him for his desperation for privacy that will never come. Arthur had signed into the motel as one George Lenard, a false name made up on the spot by him in an attempt of no one ever finding him still alive. He fumbled with his keys, his calloused hands shaking as he unlocked the door. The motel was small, just a single room with a small kitchen and an even smaller bathroom. It was compact, but it was better than his old apartment, with better neighbors too.The faint sound of dripping water coming from the tap echoes off of the thin walls as Arthur steps into the motel room, the sound of his worn shoes joining the repeated beat. Even after three days, the place is already lived in. Clothing is scattered across the floor, needing to be kicked away to pass through. A half-eaten bowl from the night before sits forgotten on the bedside table, the contents already rotting away and lifting a rancid scent into the air. Not even the food wanted to be here. Nothing did. The lights flicker as he turns them on, a faint glow coming from the single bulb shining down, waking up the twitching shadows that block and hide the truth from the eyes of those who watch.Arthur closes the door behind him with a click, immediately turning the lock and closing the blinds to trap himself in his own world of distorted security. Even as he was lying to the world about his death, he was lying to himself about his life. The room was cold, the heater being already broken before he rented it, only being told of the freeze after his remaining money left his pocket. Normally Arthur would take a hot shower after a long day; however, the cheap motel shower was poisoned with dead bugs and cracks, making it impossible to stomach the idea of cleaning oneself in the birth of death.The worn-out bed creaks underneath Arthur's weight as he sits down to rest his aching legs. He was only fifty-six years old, but his body had convinced itself that he was in his late seventies, and required more rest than a man his age should need. He was panting, his breath coming out in short gasps and chokes, forming in the cool air that surrounded him. He sat there, wheezing for air only for it to be taken from him a moment later as the process of breath and life repeats. The oxygen in his lungs brought reason to his clouded mind and strength to his tired muscles.Arthur's eyes landed on the wall in front of him, just opposite his bed. The wall was bare aside from a single window resting in the center and a few cracks from the years eating away at the delicate, thin stone. The blinds were closed, but Arthur swore he could see the faint silhouette of someone standing there. Just as fast as the silhouette appeared, it disappeared, followed by three heavy knocks on the door. Arthur didn't have any time to react to the knocks before the doorknob twitched and turned, demanding entrance into the small, isolated room.The doorknob twitches more before the door swings off its hinges, hitting the floor with a cry as the cold winter air replaces any warmth that may have emerged in the room. Arthur's breathing picked up again, this time out of fear. His chest rose and fell with each desperate pant, each second feeling like an eternity as the figure stood still in the door frame.The figure doesn't say anything. It doesn't move, it doesn't blink, and it doesn't breathe. Arthur can feel his breath hitching in his throat, refusing to come out and breathe the air of fear that had formed around him. He can feel his head spinning, though he doesn't know if it's from the cold, the lack of oxygen, or the sight of himself standing just feet away. The figure looks just like him. Each wrinkle, each scar, and each individual hair was the exact mirrored copy of himself. Every single thing was the same. The only difference was that Arthur, the real one, had humanity, even if he buried it behind fear and excuses. Humanity is what kept him sane, what kept him alive when the double was trying to take everything that gave him life and meaning.The double let out a high-pitched shriek, launching itself at Arthur with more force and power than he had to resist. He could feel the clones' unkempt nails digging into his skin, drawing blood that dripped down his arms and stained the uneven-colored bed sheets below him. The now red-spotted sheets shift uncomfortably underneath his body as he wrestles the clone, the once-soft cotton tangling beneath him as he grips them out of pain. Tears roll down his cheeks as the clone digs its nails into his neck, the salty liquid of fear streaming down his skin and blending with the crimson stains on the bed.Arthur could feel the life leaving his body as the air left his lungs. He chokes, letting out a silent cry as the pressure of the clone's hands on his throat increases. He can feel his vision going blurry, replacing his already aging eyesight with total darkness. Blood continues to drip down from his neck, creating a brilliant burning sensation as the cold air of the room hits the fresh scratches. Consciousness was slowly slipping away from his grasp, no matter how hard he tried to hold onto the slippery idea that kept him awake.By the time he woke up, Arthur hadn't even realized that he had fallen asleep. His breathing is heavy as he stares up at the dimly lit ceiling of the room, the fear from before dripping away from his body. Arthur's hands instinctively move to his neck, feeling the aged skin free from blood and injury. He lets his heart slow down before he pushes himself off of the bed, making his way to the bathroom to splash his face with water. The cool fluid trickles down his face, using the creases of his wrinkles as a river before dripping back down into the sink.He splashed his face with water once more before he dried his skin off, taking his time while he thought to himself. Of course, that was just a dream; that’s all anyone had ever told him that it was. A dream, a nightmare. It wasn't real. With a sigh, Arthur grabs a bottle of medication off the cabinet, toying with the top before he pops it open, letting the lid fall into the sink. Arthur swallows the medicine down with a small gulp of water, allowing the liquid to clean his dry, itchy throat.The medicine slowly, lazily slid down his throat, the water helping to push the pills into his body. Despite what the doctor was telling him, Arthur knew the medicine wasn’t working since the clone kept showing its hideous, mirrored face to him every time he turned a corner. It wasn’t a dream; it couldn’t be. The double has been tormenting him for too long for it to all be just in his head. He wouldn't allow this nightmare to be the truth of his sanity.Arthur’s eyes drifted up to the mirror above the sink. The mirror was murdered with grime and filth and didn't do any favors to his appearance. It makes him look just as sick as his mind was, pledging his skin with a death that was not yet there. He blinks twice, squinting his eyes at the faded reflection staring back at him. The reflection blinks back at him, though its actions are delayed. Arthur blinks again, watching his reflection wink its eyes back at him. He shakes his head, splashing his face with more cold water to try and drown the image away.A stinging sensation overcomes Arthur's body as the echo shifts, the mirror now displaying a man with rotting skin. Patches of skin drop from his reflection’s face, followed by a shower of blood that stains the overflowing porcelain sink and pools at its feet. The torture continues as the clone’s body decays. Each throb of feeling is reflected deep within Arthur’s bones, reminding him of the pain that cannot be seen by the eyes of others. His skin feels like it's on fire, yet there’s no evidence on his wrinkled frame that the pain is there. Arthur’s fingers itch at his sides, an overwhelming need to tear and peel at his skin washing over him like a tidal wave as the sting imprints itself in his brain, blending with his natural code until they become one.Waves of pain flow throughout his body as his eyes struggle to stay fixed on the mirror in front of him. Arthur's breath comes out in rapid, uneven huffs, the pain blurring his vision to the brink of blindness. Each stab of agony pumps through his veins, the pulsing sensation repeating itself deep within as the double rots away in the protection of the glass mirror. Arthur was suddenly, dreadfully aware of every feeling in his body. He could feel his skin stretched out around his muscles, which pressed uncomfortably against each of his trapped bones as the pain pumped through each layer of his form.Each pulse made his headache and his stomach turn. A wave of nausea flooded his body as the pain worsened, his half-eaten lunch from earlier crashing into the sides of his stomach as he limped awkwardly over to the toilet and collapsed in front of it with a loud groan. Arthur knelt beside the toilet for half an hour, retching and gagging into the white bowl as he waited for something, anything, to come out. Time flies by as the pain melts out of his body. The dry heaving was replaced with choked sobs as blood dripped from his throat and through his teeth, the salty stream down his cheeks warm with fear and panic.Arthur slumped down against the wall just opposite the unused toilet, the uneven surface on his back uncomfortable but not unwelcome as he cried. His sobs quickly turn into muffled whimpers as pulls his legs up to his chest and presses his face against his knees, trying to provide himself with some form of comfort as he calms down from the high of the torture. With his eyes closed, the visions of the pain rushed back to him. Each and every fiber in his being shivered with anticipation, waiting for the pain to take over his senses again. But it didn’t come. Nothing did. The pain was gone, and it left behind a blanket of numbness that wrapped around Arthur and trapped him in its false warmth.

Reaching out for help can be really hard, so the act of getting help for yourself is something that should be rewarded! If you've reached out for help in any way (no matter how small) you deserve a treat for recognizing that your health matters! You matter, and you are deserving of recognition and care.Your mental health matters! If you are struggling with anything at all, here are some resources:

• Kids Help Phone
• FTM Help
• Eating Help
• Sexual Assault Hotline
• Smoking Prevention
• ADHD Resources
• Teen Line
• LGBTQ+ Hotline
• Ending Self-Injury