Kinemortophobia

Ch. 3 -Itch-

The room house was quiet, the fire reduced to smoldering coals. Outside of the home, a thick snowstorm was brewing. Techno lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Ghostbir lay in the guest bed next to him, sound asleep. Phil was downstairs along with Tommy, in a bed he had crafted for himself earlier that evening.

Techno looked over tiredly to his right, over to a small clock be kept by the side of his bed. It showed that it was past midnight, sometime in the ungodly hours of the early morning. So late, in fact, that even Phil, a complete insomniac, was most likely getting a bit of rest.

Techno sighed for what seemed like the millionth time that night, rubbing his face with a scarred hand. He never enjoyed his odd, broken sleeping schedule, one that he'd had ever since he started hearing the voices.

Psychosis and insomnia go hand-in-hand, the player guessed.

Speaking of the voices, even at the ungodly hours of the morning, they were still active. Their voices buzzed, a hum of whispers and hushed tones, just like they always sounded.

Only caring to raise their voices when blood had the chance to flow.

Cowards, Techno thought to himself, shutting his eyes in annoyance. They don't truly even care about me in the end, anyway.

Techno knew it wasn't true, but sometimes it was easy to forget. Because when all they seemed to do was cause harm, all the good they did too was easily overlooked.

Techno rolled over to his side roughly, trying to get comfortable. Either too cold or too hot, he was seemingly caught in a perpetual battle with his bed, one that either ended with him on the floor or curled up exhausted in the fetal position.

Tonight, however, his temperature wasn't what was bothering him. A burning, itching feeling spreading up his ankle. From the same spot where he had been injured in the Nether.

Techno rubbed the spot with his other cloven hoof, trying to find some solace. His efforts were futile in the end, however, as the scratching only further irritated the skin.

The Piglin huffed, gritting his teeth. He would just have to ignore the feeling for the time being if he wanted to get any shut-eye that night.

-~Time Skip~-

Tommy opened his eyes drowsily, waking up to the sound and smell of breakfast cooking. The British lay on his back under the covers for a moment longer, savoring the heat of the bed. However, he was ultimately pulled away from the warmth of his blanket by the smell of food.

Tommy pulled off his blanket, immediately cold from the air in the room. He placed his bare feet on the stone floors tentatively, recoiling from their freezing surface.

That was one of the only things Tommy missed from his exile spot, the warmth. Not having to wear thick clothing when stepping outside. It was one of the only things he missed, however, recoiling from the confusing memories of the rest of it.

Tommy grabbed some socks, thick woolen ones discarded next to his bed. He slipped them over his bare feet, the fabric both soft and rough against his toes. They were blue, the same blue as friend's coat.

With feet safely protected from being frozen to death, Tommy was able to make it up the ladder to the second floor where Phil was cooking some breakfast. Ghostbur sat in a chair in the corner of the room, reading one of Techno's books.

"Mornin', Toms," greeted Phil, cooking something on the stove.

"Morning," Tommy responded, walking over to where Phil was cooking. He looked over the shorter man's shoulder, peeking at his cooking.