Pandemonium | Dream SMP

52. Relax, it's just a wet flannel.

Ah, it hurts. It hurts a lot.

I curl tighter in on myself, hugging my sides, the bed dipping unevenly as I try to find a position that doesn't send pain shooting through my body.

Or more specifically, through my shoulders.

It's been almost three months since my last relapse, the longest I've ever gone. I suppose I should be glad it's happening now, in the dead of night in the privacy of my room, instead of out in public where I would no doubt get concerned stares from others.

Another wave burns between my shoulder blades and I shiver, clenching my teeth. I'll never get used to this pain. The phantom sensations of having limbs that are no longer there. It's a feeling I can't describe in anything other than pain. So much pain.

Come on, Ares. You can push through this. You always do. Just a few hours of this and you'll be back to normal.

I bury my head in my pillow and take slow, deep breaths. My brain is buzzing with memories of knife points and large, grey hands pushing my face into the ground. I can still taste the tang of dirt and iron in my mouth, a mix of blood from myself and the others I'd been with. And the screams-

"Oww," I whimper, rolling over once more. I feel hot. My hair is sticking to my face. I need to get cool.

With much agonising effort, I manage to pull my shirt over my head, throwing it off the edge of the bed along with my bedsheets.

Much better.

I hear a click, like the sound of a latch being moved, and crack open a foggy eye to try and survey my dark room.

I don't see anything, of course, but a name does come to mind through the haze of my thoughts.

"Schlatt?" I call out, uncertain. Did he hear me whimpering like the mess that I am? Has he come to check on me? He knows of my occasional sessions, and has always helped me through them in the past, even when I told him he needn't. But right now, I wouldn't mind his company, even if only to distract me from the pain. He's the only one that knows—that understands the reason behind my phantom pains. The story behind my scars.

Now I definitely hear something. A creaking of feet across floorboards, incredibly light.

Too light to be Schlatt's.

"You're not looking so hot, bean sprout. Someone put milk in your coffee?" The voice of Dream speaks out from the darkness.

I groan and bury my head again, curling away from him.

"I don't even want to know how you got in here," I mumble into the pillow.

"Window," he responds nonchalantly. "You really should start locking them. Anyone could crawl in here."

"Noted, now please leave, I happen to be busy-" my words are cut off as another bolt of fire sears across my scars and I hiss loudly, my fingers digging deep into my sides.

"Hey, seriously, you okay?"

Dream's voice is at my side now, and I can sense his presence beside my bed. If I weren't currently preoccupied I'd be surprised by how genuinely concerned he sounds.

"Phantom pains," I hiss. "They'll pass in a few hours. Always do."

"And you just sit through them?" He questions, taken aback.

"What else can I do? They cripple me every time."

I give a low moan as another wave of pain rolls around.

A hand, featherlight, is placed to my forehead and I flinch. I blink and see the white mask just inches from my face.

"You're pretty hot." Dream comments, his voice laced with growing worry.