Clay Was Taken

Chapter 15: Alone

Trigger warning: self harm and suicidal thoughts. These paragraphs will be in bold text. Please stay safe. 

He'd just killed everyone who had ever mattered to him. Everyone he had ever dared to care about. He wanted to believe that he didn't care, but he did care. He missed that. Their blood was on his hands, and now he had no one left. All his friends had died being afraid for their lives, because of him. None of them loved him anymore. He was alone.

Alone once more. There would be no Zada to come pick him up from a dumpster this time, though. There was no hope for friends this time. He wouldn't let himself be betrayed again. 

No matter how he tried to justify his actions, in the end it did not matter. If he couldn't convince himself he was innocent, he would never be able to convince a police officer or judge. 

He ran that night, far into the woods. He did not know where he was, or where he was going. It did not matter. As long as he was away from everything he had done. As long as he was no where close to their corpses.

He cried to himself all night. He cursed himself and everyone. He could not sleep, even if he had wanted to. It would have been a restless sleep full of knives, hammers, and bloody bodies anyway. He gripped at his skin and pulled at his hair. 

He pulled out his knife and stared at it.

My fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault...

He repeated the words until they no longer made sense. With every word he made a long, horrible cut on his arm. He cried and sobbed and beat on the floor with his hands. He just wanted it to end. He wanted his life to end. There was no point in living, was there? There was no point. No point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point no point...

He ripped into his already cut and bloody arms and tore at them until he physically couldn't bare it anymore. 

He passed out from all the pain. It was a black, empty void. It was a living hell. He drifted in and out of consciousness, each time wishing to never wake up again. His dreams were filled with knives, hammers, and bloody bodies. It was torture to be alive. He screamed and begged the gods to put him out of his misery, to spare mercy. 

The gods have no mercy. They only have blood lust and a earning for gruesome entertainment. 

Dream should have known that by now.

A week later, he grew sick of it all. He got up and started walking again, knife in hand. He found a stream nearby and washed off all the bloody mud he was covered in. His wounds were certainly infected. Deep in the night he stole anti bacterial medicine and soap, praying it might work. He lived, covered in scars as he was.  He bandaged his arms and took care of himself.

If he was going to live, he would make the most of it, he thought. He lived in the woods, day by day, as a wild animal. He stole from the town and he hunted small prey. He made a hut out of trees and bark and mud. It wasn't terrible. It was strangely beautiful, living out here.

He slept irregularly through out the day, shallow as it was. He avoided his dreams he most. He forced himself to sleep little as possible, and kept himself awake however he could. He missed his family, and he hated himself for it. 

His knife was always covered in his own blood, and bandages covered his arms.

He started plotting. To stay free, he needed to destroy evidence of his very existence. If one boy from his past remembered him, all the others would. If he was remembered, he would still exist. He stole a map from the town. He barely could remember his home, but he prepared to travel, and he prepared to kill once more. 

He didn't have a choice, did he? 

Later he stole a cheap, plastic mask from town. He drew a creepy smile on it. He found a dark, faded green hoodie in a store. It was almost like camouflage. He never took either off once he started wearing them. The anonymity was comforting to him, and it covered his arms. 

He gathered his things and prepared to go to his first family. He put on his mask and called himself Dream.

He would be free, no matter the cost.