Death may be the greatest of all human blessings (ghost dream)

death

Eash: God; Supreme Being; Creator and Protector of this universe

A few days ago, Quackity stopped asking questions about the book. The demands, the ones that haunted Dream in his sleep and plagued his existence, were finally over.

However, that did not mean the visits stopped. Quackity no longer cared. He no longer needed Dream. He only visited for the sick pleasure of the broken man's suffering.

Even Sam began to question Quackity's actions. Dream could see it in his eyes anytime Sam deemed Dream's condition as severe enough to necessitate medical attention.

Sam always avoided eye contact and didn't say a word. His face was partly hidden by his mask, but his eyes were uncovered. Dream could often see them red and glazed with tears threatening to make themselves known.

Dream noticed his jaw clenching tightly and how he struggled not to throw up at the putrid stench of blood and bile, both dried and fresh.

Whenever he left he would glance back, letting his gaze fall onto Dream's curled up form on the floor. His eyes showed pity and guilt. He deserved to feel neither. This was his doing. The stoic warden was the one to blame. The one to blame for allowing it to happen, turning a blind eye, ignoring the blood-covered walls, playing loud music to drown out Dream's agonized screams, muting Dream and his death messages on his communicator, and telling no one...

Dream wanted to hate the man. Oh, how he wanted to hate him. But he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to hate the man who would cut him apple slices when Dream was younger because he refused to eat whole apples, the man who would sing slightly off-key lullaby's whenever Dream had trouble sleeping, the man who had protected him from mobs when Dream snuck out late at night, the man Dream loved as a brother.

But he did not trust Sam anymore. The trust faltered more with every lowering of the lava, with every time Quackity was let into the cell, with every time Dream's skin was tainted by the weapons bearing Sam's name.

~~~

The blade cut through his scarred skin, again and again, painting a jagged image of a sinister smile, crimson lines emerging, running across sickly pale bruised skin.

The scream Dream was tempted to let out was cut off anyway by blood welling up in his throat, dripping from his cracked lips, joining the already formed pool on the floor.

It was becoming more difficult for his trembling arms to support him and at this point, he was relying on the hand nestled in his hair to hold him up.

Quackity finished his artwork with one final carved line and let go of Dream's hair. The man crumbled to the floor, not even bothering to attempt to catch himself.

Quackity poked Dream with his boot. "Get up! I'm not done!".

Dream did not move. Not because he didn't want to, because he really did. Any defiance only meant more pain, more wounds, and more broken bones. He simply could not move. It felt as if his arms were made of lead and his back was burning. He felt strangely lightheaded.

A harsh kick connected with his side, but Dream could not bring himself to care as much as he perhaps should have, only letting out a weak cough in response, accompanied by more blood.

Dream's eyes began to close on their own. He wasn't tired, right? Then why did he feel like this? Why was the blissful darkness of unconsciousness so tempting?

Dream forced his eyes open, or, well, he tried. The darkness crept closer and closer. Quackity's loud annoying demands became mode and more distanced. Even the pain began to subside.