Sleepwalking

Sleep Was Not Always An Innocent Need

Error looked over at the wall when he woke up. He felt, wait-

This was a new feeling... he felt almost new.

Almost clean, breathable.

Fresh.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around, he hadn't slept in three days, that felt amazing. He noticed new small dents in the wall when the... oh, right. The black terrors.

He hugged himself and tried to breathe, which was useless because he didn't have lungs.

I need Ink.

He looked around and was about to press the button but nothing happened. He didn't move from his bed, what if the black ink terrors came back? What it they were under his bed, waiting for his trembling toes to graze the floor and slither out to grab him and pull him under? Gobbling him up to torture him, he could possibly be dreaming and this was a form of torture.

He couldn't really tell if it was or not, and that would be worse than knowing he was actually asleep. There was so much he didn't know and that straight scared him.

No, he couldn't be a baby bones here, he had to be brave. He collected himself and relaxed his shoulders, he had to find Ink. Ink was safe and Error's favorite. Ink was kind to him.

He sucked in a deep breath and scooted to the end of the bed to drop his feet down, the floor was cold. He slid his feet into his slippers and stood up unsteadily.

Okay. Now the door.

He looked up at the unlocked door, left open for him to waltz through whenever he pleased.

Maybe this is a bad idea.

Error gripped the hem of his shirt. Maybe this was a bad idea. He had an unspoken rule to himself that he shouldn't leave the room. That at sometime, Ink or White would come to see him. He looked over at his desk, a leg had been pushed inward, those darned Terrors. Error huffed and picked up a piece of paper and began drawing.

Error was never good with words, not that he could be understood to begin with. He hated his voice with a burning passion. He never understood how he could have so many voices yet none of them knew what he was saying. What he interpreted, understood, implied, etc. it was enough to irritate him.

With such a problem, his mouth had no use. He was lacking communication and he decided mute was the best option. Put himself on mute. He resorted to using his body and facial expression as a way to speak. The voices, though passive aggressive mostly, taught him the best ways to speak with his skeletal being.

He had almost forgotten about his disoriented speech.

He looked down at his drawing. It wasn't as good as he'd hoped it be but he loved it nonetheless. And Ink would love it too. He had encouraged Error to draw more. To be more creative.

Error put it in his pocket and smiled. He looked at the door again, the unknown. He adjusted his jacket and sighed. It sounded like a broken radio (going back to fucking Handy here, my God.(( it's in another book I wrote Once Upon A Story))).

He wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the foot of the doorway. He closed his eyes tightly and forced an uneasy step over the edge. He waited for something to happen.

...

Nothing.

"ℏՊՊ?"

He opened an eye socket and noticed that he was unscathed. He opened his other socket and put his other foot outside of his room. He did it! What was he so afraid of anyway?