𝐙𝐄𝐑𝐎 - 𝟎𝟎𝟏 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐂 ✔️

012

warning: brief mention of self-harm

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What have I done? You think

There they were again. White walls. White ceilings. White floors. The  claustrophobic anxiety crept up on you again. It never left, each wave hitting harder.

Your body felt weak with malnourishment. This would be your fourth day without a proper meal. Now, even the thought of the cafeteria's mushy lasagna made your stomach grumble.

Music was the only thing that kept you grounded, but listening to the same song on repeat would be the cause of your insanity. It really did feel like your body was broken.

Nightmares came even when sleep didn't. You weren't sure how that worked, but the guilty thoughts kept you awake even worse than the bad dreams. You'd messed up, bad.

On your pillow, beside the rose, was a dated photograph. The left corner was creased as if it had once been folded and the faces were fuzzy. It was the very same one from Papa's desk. The one with him, the mother, and the child. The child was you, that had already been established, but according to Papa, and your feeble memories, the woman was your mother.

The questions you'd had faded into numbness. You didn't care anymore. The only answers you'd gotten were short and scrappy.

Was it worth it? 001 would ask.

No. You would answer.

But that conversation hadn't happened yet. The only conversation you'd had at all were short exchanges with Papa. You hadn't been let out of your room since it happened and this time, the locks were too high-tech to outsmart.

001 had been right the entire time. You wondered where he was now, how he felt... but how could you face him after that?

Chance at life—a real-life—all ruined for one that no longer was and never would be again. No, it wasn't worth it at all. You weren't sure why you had frozen up so much. You were going to choose 001 in the end anyways. Why had Papa's words tripped you up?

The truth was, it was hard to suddenly turn on a person who'd taken care of you your entire life. Flaws were hard to acknowledge, especially in someone you'd thought so highly of. In the end, Papa was human and humans made mistakes. Papa, in turn, had made more than one.

When you heard his voice, it reminded you of all the times he'd comforted you and pushed you on. It reminded you of his smile and his wit. And to run from it so suddenly? The only family you'd ever had?

But maybe that was selfish. You shouldn't have frozen up. You shouldn't have even acknowledged Papa's words, but his voice drew you in so sweetly, like a trap.

The confinement was doing nothing for your already deteriorating mental health. You'd already had three mental breakdowns in the past four days. Each had left your room more disheveled than the last.

In the struggle to keep you sane, you'd experimented more with the rose. You could still revive no more than stem. Your repeated failure led to your second mental breakdown.

You look down at the cuts on your palms. You had been holding the rose so hard the thorns made you bleed. It was only a matter of time before you began doing this on purpose. The pain would keep you grounded, you thought.

The cuts on your palm were easy to heal. With each scrape, you'd practice fixing the skin with your mind. It became a god-awful habit. The scars didn't always go away. These four days of confinement made you grow to hate roses. And thorns. And scars all together.