𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬𝐚𝐦 | 𝐏𝐚𝐜𝐑𝐢𝐦/𝐈𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐏

𝐭𝐞𝐧

𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐏, 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐏, drip. Red on white, staining fibres, staining skin, staining minds.

Mother isn't here. She never is anymore, and all that's left is the swirling depths drip, drip, dripping, but red doesn't stain like it has, just mixes into water never to be seen.

Pulled under once again, he comes up spluttering. Dark everywhere. He can't get away, can't scream, his head is under and he can't move and Jack's tiny hands are all over and- oh. This isn't his memory. He doesn't chase the rabbit, but more comes anyway.

Please stop. You're killing me.

That's the point. Shut the hell up.

He heaves black, but he swallows it down. He's used to it. He's used to everything, and if he closes his eyes he can imagine that Mac is going to come and help him and take him away from this fucking bedroom in this fucking house. If he thinks, if he prays hard enough, he's going to come and break the hands all over him and make it stop. Prayer always worked for Mac.

He tries to ignore the blood on the carpet. Tries to ignore the fact that Mac isn't coming.

He wants to see his mom scrub it out in the morning. The look on her face as she tries and fails to ignore what is happening in her own goddamn house.

Hands all over. Clawing at his insides, whispering to him. It's just a game.

You don't want to lose the game, right?

He loses, every time he loses, and the stains on the carpet are darker now, and the stains he feels on his body are harder and harder to just wash off in the shower, and the bruises grow in volume until he's sure his mother sees, and you're killing me.

You'll kill yourself, doing that, [REDACTED]. Who would want such a deformed body?

Jack wouldn't. That's the point.

Hands all over him, spiders crawling in his brain. He hears a scream, something not human. Scales, skin, eyes, hands, red, white, black.

Drip, drip, drip.

Another scream. Broken glass. Broken body. Pick up the pieces and glue them together, like the task in CharDee MacDennis. He'll lose anyway, he always loses.

Glue them together, good enough. Rip himself apart, he needs to be good enough. Maybe then Hermann would call. Maybe then Mac would help.

Drip, drip, drip.

He thought this was over. He thought glass would stay unbroken. Tattoos were a shield, but apparently not strong enough. He doesn't give a shit about his own carpet, not as much as Illia's.

Drip, drip, drip.

He thought this was over. He thought Mac was a shield, but apparently not strong enough. He thought the Nightman was gone, but the hands are back.

And Mac says sorry, but all he sees is Jack. And when he closes his eyes he sees spiders and he needs to get out and no matter how much Mac says sorry he can't look at him in the eye for now.

Glass is broken. Illia has had enough. He shouts, he never shouts.

Get your act together, you are killing yourself, Newton.

That's the point, it's always been the fucking point.

Small hands pull him out, he comes up, water in his lungs. Mother isn't here, and water is an all familiar black, and sacs burst all around him, more than ever.

He hears more screeching. It's just Dee, what a bird. It isn't Dee. Shut up, let me help.

Let me help you, Newton.

Bio-slurry swirls around him, pools in his vision and he sees spiders. They crawl down from his head into his eyes and he can't see, but he can think and he hasn't had so many thoughts for ten years.

The spiders fade and he's back in the lake. Always that damn lake and his nose drips once again but it doesn't reach water this time. Stopped halfway down his lip and he tastes it and it isn't the red he's so used to.

Black drips into the clear-brown depths of the lake. It spreads, unlike the red. It spreads around him and takes him over and he's back in the bedroom and the Nightman is going to get him and he's back in Illia's living room and he can't stare at the carpet or his arms anymore and he's gone.

Gone.

You'll kill yourself.
You are killing yourself.
You are killing me.
You are killing everyone.

That's the point.