i wanna feel lethal on the inside, i wanna read american psycho again

> Dave: Contemplate.

You don't have fucking time for this.

"Listen, Rose, call me crazy all you want, but that isn't even what I wanted to say." Your tone has become noticeably sharper. You don't mean to come off as angry, but that's pretty much the majority of what you're feeling right now(along with a slight hint of betrayal, but you don't want to delve into that at the moment) and fuck it, you've had a long ass day.

"Karkat has a notebook on his teammates, yes teammates, and I'm not gonna explain it to you because you've made it extra clear that you don't care," a southern accent slips into your words again. "But he keeps notes, and I'm 98% sure that one of his friends is in the same level as you."

"Dave, in all fairness, how would that be even remotely possible-" She sounds exhausted. You cut her off because she has absolutely no right to feel the same way you do. (She has every right, actually, but you're pissed right now, so you choose to ignore the fact that nags and pulls at your consciousness as you immediately justify your actions.)

"Weren't you complaining about hearing things? Splashes of water that you're sure as hell didn't come from you? This would explain it, and honestly make it a whole lot less scary. I don't even understand why you're fucking arguing with me right now, considering that everything we've been going through for the past 85 hours has been anything but normal! I believed you when you said you didn't think you were alone in there. Maybe you should fucking humor me like I did you instead of immediately assuming the worst." You accidentally raise your voice there, but manage to keep it under control. Clenching your fists, you resist the urge to let out your coiled up energy via strife deck and squeeze your eyes shut.

There's quiet. Nothing but the buzzing of lights and your spinning head trying desperately not to snap under pressure. You think you might be a little dizzy.

A heavy sigh from the other line, and you relieve some tension in your posture you weren't aware you were holding. At least she isn't ultra-supreme pissed at you.

"We'll talk later. Get some sleep." Rose says through gritted teeth, followed by radio silence. You snatch the headphones off your head, admittedly a little harsher than you mean to, throw them on the floor, and rub at your eyes under your shades. You feel an immediate pang of guilt at your mini tantrum, but don't move to pick up your headset yet. Well, that was a fucking disaster. Great.

You let out a shuddery breath, and then another one inward. It's fine. You can... You can fix this. You might've just fucked up the whole dynamic with one of your closest friends, but it's fine. Everything is fucking peachy. It's great. Awesome, even!

"Um," You hear an obnoxiously loud and scratchy voice say from behind you, and flinch harshly back. And then you realize that it's just Karkat, and yeah you totally forgot he was here. Being alone for so many days in a row must have taken a toll on you. You look at him wide-eyed, back pressed tightly against the wall behind you, until you realize he's staring at you like you're a puppy that just got fucking bashed in the face, and you forcibly relax your posture. You pretend that you didn't almost just reach for your shitty katana just then, and in the most pretentious, douchey voice ever, say: "'Sup."

This does nothing to wipe the look off his face, though, not even a pity laugh, so you're left with him just staring at you like he's trying to get you to talk about fucking 9/11 or something and you trying your best to avoid eye contact without actually looking like you're avoiding eye contact. Eventually, he clears his throat awkwardly and says, "You good?"

Despite yourself, you frown. Shame and embarrassment crawls up into your gut and you bend down to grab your headphones, hooking them back around your neck. Your movements feel like molasses, and you think you've expended a lot more energy than you're used to today. You look back at him, still avoiding his eyes, and fidget absentmindedly with the hem of your shirt. There's no doubt that you look incredibly pissy right now, but you don't have the mental capacity to do anything about it yet.

Avoiding his question, you answer with another one, walking back towards him on the floor and plopping down in your spot next to him. "Do you mind taking watch?" Karkat's still looking at you like you're something to be pitied. Your hands flex involuntarily. "I know I'm the one that interrupted your sleep and all, but I really need a nap right about now."

Karkat looks at you for a second longer, chewing on the inside of his mouth. It seems like he's decided something in his head as he says, "yeah, that's fine. I was pretty much done sleeping, anyways."

You nod stiffly at him. "Cool. I don't need to sleep for that long, so if I snooze for more than eight hours, you have full permission to wake my lazy ass up."

"Alright." Karkat pulls his notebook back out, along with the thick black marker, and starts busying himself.

You curl into a ball on the floor, not taking your shades off. Not doing anything. You sit and listen to the soft screech of marker on paper and the deafeningly loud white noise of those fucking lights. You hunch in on yourself, burying your face in the moist jeans on your legs and slipping both hands over your ears. Shades digging into your face, you purse your lips and suppress another sigh.

You wish it was a dream. You wish that you'll wake up and you'll be back in the same shitty apartment with the same shitty puppets and the same shitty dad. Your arm muscles burn from the lack of use, and yet your legs do the opposite. You think that even though you wish you were back there, it wouldn't be any better, not really, and even though there wouldn't be any sogginess or buzzing or god damned fucking eye piercing yellow, there would still be the promise of constant pain and surveillance and avoidant, blank observation from the one guy that's actually supposed to care about you. You think that, in a way, you've been trapped for your whole life. Maybe not by endless golden thresholds and pale, plastic outlets like this time around. Maybe it was the way that you lived on the top floor of the apartment building with a broken elevator. That you had to descend roughly ten flights of stairs before you could ever interact with real life people. Or maybe it was the way he wouldn't let you talk, wouldn't let you show emotion, leaving you feeling like a tightly bundled ball of coils waiting for someone to untangle you and put the different parts of you in their respective outlets and plugs.

You really don't know.

All that you're sure of right now is that you need to go the fuck to sleep.