༺The Evil Within༻Room 36

VII. Living Nightmare

❁
"Been called a monster, called a demon, called a freak!
I'm not an idol, not an angel, not a saint!
I walk a l o n e, I always h a v e, I'm not     a s h a m e d!
I've always been a living nightmare from the cradle to the grave!"
❁

Ruben didn't stop until he reached the haven of his room.

Shoving his weight against the door in a blind scurry he stumbled upon entering, slamming the door shut behind him and groping for something to stabilitate him. His numb fingers proved to be useless in such an attempt. He cursed softly and fell upon his bed, his chest heaving with each shuddering breath. His heart ached from the incessant pounding, corrupting the burned tissue protecting it with the same pain. Ruben's hand flew to the right side of his head and he winced, tragic images of the past flooding his vision. God, please. Not now..

He sucked in a breath and tried to steady his breathing. He couldn't succumb to an attack right now. He couldn't. He grit his teeth until his jaw ached. He wouldn't let this happen. The attack alone wasn't the worry. No, attacks were simply a gateway to another threat: seizures.

He climbed atop his mattress and assumed a position known to calm anxiety: a forward bend, mildly similar to a fetal position. A last resort of course, since such movement caused agony to his seared skin.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

His pulse began to slow. Ruben found himself crumpling into the covers of his bed. In this moment, he could only dream of what the soft, cushy blankets would feel like. He grabbed a portion and touched it to the left of his face, that one minuscule location of unscathed flesh left with a fleeting sense of touch. He caressed it to his cheek, slipping his eyes shut as he fought past the numbness to catch the faint feeling of the fuzzy material brushing against his cold skin.

He lay there for some time, the only sound in the room that of his slow, raspy breaths. The blanket slipped from his scorched fingers. He stood, trudging steps towards his nightstand. Grasping its edges for support, he leaned against it and stared at the mirror. The face that met him caused his heart to pool over with hate and disgust.

He fumbled to frantically unbutton his shirt and toss it to the floor. White bandages were beheld beneath it. With almost savage intent he began to rip them away, revealing with every tear a new space of blackened skin. It wasn't until he reached his head did he slow his frantic pace. Slowly, he unraveled his face like a mummy. Every unwind sent another wave of despair to his sinking heart. The flesh beneath was completely destroyed, left scabbed over and flaking after its years of failed attempts at healing.

He exposed the right side of his cranium, which had been replaced with a clear skull implant and surgically stitched into his head. The artificial skull was an experiment of his own doing, one he greatly regretted because of the aftermath. An act driven by his quest for knowledge, curiosity, and a way to stop the pain..

The result had only caused more.

His pink brain could be seen clearly through it, looking healthy despite the poisonous thoughts pulsing through it. He ran a finger down the crudely stitched flesh, which ended right before his nose bridge. He felt a sharp sting deep within his muscles, but didn't stop until he'd reached the scar's end.