The Beast Made of Ink

Chapter 43: The Guardian

-Your P.O.V.-

It was strange to think that it was only minutes ago that you had almost died, and now, here you are, wiping alcohol all over your exposed skin as the literal demon of this place had his back bashfully turned away from your partially exposed form. You were attempting to concentrate on your current situation rather than the previous one that you were forced to be in.

Sometimes, you truly did hate your weakness, your inability to harm. Sure, you considered yourself to be an empathetic person, but that's not why you can't harm others. You can't harm others because of your father, and those thoughts of becoming like your father that you had as the mutant ran towards you completely took over. and, amidst being attacked, you yourself had begun to have your own attack.

That's why you were attempting to focus on anything except what had just happened. It was making you shake and sweat.

As you finished a final painful swipe across the luckily shallow wounds that seemed to just be bloody more than anything else, you found your gaze land onto the demons back. It seemed that your mind had finally decided to focus on something else as you were immediately brought back to right after he had seemingly rescued you.

.........

"What... happened?" You asked the demon, confusion evident in your eyes. You weren't stupid, it was quite obvious at this point that the ink being didn't plan on harming you at the moment. Otherwise, he would've already killed you, or at least would have made a move to do so. Instead, he's just standing there in his 8 foot creepiness, perma-grin plastered across his eyeless face at he looked down at you. And he just kept staring.

A clear of your throat seemed to snap him out of it, as his head tilted to the side in consideration. It seemed like he was having trouble finding the right words? After a minute or so, the demon responded to you and your question.

"Striker." He explained, making you even more confused. Was there a striker? Is striker a name? A plant or something?

Seeing your confusion, the demon took his human-like hand and pointed down at the pile of bubbling ink in front of you. It was then you had realized that the being that was attacking you was called or named striker. You nodded your head in understanding, your eyes glued to the boiling puddle only inches away.

Looking up, you could feel your body jumped as the creature called Bendy's face was mere inches from yours.

"Er... Can I help you?" You finally managed to ask. For some reason, you felt woozy. Maybe it was from the blood dripping out of your slashed abdomen? It was hard to say...

Bendy seemed to notice your sudden unease, and instead of backing off, he instead leaned his head into your cut up stomach, almost as if to examine it. Before you could say anything, a grate-y hum sounded from his throat as he stood his body back up straight. You watched somewhat fascinated as how his 8 teeth parted when he spoke to you. It somewhat reminded you of a nutcracker. God, you were excited for Christmas.

"You're lucky... No ink got into your wound." The demon explained, making your own sigh of relief escape your lips.

Thank god, you really didn't want to become an ink monster, no offense to any of the beings trapped down here, but an immortal life spent in a black and sepia studio rotting away as you're slowly driven to madness just didn't sound very exciting to you.