Work Text:
3:59
Sitting bolt upright in your bed, covers thrown aside and tangled from your constant nocturnal thrashing, you wildly scan the room. The unnatural coldness of the room leaves your toes numb, the least of your problems. You can't bring yourself to move, as much as your body tells you to. You are frozen rigid in place by the same presence chilling the space around you, and the dread rises like bile in your stomach. The long stretch of cold silence lasts longer than you'd like. But then you feel him touching your hand.
You can't flinch, even from the unpleasant texture of his smoky fingers as they dance across your own. He takes his time taking your own, grazing the tips of those ephermal digits up your arm, through the sleeve of your shirt. He's never touched anything but you. No, you're the one who does these things. He slides along your collarbone, sinking his fingers into the hollow of your throat. They break through the flesh easily, blood spurting, but your mouth stays closed. Not a sound escapes your trembling lips. You used to wonder if he was a vampire, as if he needed permission to enter you. Turns out he was simply courteous until you started to refuse him.
You shouldn't have done that.
His hands are inside your throat now, slowly and carefuly pulling your head further and further back. Further than should be possible. That's because it isn't. Just thinking about the split in your neck makes you feel sick. He reaches in, hand stretching your insides out. Something breaks, he doesn't care. When he's done making room, he coils like a snake, slithering inside and starting to stretch. You fit him like a glove. He flexes your fingers, snaps your head forward until it's aligned right again. You can feel him smiling. You're covered in your own blood. Your body rebels, tries to heave-
"Quit your whining, you're so weak. If you wanted me gone you should have fought harder."
He growls, twisting your voice into a grating mockery. His words sound as if they're in a completely different language, but you can understand him just fine. You always could. You can feel the twisting of guts continuing to churn more vomit. He laughs.
"We'll just have to punish you, now won't we?"
Before you can wonder what he's going to do, he's out of bed- down the hall- in the bathroom. He moves so fast, it's like he doesn't move at all. He's just where he wants to be. You look for his knife, but he doesn't have it on him. Instead, he's wiggling your twitching fingers all too eagerly. With one hand, he reaches up, spreading the flesh around your eye socket to get a better look at one of your pale blue eyes. He keeps using your face to express his sick mirth, and leans over the counter.
"You have such a wonderful, beautiful body. It's a shame that you hate me."
You want to scream when he plunges your fingers into your own eye, gripping hard on the slippery, squishy orb. You really do. Your vision blurs and unfocuses as he starts to pull, and it's a horribly disorienting experience. It takes him an agonizingly long time to suddenly jerk his hand down, snapping the fragile cord holding half of your vision to your body and drop the useless organ in the sink. He's cackling again, blood and ocular fluid gushing down your face and into your mouth, down your chin, onto your hands and the counter. You feel like you might lose consciousness, though you're not sure how, considering you're not conscious to begin with. Or are you? You can't tell anymore. He reaches into the socket, prodding at the back of the socket.
"I wonder if I can feel your brain back there..." He giggles and pokes harder, making himself scream with delight. "Do you want a new one, poor boy?"
You don't. You can't imagine how much worse it will be to have him create more. He does anyway, sickly green sludge pooling in your eye and slowly dribbling out as it inflates, filling the socket. The iris is a much darker blue, and suddenly you can see properly again, though half of your vision is tinted green, and again it's disorienting. It's all too much, and the last thing you can see is his pristine white grin in the mirror as he waves goodbye to you. Everything goes dark.
10:26
You wake, in your bed, with no memory of getting there on your own. Your face feels wet, but it's just your own spit. You're wearing the same clothes you slept in, and yet they're clean. Everything is as it was. It's for the best.