#emmodii drabbles

[oc-mode]

"But I never wanted this!" he finally yells in frustration, desperation, gesturing to nowhere in particular, "All I've ever wanted was to live a normal life with the people I care about: You, Mom--- Not... Having to worry about being a constant disappointment!"

It was rare to see Darci blow up. Hell, he has probably never seen his son raise his voice at all.

Isambard knows all of what was said. He knows how docile and gentle his son is at heart. How hard he often pushes him to become stronger, independent. He's spoken with his wife, after all. And Darci had never been one to hide his sadness; the flashes of pain that flickered in his eyes every time he disappointed him.

There was nothing Isambard wanted more than to let his son be. To allow him to live that idyllic life he desperately wanted. But was it worth the possibility of returning home to bloodshed?

He tries to keep his voice even, although he wonders if he should finally allow his vulnerabilities and fears to show. Consciously reminding himself not to clench his fist or shake within his metallic body, he says, "Is it so bad that I just want you to be able to protect yourself?"

From his past mistakes. Mistakes made from choices that he fears will force his own family to pay. Mistakes that were not theirs to begin with, and mistakes that Darci was right to be upset about, having them dictate his entire life.

Isambard thought he was prepared for whatever reaction his son would've had towards his statement. Rage, exasperation, tears--- But he hadn't expected the pained look of understanding.

A look no parent should want their child to have.

"No," was all Darci could say in his usual soft, meek voice. Staring at the ground, he shakes his head, deciding the conversation was over and leaving his father in the room by his lonesome.

[emmodii-mode]

"Aren't you afraid," I ask, "That I'll stop caring about you? That you'll fade away like everything else that once sparked something in my heart?"

He looks at me, melancholy in his eyes but understanding all the same. His voice is gentle, careful, trying so very hard to convey his love.

"I admit, there is a part of me that worries, yes," he says, but pauses when I tense, unable to stop the feelings of inadequacy and guilt. He leans in, a hand reaching forward but refraining from touch until I give the smallest of nods. Warmth on my arm, warmth from a sensation I still find so foreign. He continues, "But that's writing off your struggles as something so simple when it's not, is it?"

It's not. It has never been. No matter how well-meaning the information, it can never properly portray the slow, imminent death of the person you once were. The pain comes before, in anticipation of your inevitable loss.

And then, nothing.

You become nothing but a fleshy vessel, the weight of which you eventually find too much of a chore to even carry. You can only drag it around, trying, at the minimum, to fulfil your basic needs.

Until even that chore goes from pointless to worthless.

"Maybe this is an unfair comparison," he tries, "But imagine Depression as a debilitating physical illness, so severe that you can't get out of bed."

"I actually can't, sometimes," I say.

"Well, then all the more it shouldn't be so easily brushed off as something in your head, right?" he replies with a quirk of a brow and I can't stop the small, grateful smile that forms on my lips.

I watch as his head tilts, brows furrowing while he goes through his thoughts, attempting to remember where he had stopped before I casually interrupted. He nods to himself, satisfied with what he has found, and carries on, "So, say you can't get out of bed. You can't even speak or do anything because you're in so much pain. Everything in your body's focused on surviving and getting through it."

He casts me a glance to ensure that I am following, to ensure that I don't require elaboration. His words seep into my mind and processes. I hum in acknowledgement.

A flourish of a hand, a random gesture as he speaks, "I'm in the building with you, but we can't have our usual conversations and we can't hang out. I'll even go as far as to say that there's a chance you won't think of me at all, given how much pain you're in." Again, he pauses, allowing me to think through the scenario he's painted while he takes the opportunity to recall if there is more to add.

"Yet, even through all that, you won't feel neglected?" I ask, even though I already know his answer.

"Would you?" he replies with a knowing smirk.

Letting out a soft huff, I shake my head. He is no doctor, and the words he says are solely from his own knowledge and feelings, but it is that very fact that makes my heart feel lighter, somehow. It makes it more believable that he genuinely believes what he said, and it makes it that much easier to believe him as well.

Genuinely, earnestly, with all the emotions I can still locate in the numbing hole that is my heart, I say, "I love you."

His smile is soft.

"I know."

And I feel relieved.

[oc-mode]

It had started out as a casual conversation. The topic went from the other's odd obsession with probably-illegal fights to his agility, which Jean thought was uncommon for the average person that age. His companion-that-refused-to-be-named barked out a laugh, and that was how it was revealed that he used to participate in gymnastics.

Rather enthusiastically, in fact, evident by the way his eyes lit up. It was only then did Jean realise how empty his conversation partner's eyes usually were. In his defence, he was usually distracted by how forced the other's ever-present smile was. Jean often wondered whether it made his cheeks hurt.

"---Acrobatics is pretty cool too. I like how elegant it is. You ever seen videos of it online? Can't say I ever cared much for art but that? That's art," the individual-that-insisted-his-name-was-Pancake continued, unable to stop his hands from motioning with clear excitement.

Jean didn't know him too well, but his people-pleaser mentality stubbornly told him that he had to learn about him, if only so that he could effectively get on the latter's good side. Despite his lack of familiarity, however, he could almost swear the permanent, strained smile on 'Pancake''s face was morphing into something more genuine.

But just as soon as it began to form, sadness bled in. A corner of his mouth had twitched, threatening to make the smile fall.

"---Could never get into it though. Regular gymnastics was already pushing it for her," he concluded, the spark in his eyes dulling and his gaze becoming distant.

Jean knew he should have stopped himself, but the question slipped out before he was even aware of it, "'Her'?"

The 30-year-old-guy-with-notable-flexibility turned his head to look at the younger man, his usual fake expression plastered on. It was a face meant to convey something resembling optimistic nihilism, or perhaps something carefree but also selfish and distant. A complete stranger would have thought he was recalling a happy memory, his face deceptively cheerful as he replied, "Oh, my mom. But then, my dad didn't like it very much either. Think they would've preferred if I followed my dad's... Errr... Specialties?"

He motioned a circle with his right hand, the left having slipped back into his pocket. He sounded completely nonchalant, as if he was answering a question that was as normal as being asked for his name.

But then again, he never did answer that particular question, which was why Jean knew that there was more to his reply than he let on. With he-who-does-not-want-to-be-named's commitment issues and apparent allergy to affection, Jean had strong suspicions regarding the former's relationship with his parents. Of course, he had a few other theories, but his reaction towards the topic of parents was almost akin to that of Johnny Depp's Willy Wonka.

It was sad, so Jean genuinely hoped that he was wrong.

In hopes of lightening the mood, perhaps even cheering up the other (if that were even possible), he tried, "That sucks. But if it makes you feel better, I think what you can do is really cool. I think my spine would snap in half if I attempted any of it."

A quirk on the corner of his companion's mouth, amusement clear as he raised a brow, "Say what? You're like- A decade or so younger than me. You're supposed to be looser than I am, old man."

"Wh- 'Old man'?!" Jean exclaimed dramatically, genuinely. Yes, he was trying to make the other guy feel better, but he sure wasn't expecting that jab. Self-conciously, he wondered if he looked older than his age.

God, he hoped not.

The person-who-sometimes-claimed-to-be-named-Potato-McGee cackled, tossing his head back, his hands clapping with childish glee. It was hard to believe he was past his mid-30s, Jean had noted several times before. Ryan once mentioned that 'Potato' was no stranger to having his face changed, although it did not explain the fact that he definitely did not act like a mature adult.

Actually, in hindsight, he behaved much more like someone unwilling to let go of the freedom of childhood.

Or is it more like he's trying to make up for a freedom he didn't have? Jean was unable to stop himself from frowning at the thought.

He could suppose that the plus side to being the 'fat, ugly kid' in school was that he got to understand other kids that were also considered outcasts. He was fortunate to have grown up with, in his opinion, the world's greatest mother- Patient, kind, nurturing. So when he learnt that other kids didn't necessarily have that...

He still remembered how much his heart broke for them.

"Do you suppose there's a gym anywhere in town? Or just somewhere you could give acrobatics another try?" he suddenly asked, never one to be comfortable with silence.

The person beside him quietened, a look of contemplation on his face. "Huh," he muttered more than said, "I never really thought about that."

His gaze was once again distant and anxiety coiled in Jean's gut. A nagging voice in his head insisted he continue the conversation and drag 'McGee' out of his deep thoughts. He could almost hear Edgar's voice somewhere, telling him that he was being ridiculous and that it wasn't his responsibility to make everyone happy.

He told Edgar to shut up.

He wasn't able to act on his self-assigned mission, however, as Mister-Clearly-Not-Okay pushed himself off from his leaning position against the stone wall. With a sigh and a stretch, bones in his hands cracking, he turned to look at Jean once again, eyes tired and forced smile still persistently present.

"It's a good idea," he said as he slid his hands into his pockets, "I'll go take a look around. Heck knows I hate sitting still for too long."

Unsure of how to deal with the sudden goodbye, even though he had been warned by others of the other person's tendency to do so, Jean found himself stuttering. He knew it was silly, but part of him was already screaming that he made everything awkward. He had never been great at dealing with his anxiety though, and often found his mouth moving before he could stop himself. This time was no different.

"Ah! Um! What if there's nothing though?" He cursed himself internally, questioning why he thought that was a good thing to ask. Give a guy something to look forward to and then snatch it away, why not.

But the leaving party simply offered a lopsided grin, "Well, if you hear police sirens, just assume I tried to get a little creative."

And then his back was facing the younger man, the distance growing between them until his silhouette disappeared beyond the horizon.

...Jean wasn't sure if he was supposed to take that last comment seriously.

[emmodii-mode]

Me: Dealing with vertigo and nausea.

Me: Deliberately avoiding milk because it makes it worse.

Me: Drinks milk tea.

Me: Realises that milk tea has milk.

Me: Realises that milk tea LITERALLY HAS "MILK" IN ITS NAME.

[emmodii-mode]

From the fiery pits of Hell births that of a human child, tainted and full of sin, doomed to return to eternal torture and punishment when their time runs out. To escape such a fate means to grovel, begging for mercy and forgiveness, placing one’s faith in an unseen god.

A cruel god with many rules and conditions, claiming to love yet smiting those who doubt. A cruel god on a pedestal, Their followers praising Them for being all-knowing and flawless, yet damning children simply for being born.

Heaven and Hell, I thought, are one and the same. Ought I live my life, knowing that I am beneath a greedy entity? That I ought to kiss Their feet to stay by Their side? That I ought to punish myself for having a life I never asked for? Never wanted?

For the people I want to protect, I am sentenced to Hell. For the people I hate, I am sentenced to Hell. For every thought, movement, and breath, I am sentenced to Hell.

Kind actions are met with mockery and scorn, whilst violence is met with fear and hate. They say that these are two very different things, so why are the results all the same? Why is there nothing but misery in my heart? Why can I not laugh with others? Why can I not love like them?

I had faith. I was obsessed. I trusted what I was told. So why couldn’t I stop falling deeper and deeper into the abyss? Why did terror insist on crawling from my chest and out of my throat, its sharp claws digging into my flesh as it surrounds me whole? Suffocating. Drowning.

But in the end, it didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

Love, hate, kindness, violence--- When you’ve only one path to walk and it leads to Hell, the meanings of such things become nothing but another grain of sand to be swept away by the ocean.

I act on my own whim. I show compassion because I want to. I hurt others because I can.

Should the day come when I am locked away to rot until the moment I die, I would try to resist, for I am only human after all. Nevertheless, it would not change the fact that I have always known this would be the way I go.

After all, from the moment I was born, I was doomed to Hell.

[emmodii-mode]

I often forget that I am not plastic.

But rather, flesh.

Vulnerable and prone to bleeding.

Disgusting and repulsive.

I so desire to rip the skin from my bones.

Tear my muscles apart.

Disintegrate my veins.

A plastic puppet. Or even that of wood.

A hint of shine reflecting off its surface.

With a face I can modify.

Perfect, flawless.

Unnerving.

[oc-mode]

He'd been like this all day. It was now about half past 3 o'clock, and Barnaby was still pacing around, doing bits of this and that in order to keep his mind busy.

Or rather, distracted.

It was clear to anyone that the man was full of nervous energy, what with the way he fidgeted with his own fingers as he made his way from one room to another... And then another... And then back before, again, to another. He readjusted things that had already been adjusted before, cleaned things that were already shining, and smoothened out carpets and cloths that hadn't a wrinkle on them.

Normally, Basile couldn't care less. Unfortunately, he had recently been discovering that he was capable of more emotions that he'd like. Even more unfortunately, he was beginning to care for the other man.

Plus, this was getting too much.

"Banett, for the love of everything, would you just sit down?" he said more than he asked, exasperation evident.

Something was really bothering his companion, Basile realised, when he did as he was told without putting up even the slightest hint of a protest.

God damn it. Sympathy and compassion were supposed to be Nigel's area.

At a loss but not wanting to sit in the awkward silence he unintentionally created, it was Basile's turn to stand. All Barnaby could hear for the next few minutes was movement in the kitchen, but his eyes remained trained onto the spot in front of him. His fingers still fidgeted, occasionally playing with the fabric of his sleeves.

He barely reacted when the mug of green tea was put onto the table before him, Basile noticed. His pupils had only jerked for a split second before returning to their former position.

So Basile returned to his chair, blatantly staring at the other man in hopes of evoking a reaction.

Slowly, something changed and Barnaby's breathing became steadier. Slowed. Not relaxed, but certainly not as tensed as before.

"Is... This for me?" he mumbled, zombie-like. He was looking at the mug of hopefully-still-warm tea, but otherwise made no other movement.

Basile, resting his cheek on the palm of his hand, sarcastically replied, "No, no. I just really wanted you to be conscious enough to watch me drink lukewarm tea."

A few seconds of silence and zero attempts at movement later, he found himself rolling his eyes and impatiently nudging the mug towards the other. This prompted the man to finally move, robotically cupping it into both hands.

He didn't drink it, but Basile considered it a win anyway.

It was uncomfortable, he found, to be doing this. To make himself available as a listening ear. To hold his hand out for another to grab onto. Yet, he was doing it anyway.

Because he wanted to.

Boy, did he sure miss the days he ran solo.

(But at the same time, not really.)

"Do you ever feel like everything is just too much?" Barnaby asked, disturbing the quiet. His volume was low, not because he was afraid of being loud, but moreso because he was tired. He spoke as if he had just woken up from a slumber that hadn't been at all restful.

Basile decided he hated the question and opted to hum his agreement instead.

Barnaby merely nodded.

Selfishly, Basile thought that Barnaby had no way of knowing exactly how much was too much. The latter hadn't his six centuries' worth of experience, after all.

He hadn't had his entire faith crashing down on him. He hadn't had the rude awakening that existence was completely, painfully meaningless. He hadn't had the dooming sensation that no matter how hard he tried, nothing would change.

Because, Basile thought bitterly, Barnaby still cared.

He continued to work himself to the grave in order to support the people he cared for. He was constantly on the verge of an anxiety attack from how much he piled onto himself. He drank to the point of poisoning his own damn brain to try and make everything more tolerable...

Just so that he could keep on trying.

Basile had only recently started trying again and it hurt. He was jealous of the other's perseverance as much as he reluctantly admired him.

If Barnaby truly knew how much was too much, he would have done the smarter thing and given up like Basile did all those years ago.

And if Basile was as smart as he liked to make himself out to be, he would never have tried again.

[emmodii-mode]

You try to move your arm but the strings of muscle within pull. Pulsate. Discomfort that could easily turn into pain, but instead, stands teeter-tottering on the fence, driving you insane.

Your eyes strain, threatening to tear away and hang loosely from your sockets. They send unpleasant sensations up into your brain, as if trapping it betweens the jaws of a vice, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. The painkillers do nothing, and all you can do is hope that your head doesn't pop.

The world spins when you sit, so you relent and retire to bed, guilt eating away at you. The silence of the room is your enemy, doing nothing to stop the thoughts from flooding your aching mind. About how you're so weak. Useless. Pathetic. About how you should be working harder. About how no matter what you do, you'll always be stuck like this- Scrambling to earn money just to survive.

But your body wastes away. What should be used for debt and food ends up being spent on anything that can soothe the pain, which only keeps growing exponentially.

You're going to die like this. Miserable, unhappy, worthless, and deserving every single bit of it.

Because you hate the world for being the way it is. You hate the rich for living in luxury while you commit blasphemy simply by feeding yourself. You hate society for encouraging the notion that you aren't working hard enough unless you drive yourself into your own deathbed.

Fantasies of setting them all on fire, dancing to the music of their screams and pleas. Singing sweet lullabies as the light in their eyes fade away.

Evil little thing, blaming the world for the stabbing pain in your wrist. For the high prices of medication. For the inability to function. Evil little thing, hating them all because you want to be lazy. Want to be happy. Want to have it easy. Evil little thing, wanting to kill them all.

String them up by their intestines.

Feed them their limbs.

Make them cry until they can no longer make a sound.

Evil little thing, this is karma. You deserve this for the acts you wish to enact. For the bloodlust in your heart. For the anger you reek of.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

You deserve this pain.

[oc-mode]

"Fluffig!" called Stocking Ghost.

The fur covering Fig immediately puffed up, the creature sputtering as they whipped around to face their friend. Stammering, they tried to stop their voice from coming out in a pitch much higher than their usual.

"'F-Fluffig'??"

They failed.

"Yes!" continued the ghost, oblivious to the other's distress, "Because you are soft, adorable, and my very dear friend!"

The little spirit bounced on their toes, fabulous stockings striking as usual. Their eyes glimmered, excitement as well as adoration shining through. Distantly, Fig wondered if they could single-handedly light up the entire forest with their cheeriness that could put the sun to shame.

It took a beat. And then another. And as the full force of Stocking Ghost's words hit them, Fig was certain they were literally knocked out. However, they hadn't been, so all they could do was stand in place, eyes wide and staring into the shorter figure before them.

Flowers suddenly burst across their head, a soft shade of pink, petals gently floating down as they danced amongst the air particles. Their green fur turned into a lovely rosy hue, cheeks slightly red. Stocking Ghost jumped back in surprise, letting out a loud exclamation. Quickly recovering, they took a step forward, concern evident in their eyes, "My friend! Are you alright?"

Hands rubbing at their cheeks, Fig turned away, hiding their reddening face as they said, usual calm composure gone, "Yes! Yes! I am merely blushing!"

At that, the ghost's happy bouncing returned. A little joyous dance was performed as they exclaimed, "You like the name! You like the name!"

The forest creature did, in fact, like the name, solely because it was given by the friend that they had come to hold close to their heart. Hands reaching out, they grasped at the other's fabric, fingers curled where they assumed Stocking Ghost's would be if they had any.

If any other entity claimed they saw Fig the Forest Creature dance with the little spirit, they would fervently deny doing so. But until then, they allowed themself to bask in their friend's radiating warmth and love.

[oc-mode]

"I do not remember my name," said the ghost, bouncing from side to side. Tilting what appeared to be their head, they asked, "What's yours?"

Wordlessly, the creature extended an arm out, fingers unfurling to reveal a lone fig. A moment of silence, before they replied, "This."

[emmodii-mode]

Cold-hearted,

Darling, I’m chilled to the bone.

Pour the kerosene on us,

I ain’t dyin’ alone.

[oc-mode]

Next time, he noted, next time he tries to kill himself, he'll make sure he actually dies.

He made the mistake of choosing to starve himself. Lied to his family that he left the country. But no, of course his brother would need to pick something up from his house. Why the hell did he even give him a key?!

But in the end, the fault was really his own. If he had only picked a less cowardly option like jumping off of the building, then things wouldn't have turned out like this.

It's like an attempted prison break. He tried to kill himself to escape the confines of life and dive straight into the blissful oblivion of nothingness, only to have the prison guards drag him back, kicking and screaming.

They wouldn't leave him alone. Kept a close eye on him to make sure he wouldn't try to off himself again. He had zero freedom.

If this was truly his life, shouldn't he have all rights to decide what to do with it? And if he wanted to die, why couldn't he?!

It's hypocritical. It's disgusting. It's suffocating.

And that's why next time, he'll try harder.

He'll make sure he gets the result he wants.

[emmodii-mode]

And as they pulled the cord, their face turned cold. Their head felt tight and the tip of their nose freezing. Their teeth chattered from unexpected pressure, the noise almost like a puppet audience wired to laugh.

They never realised strangulation could make one's teeth feel like they were about to explode into dust. The surprising discovery forced them to release the power cord, a makeshift noose they had draped around their towel holder.

Taking a swig from their bottle, followed by another, they tried again. And again. Only to become too exhausted to go through with it in the end.

One day, they thought, One day, I'll finally kill myself.

But for now, they settled into bed, pulling up the sheets. Familiar hollowness ever-present, they closed their eyes, drifting off to sleep and unfortunately, only sleep.

[emmodii-mode]

Translucent wisps curl in the air, fading into nothingness. You wonder where they've gone. You wonder if that'll eventually be you.

You're floating. Drifting in the air. The wind pushes you and you can do nothing to stop it. Sooner or later, you know you'll vanish as well. Forgotten and never thought about again.

They try to contain you. A jar with a name on it. A bottle with a printed face. A tupperware covered in proclamations of love and endless receipts.

But you're smoke. You're meant to be free.

You're meant to ascend. To dance with the particles in the sky.

Waltzing...

Waltzing...

Until there's nothing of you left.

You think it's sad, really. Are you to remain trapped so that you can continue to live on? Or are you to experience your brief, meaningless freedom before nonexistence takes you?

Solid hands rub your solid face, a sigh resonating. The prison that is your flesh. The prison that is your family. Your friends. Your life. Your reality.

No matter which way you look, there is no joy. No bliss. No happiness. Only a persistent feeling of emptiness, regardless of the choices you make.

Nothing hurts, stabbing into your very soul like a sharp spear, wooden shaft splintering as it enters your chest, pieces embedding your heart.

You're tired, but the path splits into two and you're scared of both sides. Something is coming, whispering loudly in your ears, shadows blurring the corners of your vision.

You need to make a choice soon.

[oc-mode]

"Is it weird I'm suddenly glad I was a child soldier?" they commented, huffing out a soft laugh, contrasting their tense posture, blades at the ready.

The sky was a deep red, the landscape barren- It was downright apocalyptic. The fact that they were followed by soldiers, ready for their command, only emphasised the foreboding in the air.

Arlen looked at them, a small mix of emotions evident on his face. Pity, sympathy, and worry.

This time, Vary snorted, "Yeah, yeah--- It's not a good thing. But then again, I guess there's nothing good about war. At least I won't be running into this one blind, huh?" They briefly shot him a cheeky grin, one that he couldn't help but give a small smile back to.

A distant drone and everyone immediately turned silent, wary. Hearts thumped and blood gushed through veins at an increasing pace. Nobody was happy to be here.

"...For what it's worth," Vary started, voice much softer now, as if they weren't at the beginnings of a battlefield and were in a much more domestic, private setting, "I'm glad you're my friend."

Something in Arlen's chest fluttered, for he knew his companion had extreme difficulty letting people in, let alone calling them a 'friend'. At the same time, he was hit with a sense of melancholy.

The sudden confession, the imminent war...

His hand found its way onto their shoulder, grasping on in a comforting grip. Their focused scanning of the empty horizon snapped, breath hitching as they jolted slightly. They turned to look at him, a brow raised questioningly.

"Love... You..." Arlen managed to croak out, determined eyes staring into the other's. We'll survive this. Together.

A soft smile, gentler than he had ever seen on Vary.

"I love you too," they promised.

[oc-mode]

Their finger twitches and it takes all of their willpower not to crush the glass in their hands. They lift it to their lips, disgusting liquid washing in, and swallow.

They grimace and call for another fill.

A couple of hours later, they find themself in a dumpster, nose bleeding and everything aching. Eyes glancing left and right, they note bitterly that the other party is absent. Somehow, the loss of that fight stings more than the several cuts littered across their body. They huff and decide to stay in their position for a while, suddenly exhausted.

Wonder when they'll clear out the trash, they muse. Vivid images begin to form in their mind and they let out a defeated huff of... Laughter? No, that wouldn't be the right. Yet, a strained grin plasters itself onto their face as an imaginary sequence of their body being crushed up and set on fire plays in their head.

Just like all the other garbage.

Reluctantly, they pull themself out of the giant bin, their fear of death eventually winning over their need for it. A cigarette fished from their pocket and they light it, taking in a deep breath and revelling in the burning of their lungs. One foot forward, and then the next, and soon they find themself leaving the premises.

Ought they head back home? Perhaps they'll be lucky and encounter some sick freak who'd fuck the shit out of them, blood and all. Maybe if fortune decides to shine on them for once, said sick freak will hurt them so badly that their reservations about dying will finally take the hint and scram.

Nothing of the sort ends up happening, however. They lament about it as their door opens, slamming it shut without a care for their neighbours, their mood simply too foul. For a brief moment, they entertain the thought of leaving it unlocked, some twisted excitement in them at the possibility of a break-in and maybe something worse.

Click!

They refuse to look at it for the rest of that night.

Crumpling into bed, they briefly grumble about the discomfort caused by their injuries and their tattered clothes but find that they couldn't get themself to move anyway. So they let their heavy eyelids fall, noting how oddly dry their eyes felt and stubbornly ignoring the beginnings of sad memories returning.