#i headcanon blood color to match ink color but thats not very obvious if i were to say 'lines of green' so i just used red

[absollnk]

@eliter-4k-scope hey! I wanted to write some fffa (fan Forever and Always), but I couldn't find a way to make either of these long enough to be officially posted, so they're just a jumble of ideas I've had over the past few weeks. Take it

"Agent 3...?"

Your head lifts slowly off the table as if being controlled by an elaborate system of pulleys and ropes, worn down and ready to fail due to disregard. It was Eight, that called your name, and you look at her until she speaks again.

"We... There's no toilet paper left."

She's nervous. She's anxious, she knows you're judging her. You can see it in her face, hear it in her voice. She doesn't want to talk to you, but she thinks she needs to.

You blink. You breathe. You tell her to use the paper towels, but she says you're out of those too. You glance at the counter. You didn't notice they were gone.

Your face doesn't show any expression, and it doesn't look like it can. When Eight's talking to you, nothing changes. When Four's talking to you, nothing changes. Your pupils don't grow or shrink. You can't make eye contact, so it doesn't matter anyway.

You told her you'd order some later today online. You know that you're not paying for internet connection anymore.

Next

You wake up early. For a long time, you don't move, you don't open your eyes. Your brain eats at itself with your thoughts. Trying to swim in a river of quicksand, trying to find something to hang onto. There's nothing but sand, in your eyes, in your ears, in your nose, in your mouth, scraping down your throat. You can't get it out. You can't make it stop, you can't slow it down. You try to get a grip, but there's nothing this time. There hasn't been in a long time.

Then it's morning. The blinds don't keep enough light out; you can see your surroundings. Your bedsheets used to be a flat baby blue of sorts, but it's dotted with lines of red, splotches of yellow, and other colors that don't have names. Your sheets crunch like a stale tortilla as you drag yourself to a sitting position on the edge.

You don't see very much of the floor. There's clothes, bandages, towels covering most of it. The small visible windows of carpet are all sticky, each in its own way and for its own reasons.

The room reeks. You thought you'd get used to it after you first noticed it, but it keeps getting stronger. It builds up, constantly swells up inside, every visible object contributing to it. It's so bad, you once tried to open the window to let it out. You weren't strong enough. Once you opened your door in the morning, stepped into the hallway to trudge to the bathroom. Eight happened to be standing in front of the door and threw up on the spot. It's still there.

You look at the boxes piled up in the kitchen and living room, your past waiting to spill back out. Your hobbies, your possessions, your identity. It's sealed with a thick tape, and so is the knife required to cut it.