Tag: gore cw

Write me smth sad for host and googs

“Goodnight”

Host’s visions overlap with reality. He doesn’t know what is real and what is not. He doesn’t want what he sees to become reality.
So he instead chooses how his visions will become real.

Content Warnings: gore, blood, death

Words: 2794

I don’t even know man but I loved writing this anyways :’D
I hope this was satisfying your needs of sad :’)

(ao3 link)

Google’s movements were always precise. He knew how much
pressure to apply to not cause pain, knew to brush his fingers just
barely against skin to cause a pleasant feeling, knew how to pull of
crusty bloody bandages without causing wounds to reopen and bleed,
knew how to clean the blood off without causing discomfort, and knew
how tightly to wrap bandages back up without being uncomfortable.

He knew perfectly well how to be human, even though he very
clearly was not. From the soft glow from his eyes, to the inhuman
strength, to the need to charge at least once every few days -but
more preferably every day.

He was nothing if not productive. He took charge of everything
electricity related in the egos’ environment. He handled the
security cameras placed around the building. He was busy every minute
of the day. Spending time with Host was, sadly, usually not
productive. That didn’t mean he didn’t do it anyways.

Host preferred it if Google changed his bandages. So it was in
Google’s schedule, every afternoon he took an hour of his time to
spend with Host.

He was gentle as he unwrapped the bandages from around the Host’s
head, the other man murmuring softly. The blood caked to his skin,
from his eyes and scratch-wounds kept the bandages stuck to the
Host’s face, but Google was gentle and careful as he peeled the
dirty things off. He threw them away once able to, hands gentle as he
cupped the Host’s cheeks.

“I have told you to stop scratching.”, Google said, voice
gentle as he took in the fresh wounds. Host tended to scratch at and
around his eyes whenever he was nervous or scared, or during
visions.
“The Host is very aware of that.”, Host replied, and
he knew Google smiled fondly at him and shook his head lightly. It
was a habit the Host couldn’t shake, Google knew that.

He grabbed the washcloth he had prepared and gently started to
clean the Host’s face from the blood on it, careful of the
sensitive skin and wounds. He disinfected the wounds too, before
gently cupping his cheeks.
Google looked into the two obsidian
eyes, and Host looked as normal as he could -with the scratched
wounds around his eyes, and nothing but black staring back at Google.

He gently pressed a kiss to the Host’s chapped lips, enjoying
the feeling every time. Google’s own lips were soft, synthetic skin
perfect. No matter how long or short the kiss, it shared their
feelings perfectly. Love and trust.
Google gently wrapped fresh
bandages around the Host’s eyes, knowing very much so that the
other preferred it that way. He didn’t like getting blood all over
himself, and he didn’t like what he saw with his blackened eyes.

The Host’s movements were always precise. He knew how much
pressure to apply to leave a bruise, he knew to not wrap his fingers
around his thumb when making a fist or he’d break his finger, knew how
to peel skin off without disrupting what was underneath, knew how to
cause the most amount of pain, and knew how to get rid of a body no
one wanted to see anymore.

He knew perfectly well how to be a monster, even though he very
much was thought of harmless. From his bandaged eyes, to his hunched
over figure, to his soft and even voice.

He was nothing if not productive. He wrote scripts for his show,
weaving realities into an unbelievable story. He broadcasted it every
evening, recorded it and filed it away, taking notes of things he
disliked or liked about his broadcast, about how his listeners
reacted. He wasn’t busy every minute of the day. Spending time with
Google was, thankfully, a pleasant distraction. That didn’t mean it
happened a lot.

Sometimes, the Host spend the evening with Google. When the
android was about to settle for the night to charge. Host would sit
down next to him and curl into his side, holding onto the blue shirt
his loved one wore every day.
Google wrapped an arm around the
Host, gentle fingers drawing patterns onto his back. His core
whirring softly, his body just a tad bit colder than a human’s.

“I love you.”, the Host said softly, voice merely a whisper.
Not wanting to disrupt the gentle silence enveloping them. He didn’t
speak in first person a lot, and Google was aware he was the only one
the Host ever allowed to hear it.
“I love you too.”, he
replied softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the Host’s forehead. It
made Host smile against him, and Google didn’t even need to see it
to know.

“Goodnight, Google.”, Host said softly. Knowing Google didn’t
dream, didn’t truly sleep. He would turn off like a computer not
needed at the moment. “Goodnight.”.
The whirring of
Google’s core quieted down, and Host’s smile slipped from his
features. He gently moved away from the other, laying his arm back
onto Google’s lap. 

The Host stood up, and gentle fingers brushed over Google’s
features, the synthetic skin still warm from just having turned off.
His fingers glided to Google’s neck, where a few wires were
attached to him. To charge, and to stay connected to the network.
He’d be turned on if the systems or security cameras were alarmed
by something.

Very gentle and careful, Host pulled the charging cable out of
Google’s neck. Then came the other cables. Leaving Google powered
off with no way to wake, unless someone turned him on, or morning
came, the time he was programmed to wake again.

Quiet murmurs of narration filled the silence of the room as the
Host walked over to Google’s computers, and things Host never
bothered to know exactly what they were. With a few careful words,
the systems fizzled with an overload of electricity. A bit of smoke
and the smell of burnt metal and plastic filled the Host’s nose,
and he knew he’d destroyed everything Google had worked on.
Everything that kept the egos safe.

Host took a deep breath and pulled his bandages off, already
stained with blood. He let them fall to the ground as he left the
room, knowing a certain metal bat waited for him in his room, too
heavy to be picked up by anyone but the Host -using his reality
bending powers- or Google.

When Google woke in the morning, he immediately knew something was
wrong. His battery wasn’t fully charged as it should be, and he
wasn’t connected to the network any longer. A quick look told him
someone had pulled his cables out, and had known how to without
causing him to wake up -a feature to ensure Google wouldn’t be
destroyed while powered off.

He stood up and was quick to notice his equipment was broken. He
went for the door, just to step on the bandages laying on the ground.
Confused, he picked them up, knowing they were Host’s. They had to
be.
Questions filled his mind, and he needed answers. He couldn’t
just not know something. It wasn’t productive to not know
something.

Stepping out into the hallway, he was assaulted by the smell of
blood. If Google wouldn’t know any better, he would say it was too
much to be able to be produced by the amount of egos living here. But
he knew there were a lot of them, most of them not known very well,
or even remembered. Half-faded, ideas that clung to some people’s
minds until even they forgot about their existence. Some of these
egos popped in and out of existence, as they were forgotten and
remembered again.

The ground was covered in blood. Google’s steps were audible, wet
and sticky. He didn’t much care, though, as he saw no reason to. He
saw no reason to worry either, though there was one lingering thought
he couldn’t get rid off, as he gripped the bandages in his hand
tightly. Where was Host?

The first body he found, he
wouldn’t have been able to tell who it was, were it not for the
clothes. A suit, covered in blood. It had to be Bim, judging from the
bit of normal skin colour Google could make out. The ego’s head was
smashed to a bloody pulp, pieces of bone scattered around. Blood
coloured everything red, though. Google found Bim’s broken glasses a
few feet away.

Google continued his search,
then. He didn’t feel anything for the loss of the egos. His only
worry was the one ego he did care about, and if he was alright. He
knew Host could handle himself, but so should every other ego.
The
further he went along, looked into rooms, the worse the corpses got.
As if Bim had been the first just to try it out, find a way to kill
him, before it got more “creative”.

He found the Jims in the studio.
Google assumed it were the Jims, at the very least. Their limbs were
bent at awkward angles, the bones inside shattered to a million
pieces. One of them had his chest beaten in until it was nothing but
a dent in him, every rib broken, some peeking out from the blood and
broken and bruised skin. The other twin had his stomach ripped open,
his guts pulled out of him. Both of them had their skulls crushed in.

Who he hadn’t expected to find
was Wilford. It was bad, but he had clearly put up a fight, judging
by the gun and knife laying around, and the amount of bullet holes.
Wilford’s head had a large dent on its side, skull probably
shattered. His throat was ripped open, blood still dripping out of
the corners of his mouth. His eyes were nothing but bloody pools. His
chest was ripped open, and his heart was a bloody pulp next to his
corpse. It looked like he had been turned inside out, his intestines
covering the ground around him, various organs scattered about.
Pieces of flesh had been ripped from Wilford’s arms and thighs,
clothes ripped and torn. Pieces of his scalp with hair had been
ripped off, and his mustache hadn’t been spared either.

Whoever had murdered everyone had
clearly had had a grudge against Wilford in the very least. So Google
continued on. Less blood and less viscera decorated the hallways, as
more and more egos were dead. Google had barely been able to identify
the King of the squirrels when he found him. Ripped to pieces,
completely covered in blood, every bone in his body smashed to
pieces.

Google wanted to see if Dark had
made it through this. Walking towards his office, only Google’s
bloody footprints were a sign of all of the gore inside of the
building. The door to the office was closed, but Google couldn’t hear
the signature ringing of the man. The fizzling feeling that made
Google buzz and want to leave.

When he pushed open the door, the
smell of blood overwhelmed him almost. The office was covered in it.
But that wasn’t what bothered Google. What did, was the sound of
flesh ripping and being torn, a pool of almost black blood slowly
growing bigger still. And it all was accompanied by a soft gravely
voice, muttering and growling.

It stopped for a moment, and
Google knew the person with him knew he was there.
Standing up
from behind the desk that had hidden him before, was the Host.
Covered in blood, which most certainly wasn’t his own. At least not
entirely. His face was covered in blood, dripping from his eyes,
running down his cheeks until falling from his chin. His coat was
soaked in blood, and the golden streak in his hair looked red.

“The Host had hoped he would
have more time before Google rose and find him.”, he said and
sighed, running a bloody hand through his hair. Google wouldn’t be
surprised if there was no gel in it to keep it slicked back. The Host
walked out from around the desk, dropping some piece of flesh he had
apparently just ripped out from Dark’s body. Now Google could see the
ripped parts of Host’s clothes, from knives and guns both. He could
even spot wounds through the bloody clothes sticking to the Host, but
the man didn’t seem bothered by them. Wilford must have hit Host with
a bullet or two as well.

The Host coughed, blood spilling
from his lips and covering his already red hand. He didn’t pay
attention to it, even though his breathing was harsh and labored.

“The Host hadn’t wanted Google to see the mess he made. He
hadn’t planned on his love to awaken again at all, if he were to tell
the truth. He had only put off going back to Google last.”, Host
said, walking up to Google. They both knew Host could use his words
to overpower the droid. They both knew Host was hurt too, though, and
must have used his powers quite a lot already. The chances of Google
overpowering Host were rather high like this.

“Why did you do this?”,
Google asked, and he didn’t stop Host when he leaned against him, and
held onto his shirt. Staining him with blood, turning his blue shirt
a darker colour.
“The Host has seen this.”, Host replied,
voice quiet. “He saw hallways covered in blood and viscera. He saw
the egos mangled and broken. He could smell the iron, taste it even.
He didn’t know what was the cause of it up until now. The Host’s
visions started to lay over reality too much, too often. They hurt.”.
Host was clinging to Google, the android realized. He was trembling.
Speaking must be hard, he realized. He wrapped his arms around the
Host, holding him gently against himself.

“The Host saw Google, eyes
shimmering red and covered in blood. Last time he changed the Host’s
bandages. He could feel the android’s hands around his neck. He could
feel his skin bruise, and break, and bleed. He could feel his vision
turning dark, tunneling in. And he saw Google smile, and he head the
sickening crunch of his neck snapping beneath the android’s
hands.”.
The Host’s words were getting quieter. His grip on
Google’s shirt loosened. He was dying, Google was aware of it. Host
was badly wounded, he had exhausted himself too much using his
powers.

“It broke the Host. He needed
these visions gone. He knew the only way to do so was to make the
vision a reality in another way than what he had seen before.”,
Host looked up to Google, black obsidian eyes staring right at
Google’s brown ones. And Google could swear that he saw the pain in
Host’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Host.”, Google said softly. He
gently laid a hand onto the Host’s head, leaning it against his
chest. Host always calmed hearing Google’s core. His eyes fluttered
closed, and he let out a deep breath.

“I’m sorry too, Google.”,
Host said quietly. Google could tell now, that those deaths had been
desperate. A desperate attempt to escape reality, a desperate attempt
to stay sane. He knew Host was in pain, he knew Host’s visions hurt
him. He knew Host lost grip on reality a lot. He had expected
something like this to happen. For Host to snap and do something
irrational.

He felt Host’s strength leave
him. His grip growing even looser, his weight heavy against Google.
Google carefully lowered them both to the ground, letting Host curl
up against his chest. There was nothing Google could do, he knew.
“I
love you.”, Google said softly, and he meant it. He loved the Host,
no matter what happened. He would’ve loved Host even if he lost his
mind, even if he didn’t remember which reality he lived in. He would
always love the Host, because he was the only one that made him feel
productive even when he wasn’t actually.
“I love you too.”,
Host replied, voice barely audible. He was dying, and he was aware of
it. He knew he’d be dead soon. And he was glad, so so glad, that he
was dying in Google’s arms, and that Google still loved him.

“Goodnight, Host.”, Google
said softly. Knowing Host wouldn’t be sleeping, wouldn’t dream. He
would die, like the fragile human he truly was. “Goodnight.”.
The
slow rise and fall of Host’s chest stopped, and his features relaxed.
Google’s grip on the Host tightened, holding him close to himself. He
buried his face in the other’s bloody hair, and willed himself to
turn off again.
He saw no point in continuing.

“I wasn’t lying when I said that I loved you.” -it sounds like author. good not good man. maybe with dorki?

lostcybertronian:

I don’t know if this turned out as well as I wanted it to, but here it is!

Tags: @caffeine-eater @authorsathenaeum @tiny-yan-an @darkstache-iplier @redraspberrycats @holyshitsnakesandspace​ @blue-greenstylinson​ @cookieface678​ @bing-iplier​ @storm337​ @sketchy-scribs-n-doods​ @pixelenchanter​ @itsjustkyss​

Prompt 40: “I wasn’t lying when I said that I loved you.”

    The woods were silent. No wind rattled the gnarled branches that reached out toward him, dragged at his suit as if in effort to seize him, to drag him into the depths and keep him there forever. No animals rustled about in the underbrush. The dead leaves and branches littering the thin, winding dirt path did not crunch under his feet.

    The woods were gloomy, shrouded in a black that shouldn’t have been present at one in the afternoon.

    Still, Dark had little issue navigating the dense forest, having known since the beginning that the Author’s woods mimicked his every mood and whim.

    The Author was hurting. The Author was furious.

    And, Dark noted with distaste as the thick stench of blood rolled over him like a wave, it seemed the Author was also throwing a petty tantrum.

    His suspicions were confirmed as he broke through the treeline, stepped into the clearing that housed the Author’s cabin, and saw the bodies.

    Dozens of them, sprawled over the grass and leaves, all of them pale, all of them unmoving. Many of their heads had been bashed in, but a few sported wounds in other places. Dark had to guess that those were the ones that had fought back.

    The Author stood in the center of his massacre, examining his work like an artist appraising a masterpiece. He wore nothing but a pair of ripped jeans, a t-shirt that might’ve been white had it not been completely soaked through with blood, and a twisted grin.

    “Do you like it, Dark?” He asked dreamily, “I did it for you.”

    “Quite a gift, Author,” Dark remarked, flicking his fingers dismissively at the carnage before folding his hands neatly behind his back. “But you and I both know a few corpses dropped at my feet won’t fix anything.”

    “It will if it’s the right corpse.” The Author tightened his grip on his bat, his grin morphing into an ugly snarl just before he lunged.

    But Dark was quick. Just before the bat- blood-covered aluminum, flecked with bits of gore- connected, his hand shot up and seized it.

    All he had to do was squeeze and the aluminum crumpled like paper. “Pathetic.”

    The Author roared and drew back a fist, but Dark blocked that too, stepping to the side and snatching his wrist, smiling when he heard delicate bones snap and the Author gasped in pain.

    Dark forced him to his knees. “What do you want, Author? Why are you wasting my time?”

    The Author pried at Dark’s hand, but his grip was like a vise. He wasn’t letting go.

    When he met Dark’s gaze, his black eyes glittered with pain and when he grimaced, his teeth were stained a glossy crimson.

    “I wasn’t lying when I said that I loved you!” He wailed, and Dark could almost hear the tears in his voice. Could almost hear the loss and the pain and the anguish.

But not quite.

He leaned in close- close enough to touch, close enough to kiss- and whispered, “but I was.”

Then he released him, nudged him aside like he was nothing. Because he was.

He spun on one meticulously polished heel and retreated into the woods.

The Author’s eyes burned into his back long after the cabin disappeared from view.

“This is probably a bad time, but marry me?” -BUT IMAGINE. AUTHOR AND IPLIER OKAY? and author changes into host and some day he brings the proposal up again

pleaseletthisjimbetaken:

(tw blood, tw eye gore. i’ll put in the actual tags after this is posted) Send me fluffy prompts! (Although this one turned angsty)

“You have to hold on!” Dr. Edward Iplier told him, eyes focused as he tried to stop the bleeding. “Anthony please, hold on, okay? Just hold on!”

“I’m not dying,” The Author laughed, almost hysterically. “I swear to you that. I’m not dying. This had to happen. This always has to happen.”

“I don’t understand. I don’t understand, Anthony. Please, let me get you to my clinic, let me help you!” Dr. Iplier tried to hoist the man up to his feet, but the Author wouldn’t budge. He stayed laying on the floor of his cabin.

“Don’t wait your energy, Ed. Come on, just… just stay with me.” Blood poured from his eye sockets, down his face and staining his clothes. “Hey, hey hey hey. This is probably a bad time, but, uh, marry me?” He asked with a grin.

Dr. Iplier stared at the man, stared at the blood, and noticed a gold streak starting to stain a lock of his hair. He swallowed and nodded, before realizing the Author could no longer see him. “Of… of course, Anthony. You stay alive, and I’ll marry you.” 

The Author’s smile turned warm, and he soon passed out, the blood loss getting to him. Dr. Iplier, with a heavy heart, lifted him up and got him to his clinic. He tended to the wounds, which never seemed to stop bleeding but did slow, and wrapped them in bandages. 

It was months before Anthony and Edward were back to where they were before. Edward adjusted to the new Anthony, the one that wasn’t so rash, so bold. He was quiet, more reserved, the trauma having robbed him of his sight but given him a gift of narration. They were sitting together in the living room one day, sipping tea and coffee as they took in the rain pattering against the windows.

“I… I meant what I said.” Anthony said softly, sipping his tea. 

“Mm?” Edward asked.

“I… I want to marry you, Edward. I love you. I know I’ve changed, and that I’m… I’m weird now… but…” He sighed. “I love you so much…”

Edward brought his coffee cup down from his lips slowly. “I… I love you too, Anthony.” He replied. “I think… Yeah, I think I want to marry you too.” 

A bright smile adorned Anthony’s face. “Let’s set a date.”

Edward returned the smile with ease. “I’ll get my calendar.”

As a last resort

As a last resort, he plunged the spoon into his eye, screaming in pain. He couldn’t kill himself with this, but he needed his sight gone, he needed these monsters gone that he saw, wherever he was, wherever he looked. He was surrounded by them, chased, and he feared he would be swallowed whole.

Whimpering from pain, tears gathered in his eyes, he shoved the spoon around his eyeball, gasping and choking on his breath. The pain was excruciating, and his vision was already flickering. Blurry from tears, and blood was streaming down the right side of his face.

With a cry of pain, he wiggled the spoon as far back as possible, and pushed the spoon down, screaming as he pushed his eyeball out of his skull, gasping and choking on sobs as blood and tears streamed down his face, dripping from his face. He had to do this, he had to do this.

The spoon clattered to the ground, getting covered in blood. His hands were shaking badly, as his hands searched for the scissors he had laid down. Finding them, he whimpered, raising them and setting them on the nerve. He weakly began cutting, gasping and sobbing as he worked on cutting it through. 

Finally, finally he was able to cut his eye off, and it dropped to the ground. He set the scissors down, fingers getting bloody as he grabbed the spoon again.
One more to go. One more, and he’d be free.

He took shaking breaths, and he almost decided against this. He almost threw the spoon away from him.
But he didn’t.
He shoved the spoon into his socket, into the side of his eye, and cried out in pain. Like before, he pushed and pulled the spoon, sobbing from the pain, as more and more blood poured over his face, sticky and warm.
He shoveled the eye out of its socket with a scream, and he nearly collapsed.

Finally.

Finally there was darkness.

No more monsters, no more terrifying visions of shadows and creatures he didn’t know were real or not.
Finally he was safe.

Author hummed as he read over the last sentence he had written. It was good, and he liked it. He thought about putting more spacing in it, for a bigger impact, but he felt that only having the last bits like it were the most important. Though maybe he’d re-write it later, make it better. More painful.

He stood up, stretching. He could barely keep himself awake, though his nightmares had been getting worse. As did his headache. Pretty much everything had gotten worse, making writing a lot harder. But he had had a surge of inspiration, and had managed to write something pretty good. At least, not terrible.

He left the study to walk to his bedroom, deciding sleeping for once would be good. It was already dark out after all, as he walked through the dark halls.

His eyes snapped to movement. He looked for a moment, but then shook his head. Just his imagination, or maybe something flew past a window.
Or something.

He continued to his bedroom, stripping of his shirt and his jeans, grabbing some shirt and pulling it on, he let himself fall into bed, sighing in content. Pulling the blankets over himself, he fell asleep after a good while, though his sleep wasn’t easy.

He was troubled by nightmares, shadow monsters chasing him through the forest, hands grabbing at him and pulling, falling endlessly, being eaten alive.
He woke up with a gasp, cold sweat covering him and making his shirt stick to him. He groaned, laying an arm over his eyes.

Creaking.
Why did he hear creaking? He knew the floorboards in his cabin tended to creak sometimes. He knew the whole damn cabin tended to creak sometimes, whenever there was strong winds, or storms. But it was quiet outside. There was no rain, no wind.
But there was creaking, and it sounded like it was getting closer to his room.

And then it fell silent. Author must have imagined it, from being so tired. Or because of his nightmares. Surely.
But then, there was scratching on his door.

Not like from a cat. A cat’s scratching was quick and short, low on the door.
No, this was different.
The scratching was slow, and long, A claw dug into the wood of his door, dragging it down slowly, along the entire length.

Again.
And again.
And again.
Until it stopped.

The door handle rattled. Author’s eyes were fixed on the door, trying to see something in the darkness he couldn’t make out. Just waiting for the handle to be pushed down, for the door to open.

His head snapped to the window when there was a dull thump against it, and he could see something moving. It was weird, it didn’t look like an animal, it didn’t look like a human. It looked like some sort of abomination, and it was righting itself, it was getting taller, casting a dark shadow into the room thanks to the moonlight.

And then he heard breathing. Heavy, dragging breaths. Right beneath his bed.
Author’s heart was beating rapidly, thundering against his chest, and he tried to quiet his quickened breathing. He was scared, he couldn’t deny it. Something was happening, and he was sure he was awake.
He could move, he didn’t suffer from sleep paralysis. But he never had hallucinated anything before either, and he shouldn’t be from lack of sleep either.

He cried out when he was suddenly grabbed, ice cold hands holding his arms, his legs, pulling him in every direction, and he struggled. He struggled, pulling against the hands holding him, grunting and gasping.
He was terrified.

They let go as Author heard a door slam shut. There shouldn’t be a door slamming shut. He didn’t know what was happening, everything was happening at once and then vanishing.

And it didn’t stop.

Even once the sun finally rose, Author still heard them. He still heard things, breathing just behind him, scratching on doors. He saw the shadows move, and obscure figures twist outside the windows.

He didn’t know what to do. Sometimes, when he didn’t move for too long, he could feel those hands again. Feel them pulling at him, tugging on him. And he always saved himself, somehow, managed to break free from their grasps. 

He needed to save himself from this, he needed to find a way to stop them. But nothing he did helped. It all just got so much worse.

There were voices. Voices he didn’t know, voices that were familiar. They all sounded vaguely like his own, but also not. He heard them talking about things he didn’t know, things he didn’t understand. 
They started to overlap. 
Author didn’t know what was real and what not anymore, it was too much. Especially once he saw himself.

Images of himself, around the whole cabin. They started out standing still, frozen in time. But then they started moving. Doing things. Things he remembered doing, and things he hadn’t done. 

It scared him more than the monsters he could see, the monsters haunting his every step.

He didn’t know how to stop all of this, it all was so much. All these voices, all these visions. He needed them to stop, he couldn’t bear seeing them any longer. He was constantly in fear, paranoid in his own home. He didn’t leave the cabin anymore.

He broke one night. He couldn’t bear it anymore, another nightmare after barely managing to fall asleep.
Stumbling into the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers, breathing harsh and frantic. Too many sounds, too many visions, too many monsters.

Spoon and scissors in hand, he dropped to his knees. His hand balled in a fist around the spoon, the scissors on the ground in front of him somewhere.

As a last resort, he plunged the spoon into his eyesocket, screaming in pain. He couldn’t die just yet, his work wasn’t done. But he needed his sight gone, he needed these monsters gone, these visions. Wherever he was, wherever he looked, they were there. He couldn’t take it anymore.