The floor is cold. Where did his clothing go? (Where did the world go?)
Let me out.
Something needles the back of his mind; a whisper in a crowded room. The static in the air grows louder and presses close like a blanket, or a noose. His lungs aren't working right; the air presses hard like a damp cloth over his mouth.
“Am I dead?”
Not yet. Surrounded by mirrors. Where is his reflection? I can't tell. Where am I? There's blood everywhere.
Its mouth curls into a dagger of a grin.
Welcome.
Monster in my room, Daddy, monster in my room. Except nothing here is familiar, and no one's coming to save him. He tries to turn but his limbs are unresponsive. Are there limbs at all? My limbs? Where are they?
Who are you?
And he falls to the ground, shrieking in laughter. The sounds aren't his. Feeble, it sneers. Weak. They wouldn't find the body.
What body? (This one?)
Hands are shaking, lips quiver. Orbs of teal flick about wildly the way a deaf-and-dumb mouse's would in a room of ravenous lions, and even though it's not cold – there isn't any temperature at all – his body shakes. I don't want to die.
Who says we have to?
We?
Something rumbles.
Ow - it hurts. No – stop! He's not - !
…..
…..
“Did you kill him?”
Something repulsive plummets to the ground (what ground?) in front of him with a thunk. Liquid leaks and oozes from the holes and frothy goo soaks his leg. A sour stench of rotten fish and flesh and death a thousand times over permeates the air, forcing his throat to convulse, gagging.
…..
“That's disgusting.” He recoils, bile searing the back of his throat. There's a splattering sound and he rises, wipes his mouth, and moves away from the acidic stomach fluids staining the floor.
It rumbles and wheezes and there's something delighted in its gasp.
It's your fault. You did this.
It laughs again, a high-pitched chuckle that chills him to the bone.
“Monster.” Except he's looking in the mirror again. Crimson drips from his fingers. It's mingled with grains of beige and gold.
Its voice dances. They're my fingers now.
And then there's a hook embedded in the back of his mind and it's pulling, threatening to overwhelm him entirely, and it's all he can do to resist succumbing to its taunting whispers. Tense fingers press against his temples in vain.
Don't hurt me. I'll kill you.
The threat crumbles to dust, empty and dry as winter winds.
I would never hurt us.
He licks his lips. Someone's lips.
...Are you me?
It pauses. He can hear breathing.
Are you you?
On another plane of existence, his brow furrows. (This can't be real.)
“I want it back.”
What?
Myself.
It doesn't work like that, boy.
Everything is white. Or black; he can't tell. Either way, his eyes prove useless. He stumbles forward and the mirrors have become thick metal bars he can't see; for all the pounding he does, all he gets are red raw wrists and a sharp twist in his stomach like he's going to be sick. Shadowy figures with eyes like gems leer unblinkingly, but when he reaches out a clammy fist through the bars to wildly shove them away, there's nothing there but wisps of smoke.
“Leave me be!” He hiccups, cheeks stained salty and wet. Clapping his hands over his ears proves fruitless.
I'll be here for you.
I hate you.
I promise.
Always.
(I own you, after all.)
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