Work Text:
Your hands are caked with vivid colors- red, orange, yellow, brown- and you smell as grotesque as the putrefying corpse on the ground, you smell of death and decay and sickness. Your hands are covered, blood and vomit and the guts you’ve pulled away from his split stomach, lying across the floor in long trails… It wasn’t hard to rip, not hard at all, and you just wanted to wash yourself with it, coat your body and revel in that beautiful red, crimson and scarlet…
You barely notice the mess you’ve made on the floor, because you’re absolutely soaked, covered in ugly shades, practically dripping onto the tile floor. The corpse is gone, belongings and clothing burned, floors clean where he’d once laid, the smell of desecration practically nonexistent. Though the tile is faintly tinged orange, and your materials lay scattered, forgotten around the man’s home- you realize that you’d snapped. The blood is leaking from your own skin, your nails digging into your neck as your hand braces there, enough to puncture skin, enough to tear and rip and mangle…
Your feet pound against pavement, everything forgotten, your bloody mop neglected on the floor of the doctor’s house, aerosols and towels and bleach and blood your blood so much blood you just want to devour yourself. You need… you need to free yourself. No, his mess wasn’t right, none of them were, not anymore, and your vomit-coated shoes only fuel your desire to strip, to clean, to disappear from your own hideous body.
It’s barely any time before you find yourself in the shower, blood and blood and so much blood washing down the drain. Your hands fist in your hair roughly, the locks matted, blood dripping down onto your forehead, over pallid cheeks and sickly lips. You can see it, feel it coating your skin, and you rub and rip and pull at it, trying to make it go away- just go away because I can’t think, don’t know why, everything’s red, red RED- and you twist and pull until your skin goes raw and then…
Blood. Your blood. Slick and rich and desirable…
The sight of it is something overwhelmingly perfect, so sickeningly sweet, and you pull and pull and pull, nails ripping into your skin, through it, to tear at the breaking flesh. And as the red, slick and glorious and wet, slips over your hands, out of your torn wrists, a smile breaks over your face. You stare and stare and stare, and then your chest ruptures and you can’t think and you’re on your knees and crouching, weak, spewing vomit onto the floor, just across your pretty, bloody hands. It stings, and it stings so good, you just can’t take it.
But the second you realize, you curl in on yourself on the wet floor, shaking, hands braced over your bony, freezing cold arms, torn in such a lovely macabre way at the wrists… you’re naked, exposed, so cold and so desperate and just fucking fragile as you lie there. You’re overwhelmed by blood, gruesome visions of rotting flesh peeled away to the bone, broken and snapped and crushed, the sickness spreading through your body until you ache from the mere thought of it.
You can’t do this. Not anymore. No, you’re too far gone- you tremble, and a laugh rips its way from your throat, your entire body shuddering in fear, trying to break, to bleed, to die.
You fall desperately, and you don’t want to wake up.