Creeping Rot

Eerie light filtered through the window, drifting across the hazy floor, harshly outlining the frame. Pale, white. Light from a moon or a streetlight? Usually both were softer than that. Warmer.

He wandered through pitch-black, but never seemed to get any closer. Everything was misty, foggy. Could feel a distant ache—a sound grinding at the back of his skull constantly, constantly. Something was through that window. Something important. Had to—

Lights flickered across the platform through the glass, figures scrambling away from the darkness. From a monster with claws stretching and teeth sliding out to the horizon like an evening shadow.

It coiled, glowing streetlight eyes outlining Erold.

“No!” Dray leapt, crashing into his little brother, shielding him from the—

Fireworks sparked in his neck—a bolt of lightning shooting straight through his skin and seizing every muscle in a chokehold. His scream rang through his own head, yellow eyes boring into him, black pumping into his veins, crawling down his arms like vines and covering his shaking hands as he caught his choking breath and shoved—

“Hhah!” Dray jerked, hands pushing against nothing but blankets. Soft light filtered around the window's curtains. Natural light.

No therrolf, no platform. His room. No teeth digging into his neck.

A... a nightmare. His breath huffed loud in the silence, pulse beating hard in his ears, his fingers shaking where they dug into the side of his throbbing, prickling neck. Just a dream.

“Hgh.” The shiver that prickled up his spine turned into a shudder wracking him from head to toe as he trembled his way upright, on the edge of the bed. “Eyah.”

Feverish shivers ran over his sweaty skin, the palm of his free hand pressed against his too-warm forehead. His heart still pounded, even as he wrangled his breathing back under control. Yellow eyes and black veins danced behind his eyelids every time he closed them, and he had to force himself to loosen his white-knuckled grip. Think I’m gonna be sick.

He swallowed hard, running fingers through his damp hair. His mouth felt dry, lips chapped and crusty. Don't think I'm sleeping again either.

Couldn’t get the image of black veins crawling down his arm out of his kritzing head, a shudder wracking him again. Before he could think, he’d shoved himself to his feet, stumbling to the door, barely catching up with himself enough to try and move quietly down the dim hallway.

The door swung silently on its hinges and clicked quietly shut as he eased it closed, heart thudding in his ribcage. Turning on the light, and squinting at the brightness, his stomach flipped over as he forced himself to turn to the bathroom mirror. His own pale face stared back at him above the luminescent sink, dark circles under his eyes. I have to....

At least there were no black marks on his face, or his hands, which shook as he tilted his head and grasped at the edge of the patch on his neck. His throat tightened, dry.

Closing his eyes, he tugged, peeling it away.

A shiver wracked him as cool air brushed over the itching, stinging throb, the last of the patch losing its grip with a soft rasp. This... was probably a stupid thing to do. A part of him didn’t even want to look. But he had to know. He had to see—

The twin puncture marks above his collarbone, scabbed over and blackened, dark spiderwebbing lines stretching for where the patch’s edges had been.

The air punched from his lungs. Trembling fingers reached up, brushing at the rough scars, and a wince tightened his shoulders as it tingled. Could've sworn he saw the black marks pulse with it.

The nausea was twisting harder at his gut now. Closing his eyes, he leaned on the sink, taking a deep breath, in and out. Just breathing.

His knees shook, too, trembles juddering at his elbows. Niff, I should probably sit down before I faceplant in the sink. A soft shudder of a laugh escaped his lips, and he sank into the small space between the bathroom cabinet and the shower tub, setting his head back against the white stone-tile, eyes closed.

Am I still dreaming? He could only wish. This was too real. All of this was too real.

He scrubbed a hand up the side of his face, huffing out a soft moan. Next thing he knew, he’d be turning every night, howling at the moons, running around trying to bite people.

That’s not true. That’s not true and you know it. He squeezed his eyelids tighter, clenching his jaw. You don’t turn into a monster. You can control it. Yes, it’ll take some getting used to, but you’ll get there. You’ll be out of the country, your family’ll be with you. You’ll be fine.

It'd still never be the same. And with this scarring—unless it faded—he’d probably have to wear a scarf or something for the rest of his life. Hf, now he was complaining over having to wear a scarf. Except it wasn’t a scarf or anything else that was the problem, it was....

Me. He pressed the heels of his shivering hands into his hot, sweaty forehead, digging nails into his scalp, pure exhaustion tugging at his brain and swelling behind his eyes.

I can’t do this. He breathed: soft inhales in his nose, out through his mouth. Just a meditative focusing exercise, one that felt more comforting than it had any right to be. But I don’t get a choice. I have to.

His hands slid down his face, settling gingerly on top of the wound, and he winced as it flared briefly. Soothing at it eased the throbbing, somehow, the sparks dying down. At the same time, though... something... something twinged in his chest, a small hollow aching deeper inside.

Hopefully just his imagination. He closed his eyes, shivering as the coldness of the tiles seeped through his nightclothes. Maybe he could bring it up with Stov tomorrow.

Lifting his wrist, he tapped at the screen of his MIP, bringing up the time—midnight—and a couple of notifications on the group convo. Just Laif and Frihn talking, and he flicked it quickly away. They were asleep, anyway, though Stov was still listed as being awake.

A hint of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Of course he was. It wouldn’t be a good idea to try messaging him anything now, though. Not with the force on alert, monitoring everything.

He exhaled, pushing himself up, knees wobbling faintly and muscles still twitchy as he pulled out the patches under the sink. There was no way in Hahll he was going to leave it uncovered.

With trembling fingers, he slipped the white bandage on, hiding the marks. It didn’t stop him from knowing, but it helped make it more bearable, somehow. He held his own gaze, setting his jaw as he tugged his nightshirt back over his shoulder.

Whatever happened, he’d just have to take it as it came.