Work Text:
It almost felt like only a day or two had passed since the day the musician decided to leave his old safe space, though, in reality it had to be months. In there he had confined himself for so long that time felt like an illusion. Strangely, it was something he had done willingly too. He chose to remain trapped even after the last member of his cult decided to move on.
The Lost Ones, he never learned what befell to them. If they were still alive- they had to be somewhere in the studio, no?
If one traveled back to his dark days where his mind was infested with the main desire to serve the ink demon, he would swear to his sold soul how strongly he felt that this was the only place that was right; the only place that was fit for offer, ritual, worship and sacrifice. It was the purgatory he made by his once workplace. And if they did not want to remain there, he would never follow them to soil the chastity of his role. They shared this faith, yes, but unlike them he was a shepherd. A prophet.
Was he not?
None of this mattered anymore. In his own path, he had chosen to ignore the past.
...Except for when it came back to haunt him.
Sammy's tired eyes were suddenly facing the god of his world as he, in a harmless form, stared back at him grinning like the little devil darling he was always meant to be, this and nothing more.
His lips parted to almost let out a gasp. Because before opening the closet door, he was oblivious of the Bendy cutout that was sitting inside.
No, not today. Fast, he forgot of what he came here to do. He wanted something from the closet -obviously- but the unexpected sight had now distracted him. His hand slowly made its way to close the door again, before stopping midway and falling to the side of his torso.
He felt his digits curl into his fists, like he was compelled to do something. The cutout of Bendy stared at him solemnly, and Sammy little could do but stare back and reflect on things that tormented him.
It's rude to stare.
"What the bloody hell are you looking at?" The restless man of ink snarled, gritting his teeth.
Perhaps, it was the lack of logic and rational thinking that made him want to provoke a piece of carved cardboard. This, combined with a set of tragic memories caused by Bendy. For him it was an achievement though. And one of the few times he found the courage to ignore the judging pie-cut eyes and do that. To insult an image of Bendy.
The lifeless paper demon did absolutely nothing, and kept staring at him with the eternal grin of an old cartoon.
Somehow, Sammy felt himself growing even more frustrated, even more weary and void of hope by this lack of a response. He knew this Bendy was merely a drawing, and not the real demon. He knew it couldn't answer no matter what. But oh, how draining it felt. As if, even the fake ones were ignoring him and mocking his existence. This object would never cower in fear upon a single of Sammy's threats, and that was ripping the fabric of his mind apart.
"You're nothing. You're worthless." He heard the cutout talk back to him. Of course, it never did. Nothing made a sound but the pipes above everyone's heads. It was a thing, an item. Still life. But a man so broken could not stop the awful voices that this world made him hear.
Sammy took a step back with his hand over his chest. That hurt.
The cutout stood against the closet's walls, always inanimate. It looked so satisfied to see him this miserable. It couldn't stop grinning. Even if it couldn't see or sense, even if it didn't have a brain at all, it still thought he was worth nothing.
He could either destroy it, or let it torment him like this.
"YOU CAN'T SAY THAT!" Sammy picked his answer and yelled, swinging his axe at the cutout and breaking it to pieces in an instant.
crash!
Its head was decapitated from its white bow tie and its face broke in three.
He trembled for a second, and then... he kept on swinging and swinging like a madman, and nothing stopped him.
"FUCK YOU! I HATE YOU- I HATE YOU! FUCK YOU AND THIS GODFORSAKEN MACHINE!!!" He yelled out unashamedly in rage and distress. The more he chopped the broken cutout, the more his arms began to ache, but even if the entire world shouted at the top of their lungs that he must stop, he wouldn't.
He fantasized about destroying the real ink demon like this, cutting him limb from limb, part from part as he melts into a puddle of his own cursed ink. He'd love to see him bleed alive, hear him scream like a butchered sheep, banished forever into the depths of Hell itself in where he should have rightfully remained.
He knew it would never happen- but he had to vent it, construct it in his head; or else he would kill his own mind.
rumble
crack!
The closet was shaking and items were falling on the floor. A can of bacon soup. A film reel, that got tangled and destroyed in the axe's sharp rim as he swung at nothing and everything on sight.
He screamed again, louder and louder until his throat filled with frazzled tears and the axe slipped off of his tired arms in the end.
He kneeled, sobbing in wrath and heaps of mental pain. His hands scooped up pieces of what used to be the cutout, scrunching them up. The discouraged soul bit his lips so hard to choke back his tears, he felt like he was dying of wretchedness.
His sobbing lament echoed behind him just like his piercing shrieks had done before. He went too hard on himself this time.
He was blessed though, and he couldn't go uncared for.
The patrolling one was already on his way there the first time he heard his painful call. He stood still for a few seconds, seeing him defeated on the floor by nobody but himself. And before you knew it he was by his side with his arms around him, relieved that he was not in danger but wrought up to see him do this to himself again.
It wasn't the first time, or the last for the matter.
He went ahead and placed a hand on his face while the other held him firmly, helping him wipe his bitter tears.
"There... It's over."
Sammy's dry breaths were caught in Norman's comforting words, easing him until he could plant his face onto his companion's chest and cry into his speaker. Seeking him for peace after the struggle.
Norman watched, and let him cry it out. A remorseful sigh resonated from within him.
It pained the projectionist to know that his partner was essentially torturing himself. He knew he couldn't help it. It was like a wound that, whenever it managed to close, he would dig it until it was open again. He'd never let it heal.
Perhaps being there meant he could at the very least stop him from letting it grow bigger. For his own good.
Norman felt this fear briefly yet intensely as Sammy's hands came clinging around him. A feeling of relief perhaps a bit too good to trust, aware that everything would take a turn to worse again sooner or later.
But he swallowed this doubt and found the strength to keep holding him close, hearing him quiet down until his sobs were gone.
Until nothing was there to be heard again but the sounds of ink-carrying pipes above and around them. The dust particles fell on their skin like invisible snowflakes as they both stood there like statues, like the embrace of two lovers was frozen in time. It was all so clear yet so blurry; so close and so distant.
Say something.
"..."
"...Let's go to the safehouse. I found your banjo. It was a little smudged, so I cleaned it. It's there, waitin' for ya."