Work Text:
Haise smiles. It sits flat and fake, fake, fake on his face. It doesn’t feel right, it doesn’t echo that thing inside of him, writhing and writhing and not yet screaming, but he could hear it. So loud. So loud and despairing, and desperate. He didn’t feel like smiling, he felt like digging his hand inside, inside and ripping that thing that was inside of him. Hungry and wrong, and heavy, and so much blood, so much noise. Static harsh in his ears, ringing, ringing. What’s 1000-7? And all he wanted to was scream, and claw at himself until that thing was gone, gone, gone. But he can’t do that—he smiles, and smiles, and laughs and
it almost feels like it’s alright.
Like it’s fine.
(But t’s not. Not, not fine.)