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Steam billows over the shower curtain, fog creeps up on the mirror, and the humidity makes it hard to breathe. Elijah stands under the steady stream of water, platinum locks plastered to his forehead. The soap lay still untouched, and Elijah grows bored.
He reaches out and grabs the handle, turning it slowly to the left. The water gets hotter and hotter and hotter and Elijah steps into it. The heat crawls up his body but he doesn't so much as flinch as the boiling water hits his skin. He can feel it, not nearly as much as someone normal would; but what sets him apart from them, is that he wants to enjoy it.
His thighs are bleached red, chest glistening with boiling water, hands so irritated they no longer resemble his normal tan.
He should stop.
But he’s not going to.
He never does.
A sociopath, that’s what they called him; but Elijah disagrees. By definition, a sociopath is someone who knows they are different and tries to fit in; Elijah doesn't do that. Elijah knows what he’s capable of, Elijah wants to do what he wants; if he has to wear a few masks to do that, who’s to say he’s wrong?
He raises both hands, holding them deftly under the water. He doesn’t wince, flinch, or cry. He lets a grin crawl up on his cracked lips.
Elijah has masks, closets upon dressers upon boxes full of masks. He can be whatever he wants to be. He doesn't wear them to fit in, he fits in to achieve the thrill of what comes after. Masks are useful, you pretend to be someone you're not, you plaster on a smile or produce weightless tears, or whisper sweet nothings ; Elijah pretends even when not being watched.
Elijah wants to be strong, he wants to be feared, he wants to be resilient. So he turns the water hotter and hotter.
Elijah wears masks, not to fit in, but for what comes after the mask is removed. The terror in their eyes, the tremble of their voice, the shake in their knees? That, is what Elijah lives for.
The thrill, the euphoria, that consumes him in times like those is unlike anything else. He wouldn't trade it for anything, not pleasure, not pain, not money, not power, not the world, not Celeste.
The water turns cold against his knuckles; the polite sting causes his fingers to shake under the onslaught of water and his skin starts to crease, old scars appearing fresh. Tears would have sprung to his eyes, washed away unnoticed; but Elijah’s giggles scare them away. Watching, and inflicting, others in pain is what he dreams about at night.
They don't understand him, they never tried-
-is what he would say if he was a crybaby bitch. No, Elijah doesn’t care about that, not anymore. Even if it’s his own, pain rules his world, guides him through life, speaks for him, thinks for him, and moves for him.
The handle stops against his will, unable to be turned any hotter. Even though his knees shake, his hands tremble, his breath comes short, and his eyes flutter against his wishes, it’s not hot enough.
Celeste doesn’t love him, and he doesn’t love her; they aren’t capable of real love . They are sick and twisted and cruel and it brings him unbridled joy.
Celeste knows a mask, not him; Yandere knows a mask, not him; Elijah knows a mask, not him. There is no ‘him’. Elijah can’t remember if there ever was a ‘him’.
Steam billows from the shower, infecting the mirror and fogging the windows, even though he feels cold water cascading down his body. Bruises are bold against red skin, and scabs peel and fall to the floor. He raises a hand to scratch at his chest, his fingers leave a harsh white trail behind. As he pulls his hand away, he sees dead, melting, mushy skin trapped beneath his bitten-down nails.
A stray soap bubble is sticking stubbornly to the back of his hand. He tries to brush it away, but his skin tears and liquid red blends with his skin.
Elijah sighs.
He’s grown bored again.
He leans onto the stream, the water hitting his scalp and back for the first time. He twists the handle, stopping the water with all but a moment’s notice. The humid air attaches to him, it makes his skin stiff and he stretches it as he steps out. The dirty towel rubs his waist raw but he pays it no mind he raises a shaking hand to wipe the mirror.
Blue, gold, and red stare back.
Elijah Symons is no one without a mask, but he definitely has his favourites. So, before he dresses himself, he covers his unknown face and smiles.
He wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything.