Work Text:
he's lost his hand, again.
this time to the peek-a-boo ghosts.
they look so silly, with their clown masks painted over their faces.
white as chalk, with ugly oil paint distorting facial features.
he can hear their lips moving, whispering how hungry they are,
bent over him with wide eyes
trying to slurp up his
smile.
like needles biting his soft tissue,
that horrible, bone-aching, blinding pain returns
—just behind his eyes.
he lays there, waiting for the blindness to come again.
but it never does.
something wet slithers down his arm, squirming in his ear.
black dye, like pen ink, stains his hands — his hair.
then that voice
it returns again, whispering, speaking, yelling, screaming at him —
"no, that isn’t quite right, now is it Haise?
remember? they exchanged your smile for a scythe.
but you don’t need to worry anymore,
it’s your turn to become a ghost.
it’s past your bedtime.
Goodnight, Haise."
And so the Reaper returns.