Chapter Text
Ike hated bells. He hated the way it vibrated the floor, hated the way it sounded like his world was falling apart. It scared him to the core, he was unable to breathe, and he hoped so much with each toll that it would be over. Yet, he begs that the knells never stop. As his fear rises, he finds that sleep is better kept away through this method. He feared sleep more than he could ever worry about the bells. The bells, while ringing so loudly in his ears, he knew at some point he’d drift. The bells did nothing to prevent it but know that once the other one woke up. They’d be stuck listening to the one thing they both hated. He’d be okay with letting go, letting himself be taken under.
What have I done?
He loosened his hand, letting the blade fall to the side, amongst the pool he lay in.
The carpet will be stained red. Mysta won’t like that. He spent too much money on it for us, I have to clean it. He wanted to move, but his body was still, locked in the same position. Where did the red come from? Truthfully, he knew. He didn’t want to acknowledge it, he didn’t know what would happen if he did. Yet as his eyes drifted from the blood on the floor to the smears on his hands. He pieced it together. It wasn’t until he saw the face—the tear-stained eyes of the dear friend he loved.
Wrong. It all feels wrong. Pushing away from the body, he twisted to the side. He reached his hand out to grab anything that could ground him. When he could feel his legs once again. He stumbled a few steps to the kitchen, grabbing a rag before walking back to the stains. He fell to his knees, dropping the rag onto the ground before gently wiping away the liquid. “Mysta’s gonna kill me later for ruining his carpet.” He let out a few strained chuckles, but it all felt wrong to him. Far too bad, especially when his hand bumped into something solid. A slight clang of metal on the wooden floor. Ike’s eyes drift to the blade, centring on the way the metal reflected his face off the red liquid. His shaky hand reached out for it, clutching as though it might burn him.
Strange, why is this here?
It wasn't until he realized what he’d been cleaning did the fear took over. Blood, it was blood he was cleaning. No words could express how he felt in that instance. No words could express the fear that crawled up his throat and threatened to spill over. So instead, he ran. A trembling hand wrapped tightly around the wooden handle.
It was late at night, nearing 4 am. A cold February morning and the bits of falling snow chilled his fingertips. At some point, the air became too cold to breathe. Every inhale was an icy stab to the lungs, and each breath hitch made his head fuzzy. At some point, running was no longer an option. Less he wishes to collapse in the middle of the sidewalk. So as a last-ditch effort to somehow hide, he used the last of his energy to push himself towards a tight alleyway in between two buildings. One of which was a bakery.
The large green business wastes on the side of the building gave enough coverage. He pulled himself over to the side, where he finally allowed himself to rest. Sliding down to the snow-covered floor. Finally being allowed the chance to breathe. Even when his breaths were painful, even when each inhale burned his lungs. He took each breath happily.
Slapping his freezing hands against his icy cheeks. Feeling his stiff fingers collide with his face felt like nothing as it’d been numbed for so long. The adrenaline warmed his insides, while the cold froze his outer surface.
With finally being able to think again, the adrenaline toned down. Slowly, his thought process was coming back to him. I killed someone. It was all coming back to him. I killed Mysta.
“Fuck…"