Work Text:
The morning's announcement began, proclaiming a robotically cheery, "You have been here for. 22,25,18,14.17,25. Days. Your remaining sentence is. Indefinite. Remember to. Smile!"
"Smile my fucking ass," Bill sighed. He didn't feel happiness in this place - it wasn't even possible. Even the simple act of talking and making "friends" was monitored, facilitated through the staff. Shitty group therapy sessions, never getting to know the people themselves, only their lists of transgressions and misdeeds. Each one talking out their ass in the hopes they'd be let out sooner.
Judging by how long most of them seemed to have been around? They were never getting out. Never! And if they weren't, even the goody two-shoes all "trying" their "best"... he certainly wasn't.
So why not have some fucking fun, huh?
Ever since his very first incident with Dr. Painterly so long ago, he'd taken to the habit of eating his artworks, the ones he didn't want being seen and over-analysed with total bullshit. What were they gonna do, force their hands down his throat, see if they could make him throw them up? Like sticking their hand in an industrial shredder - not gonna happen! And hey, he could take it a step further! Soon what started gracing his papers were grotesque scenes, made for nothing more than to shock Dr. Painterly hopefully out of their wits. Ripping out their heart and spinning it into candy, stabbing the paws of that stuck-up Dr. Kaputin, maybe stringing her up by her guts. If he was really smart about it, maybe he could disseminate some propaganda to the other prisoners.
Because, as much as everyone tried to pretend it wasn't true, that's what they were. Besides, his efforts didn't go unrewarded - Dr. Painterly seemed to thoroughly "enjoy" trying to analyse the new, disgusting works, while being nonethewiser about-
QCEJLG.
And other things that didn't matter.hcum os derettam taht sgnihT
EVR YMIDW.
By eating them, he kept them safe, didn't he? They would be his forever, kept in his warm embrace.
SCZK.
...He wished he had a window. He wished he could look out and see- something, anything at all. It fucking angered him. After all, Bill Cipher didn't feel hurt. Especially not when some fuck-ass of a doctor was telling him they knew better than him about his feelings. Anxious this, depressed that. Manic, borderline, narcissistic. He'd heard it fucking all. The way he saw it, all of those were just admissions - admissions that they didn't know a single thing about him. They could try, they could try as hard as they fucking wanted, but who he really was would forever be a mystery to them.
They weren't interested in the reality - only their version of it, the version they could use to plunge a knife in his gut and then twist it. And he was not going to give them any more fucking ammunition. They already knew too much about--
XCZ. JTL.
-- And it fucking angered him! Angered him into nauseous spirals, angered him against them even further, just the mere sight of one of them putting him on the defensive, ready to bite. To maim, if he must! And if that made him sick in the head, well, wasn't that just fine and dandy? He didn't need their approval, their love, their pity - nothing. He wouldn't get it even if he were to suck up and kiss all their asses, anyway.
HVLJBLKSFZRGOMYI?
He was angry, and he would never stop being angry. Most especially, it angered him when he was treated like he was just... just... some incapable, broken little child. No admiration of his genius, no acknowledgment of himself or his accomplishments. No, all of it was "lashing out" and "a cruel reflection" of his supposed history of being unwanted,laer os seirots eht - deserving of only a sad pity. A subject with no agency; a tragedy with no depth.
A being who existed solely to be poked, prodded, and moulded.
TAVYLGAY.
He was never going to let that happen.
AZRGLMTSWRZKTOMMY?
He deserved so, so much better than that. And no matter what it took, in this fucking place, he was going to take it!
...azrglm?