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Zanka's knuckles turn white as he grips the rim of the toilet bowl he is hunched over. Sweat makes his hair stick to his forehead, and his every breath make him painfully aware of the way his clothes cling to his skin. His lower lip trembles, and the tangle of thoughts turning in his head only make him feel sicker. He blinks away the tears, forcefully brings the palm of his hands against his eyes to remove them. They come back, undeterred, and Zanka growls in frustration, feeling as if drowning.
It's late night, tipping onto the early morning, and he has not been able to sleep, has been alone with his thoughts for the past hours. It's torture, to be made to face the bubbling insecurities that have been rising, to be unable to escape the weight over his back or the biting thoughts that keep turning in his head. He hiccups, and swallows down the nausea that raises to his throat. One hand finds purchase on the edge of the bowl again, while the other frantically finds itself under his shirt.
"Fuck, fuck."
His fingers find scarred tissue, and his nails bite at the still-tender skin, fingers twitching with the desire to rip his stitches open. He wants to open back the wound Jabber had left him with, wants to bury his fingers in and forcefully tear away the remnants of inadequacy that sit so heavy in his stomach. In the same vein that he feels the weight, he feels a hole within, gaping and unable to close, no matter Eishia's efforts and Zanka's rest.
It feels as if Jabber had taken something out of him when he had pulled his claw away, had left him bereft and empty, as if he had ripped a part of Zanka's soul. His body might have flushed out the cocktail of toxins inflicted by Jabber's Vital Instrument, but Zanka swears they still linger, still flow through his veins, a malignant poison he is unsure he will ever recover from. The scar is a reminder of it, a reminder of not being enough, and the thought festers in his head, burrows deep within tissue and muscle, finds its way to the very marrow of his bones, takes root within his very soul. It's a weed he had promised he would pull out — and yet here he lies, braced against the toilet and mind spiraling, thoughts tangling and choking him up. It's something viscous and just as poisonous as Jabber's toxins, pervasive to the point of leaving him feeling paralyzed with the self doubt that so stubbornly stuck to the roof of his mouth and clung to his molars.
The thoughts are bitter, and the weight on his stomach drags up all the shortcomings Zanka thought buried past. The whirlwind of negative thoughts bounce against his skull, and they keep piling up high until his head feels stuffy.
He throws up. Heaves until his stomach spasms with the force of it.
"Fuck."
Zanka spits out the foul taste. His nails find the stitches on his abdomen, and his thoughts cling onto the threads, begging him to unravel them, begging him for an outlet —he itches with the desire to pry open the wound, wants it so bad, can imagine his fingers pushing against tender skin, making way to the empty spot Jabber's left within him, a bloody mess that was the preview of Zanka clawing out his worst insecurities—
Zanka's fingers twitch, nails catching on the threads, and he bites his tongue, forces his hand out from under his shirt, lets his fingers twist instead on the fabric of his shirt. They twist and pull until a dull ache starts, and he feels the collar of his shirt chafe against his neck. But he does his best to chase that feeling, does his best to ignore the pleading voice within him that begs he bloodlet all the impurities within him, that beg to— beg to—
He wasn't good enough in the Hell Guard Academy—
He wasn't good enough to talk things through with his family—
He wasn't good enough to climb out of that well by his own—
He was pathetic.
A farce.
A joke.
He wasn't good enough. He wasn't enough. He wasn't— How could he ever hope to be—
Being a Giver did not change shit, Zanka was still so— He falls behind, again, as he did back then—
Enjin's eyes flash in his mind, concern clear in the solitude they'd shared—
He was nothing if not a burden. He wasn't good enough.
Not enough. Not enough. Not. Not Not Not not notnotnot—
Desperate, drowning, unable to catch a break, he drives his head forward, sees white as his forehead catches the edge of the bowl and Zanka sniffles through the blissful blank the pain forces within his mind.
His breathing is rapid and shallow, and he feels his heart on his throat, feels the prickling of claws slowly drag his thoughts back to the mess his head is. Before he can help himself, his fingers wander again to his wound, pick at the threads of the stitches. It starts as a small whisper, a rebuke about his current state, about the turmoil within him that he can't seem to stop, then it grows as a cacophony of reprimands, of harsh critiques of where he falls short, of where he has messed up. His own voice mingles with others, and Zanka heaves.
Awww, you look pitiful, dear Zanka.
Zanka jerks at the voice that finds its way to the bathroom, and his eyes scan for the man who put him in the hospital in the first place. The room is empty, and Zanka's lips twist into a wry smile. He closes his eyes, lets a breathy laugh escape him. He is losing it now, for sure.
"Fuck off." He growls to the phantom that haunts him, turns to pick at the scarred tissue instead, plucking it and letting the light pain ground him.
Can't stop thinking about me, I see...
Zanka snarls at that, adamantly keeps his eyes fixed on the ground. He doesn't dignify the voice with an answer. His nails start pinching the tender skin on his abdomen. He feels angry now, with the taunting voice of his enemy taking root in his head, with his own mind's insistence of reminding him where he has failed. The anger anchors him, though, and Zanka huffs, feels thorn between the relief at finding a stopping point in his deprecating thoughts and the anger at the fact his mind's starting to circle back to Jabber, of all people.
A touch finds his shoulder, and Zanka turns to look— there is nothing but the darkness of the room, but as he tries to calm himself down, he swears he can see Jabber's figure above him if his eyes linger, he swears he sees his lips upturn in a twisted smile, sees his eyes fall on him.
"Leave me alone."
But the phantom image of Jabber doesn't, instead crouches down, sits on his haunches to be at Zanka's eye level. His wound throbs painfully, and Zanka comes to realize that he has been picking at his scar with more force than intended. When he brings his hand back onto the fabric of his clothes, he is painfully aware of the wetness he's smeared across his skin, and his thoughts chase after that fact— he doesn't dare look, but he knows he's drawn blood, has probably disturbed the wound enough to make it bleed again. He swallows, knows he would have to explain to Eishia he's opened his wound again.
His thoughts catch up to him again, drown him out with the feeling of not being enough, of lacking any good qualities. Zanka feels hollow, has the nagging sensation in the back of his mind that all his efforts have been in vain. He had not been good enough, not back then and not now, not against Jabber, who had wiped the floor with him as soon as he'd fought for real.
Stop it. Jabber's voice says, harsh and with a hint of anger. And Zanka's mind rattles with it, You are alive, are you not? The ghost asks, and Zanka remains quiet.
Part of him wishes he weren't, small as it is. And Zanka hates his own guts for that.
You said you wouldn't die.
His thoughts jerk to a stop at that, and Zanka's eyes search for his hallucination's.
I don't care for weaklings. I dispose of them. I left you alive.
A laugh builds at the back of his throat, and Zanka's brows knit together. How pathetic, to be comforted by his own delusions, by his own hallucinations of his enemy. He has gone off the deep end this time, and Zanka doesn't know what to do with that.
You join me in the insanity of it all.
He takes a shuddering breath, feels his muscles relax after the tension he'd been holding loosens. This whole situation is ridiculous. Why is he even thinking of Jabber, of all people?
You said you would show me your latent powers.
"Stop. Stop it. I don't wanna hear it." The taste on his mouth is bitter, left by the reminder of his own words, his own thoughts.
You have yet to show me.
"I have nothing to prove to you. Go away."
Even through his insistence, through his desire to deny it, Zanka feels the itch he has come to known. He wants to be better. He wants to show he could surpass his own self, that he could be just as good as the geniuses. Rising above his own crippling self doubt and feelings of inadequacy, though, is the burning need to prove himself, and along it is the need to show Jabber—
That's my Zanka.
He chokes on it. Chokes on the apparent pride that his hallucination speaks with. Finds the self-soothing jarring. Hearing Jabber's approval and pride when speaking about him fills the hole he's been left with. He feels the tears prickle against his eyes again, the nausea that rises now caused by something different.
You will prove it to me, right, Zanka? You will reach my level, right, sweet Zanka?
Zanka wants to scream. It's not fair for his brain to play with him like this, it's not fair that Jabber's words sound hopeful— hallucination as it might be, Zanka can hear it clear in his voice, can see the teasing in that smile, the challenge. It's not fair that Zanka's thoughts find quiescence upon Jabber's voice. He pulls himself up, glances at the image his brain has provided of the man who has left a scar upon his flesh. Something he can't rid himself of. The ghost doesn't move, remains crouched as it looks at Zanka.
"I'm going to bed." Zanka says, pulls his shirt over to his mouth to clean any leftover of his sick, "Let me sleep." He passes past his hallucination, ready to settle down.
I will see you around, dear heart.
Zanka ignores the way the weight on his stomach lessens, pulls over the covers to his bed.
I know you are enough for me.
Zanka's body slumps against the mattress, and he ignores the need that settles within the hole Jabber's left in him. Zanka closes his eyes and does his best to ignore how Jabber's praise, false as it might be, had soothed his mind, had made his chest swell with pride. If it had alleviated his aches and it had evoked within him the desire to prove his worth to Jabber, Zanka made sure to paid it little mind.
If Jabber's words had dug him out of the fit he had worked himself into, Zanka makes sure to not dwell on it as his minds drifts towards slumber.