Chapter Text
Blood trickles down onto the floorboards, droplets fall one by another and stain the wood forever, he’ll never be able to clean it out now.
A blade is not far, resting so innocently on the sink’s porcelain, the red splattered over is so disgusting, It’s horrible and sticks out like a sore thumb.
In just a few minutes it’ll be gone and the bathroom will be clean again, Medkit will clean everything and it’ll be okay like before.
It’s just a way to decompress, He feels lighter, in a sort of sick way. For a few moments the world fades away and his mind fixates on the numbing pain blooming in his wrist. It’s okay, he’d clean everything and no one will notice.
He’ll put on his shoes and walk outside, maybe head to slinghost’s cafe, brooding for a sweet, warm latte. He’d nod to Vinestaff and ask for the usual, filled with contentment He’d sit on the couch against the window and eat his meal, Maybe Sword would call, asking for a stroll in the park together or a trip to the cinema- the moment would be a temporary window to live normality, and then he’d go back, walk up the stairs of his apartment, taking the keys out his pocket, the door would click, Medkit would step inside, sliding the coat off his shoulders.
The phone rings in the kitchen, like a bullet slicing through the air, it’s sharp, cold and menacing, who’s on the other side of line knows why they called, soon, the second high pitched thrill follows, come over here. The third, go inside the kitchen.
answer the call.
Silence falls, his hands shake lowering the telephone receiver and-
it’s already over.
that familiar emptiness in his stomach appears when anxiety embraces him and everything’s so much clearer now.
Medkit lifts up his arm to see two parallel lines gushing with blood, wrapping around his wrist before dripping down below, With newfound awareness the first thought was to bolt upright, he’d been sitting for so long on the bathroom floor that his back had begun to stiffen and ache, it wasn’t Medkit’s priority right now.
“….Shit..”
The word falls out his mouth, a harsh whisper followed by a jagged hitch of breath, he moves swiftly, methodically reaching for the cabinet next to the sink, its handle is cold and the coppery stench of blood has already overwhelmed his senses, this was a horrible idea.
Yet you still reached for the razor, eye gleaming, you’re screaming for comfort, to drag the sharp metal against your skin and not then does regret approach you, only when you pick up your broken pieces littered red around the room.
This was the last time he’d to this, He was responsible enough to know this wasn’t a healthy coping mechanism.
The words repeat to a fault, it was never the last and it would never be the last, but it makes you feel better enough to do it again. The scars open and close to will, even when healed they’re still bleeding through your sleeve.
The roll of bandages unfurls easily, disinfectant has already been dabbled onto the wounds when it’s wrapped gently around his wrist. Some blood seeps through the pristine coverage, Medkit’s gaze hovers there for a few seconds.
It’ll stop eventually.
Scythe needs her mechanical arm adjusted, he has to be in the church before 6 PM.
Bedroom, dress, front entrance, gear, coat, shoes, door, stairs, walk.
Medkit stops in front of blackrock’s road, the sign mocking him, each letter staring back so cruelly, the more he stands unmoving the more unnerved he becomes.
“What a joke.”
he mutters bitterly, turning on his heel for lost Temple.
In just a matter of time, Medkit opens the door of the communal hall, acolytes roam through the grandiose space, following the teal carpet that leads to each room, it’s guidance the medic shudders at. When walking down the corridor Everyone’s eyes linger on him just for a little too long, Just enough to remind him he does not belong, Medkit isn’t sure if to be glad or terrified of this.
Muffled clicks of his shoes against the covered floor throb in his ears, the atmosphere is raw and menacingly sinister, though this perception dampens when he’s in front of the so familiar wooden door, the entrance to his designated study, an office of sorts where he deals with injured followers or broken machines. It’s well equipped: tools line the desk that stands front and center behind a vast bookshelf brimming with information, a sliver of sunlight filters through the open window onto the black leather of his worn office chair, documents and files of whatever sort find themselves In all nooks and crannies, while Paintings of fruit and abstract figures color the otherwise monotone walls. Finally, a chandelier above paints the whole lodge in a soft golden light. It’s his, away from the teal nightmare that occupies every single meter of the church.
The minutes pass in a hurry, soon Medkit’s head jolts upwards when he hears three sharp knocks against the door. “Come in.” He replies, Watching the golden knob twist before the door is slammed open. Scythe walks in with her usual grin, her posture proper, practically gleaming with confidence- Medkit swallows the lump in his throat he didn’t realize he’d been holding when she sits on the chair opposite his, completely spread out on its surface as if she owns it, as if she knows who’s the most powerful one in the room.
“It’s about time ya fix this, kit’! This arm really has been botherin’ me all week!”
the medic doesn’t offer a word, only a soft hum of acknowledgment as he stands up from his chair, prompting scythe to lay out her robotic arm over the desk, wires and metal plates shining in the soft light above; Medkit has already picked up his box of tools when she lifts her head back up.
“I swear, nothin’s worse than hearin’ it squeak every single time I move…”
Second attempt for small talk, Scythe doesn’t even get as much as a grumble from Medkit, nothing more than quiet as he reaches for a screwdriver, Scythe’s smirk begins to wear off after the first few minutes of him staring at her arm’s jumbled wires in complete, dreadful silence, Not even a question of “why do you think this happened?”, “how often does it squeak?” or a simple comment along the likes of “the bolts tend to loosen easily.”
Even by broody, uncooperative Medkit standards, this is a new low in the social department.
“What’s up with ya today?”
“Pardon?”
“I asked what’s up with ya.”
the deer’s jaw clenches, scythe also notices the subtle tremble of his lip,
but patience still intact, she waits for Medkit to answer. The atmosphere is eerie, as if something is just waiting to be discovered, waiting, creeping right around the corner, Scythe leans forward on her seat, Medkit shrinks back almost instantly, she wonders what’s going on in that brain of his, for the first time the thought doesn’t carve a smile on her face.
“I can assure you everything is just fine.”
His tone is sharp, meticulously curated to stop her from prodding, but the cultist is equally as stubborn, she trails a claw along the edge of the desk, eyebrows furrowing.
“C’mon, I don’t bite. We’re family, right?”
Family.
It takes a lot of effort for Medkit to hide the shiver traveling all the way down his spine, his gaze falls down to a potted plant near the entrance, it’s held in a teal vase; the sight swirls around his brain for a few seconds, Scythe supposedly takes notice, but she surprisingly doesn’t comment on this.
“I insist, Lets just fix your arm as soon as possible and leave.”
They gawk at eachother, the rope is being pulled tighter with every syllable, Medkit can hear his heartbeat throbbing in his ears, Scythe cocks her head to the left, a sharp fang digs in her bottom lip, the air is suffocating, shifting and curling around the medic’s neck, his wrists burn, he adjusts his sleeve under the desk.
“I’m serious, ‘kit-” Her expression sours, she’s tugging at her necktie, analyzing him in a way that Medkit despises, watching with something resembling genuine worry. This isn’t supposed to happen.
“Yer tremblin’ like a leaf...Are you alright?”
are you alright?
The next few seconds are a blur, Medkit stares like a deer is headlights, it’s just a question- yet he can’t answer, his tongue is glued to the top of his mouth, breathing wasn’t as difficult just a moment ago. Medkit has lied before, he’s lied many times, but for some reason unknown there’s a worm in his brain urging him to say the truth, pushing against his logical sense. There’s a knot expanding and scratching behind his pursed lips, there’s so much that isn’t allowed to be said and it yearns to coughed up from the darkest dephts of his heart and be spewed out into a black mess of vomit, strings and disorganized feelings.
No. I’m not okay. I haven’t been for a long time and it hurts. I can’t remember what serenity feels like, I’m scared, every minute of every hour of every day I feel terrified. I just want to live but I’ve been hanging from the same ledge for years, I’m scared, I’m scared I’ll be too exhausted to keep going. I live every day reminiscing about a past I can’t go back to, I’m hoping for a better tomorrow but it’s always night, I haven’t seen the sun ever since I went outside.
I’m scared, Help me.
Alas, the rope is strained and worn, but it refuses to snap. Not yet.
“I’m FINE. Stop it.”
Medkit grips Scythe’s robotic arm in a firm hold, as he speaks a screwdriver is stabbed and twisted where the bolts are loose, before the acolyte can even form a word of rebuttal the process is already over.
The deer springs up from his seat, gear in his hands. Always prepared to flee, he is, never any different.
“Hey, wait!-”
Scythe sputters and makes one last attempt to bring Medkit closer, her arm outstretches, unaware, claws dig into his tender wrist, it’s unexpected and the medic whimpers out in pain, teeth gritting together- Scythe lets go, her expression goes blank when she sees blood staining his sleeve. it’s enough for Medkit to run out the room and slam the door behind him.
.
The silence that follows is deafening. Scythe straightens her posture, robotic hand cautiously opening and closing. It works fine now, nothing’s squeaking anymore. Her mind replays all that just happened, it went by so fast, yet the memory of Medkit’s bloody sleeve flashes in slow motion, it’s implications are weirdly daunting for someone who’s been the author of so much bloodshed. It’s strange. Scythe feels….concerned. She’s not supposed to, but she is. She’s murdered innocent inphernals in cold blood, yet the image of what Medkit could be doing to himself behind closed doors forms a lingering dread in her gut.