Chapter Text
When Mind wakes up, the first thing he realizes is how late it is.
12:00am, thirty minutes later than yesterday. He’s been sleeping in too much lately.
He doesn’t dwell on it, standing up straight to pull the curtains open. It was sunny, a few clouds in the sky but otherwise clear. Good, perhaps today would be better.
He walks over to the calendar to cross off the day, never giving it a second glance as he put the marker back exactly where he’d found it and moved on to the bathroom.
He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror as he brushes his teeth, he doesn’t bother to turn on the shower, spitting toothpaste into the sink and watching the water wash away the red remnants from brushing his gums raw. A quick splash of cold water to the face, a subtle pat against the blue hand towel, and he was back in his room.
First things first, he needed his other arm.
On top of his nightstand was his right arm, a shoddy, crude old thing that couldn’t survive the night if he slept on it. Creaking as he picked it up and attached it at the elbow, twisting the mechanisms in place and flexing the rusty fingers. He ignored the painfully loud creaking.
He hated this one, it was poorly made and a few wrong moves from falling apart. But he didn’t have time to make a new one, he didn’t have time for a lot of stuff anymore.
Images flashed through his mind as he moved to open the closet. A blurry figure emerging when he picks out his jeans, a flash of red when he grabs a simple gray polo, rolling out the wrinkles while hearing endless screaming. He gets dressed, fastening the belt around his waist just a tad too tight, carefully anchoring the buckle to rest in just the right position as blood splatters onto the grass below.
And as if on cue, a tiny little alarm blares on the wristwatch on his left. He goes back to the bathroom methodically, stepping inside on exactly the fourth ring before turning it off.
This time he looks at himself in the mirror, pulling out a makeup bag and assessing his appearance. Deep sunken eyes stare back, heavy eye bags under his eyelids, cheeks hollow, almost sickly. He does his best to cover them, concealer to add life, color corrector to hide dark circles. He’s precise in his movements, applying dark blue eyeshadow and perfect eyeliner in a matter of minutes.
He barely has enough time to wet his brush and tidy his hair, the alarm blaring once again just as he began to brush out some of the knots. Oh well. He leaves to go downstairs, nobody will see him anyways.
Empty, silent halls welcome him as he walks down the hall with heavy boots, turning off the dimmed hallway light on his way to the kitchen. It was spotless, white counters wiped from usual stains, appliances organized, even the fork Heart had lost under the stove was finally fished out after months. Only the creak of an old fridge could be heard as he took out their carton of eggs.
Two for him [he didn’t have much of an appetite lately], three for Heart [he needed the protein], Four for Soul. [He’ll be hungry when he comes home.]
He sets the table with three plates of scrambled eggs and toast, three forks and three napkins. Mind sits down to eat, ignoring the empty chairs beside him.
He stares at the mulberry jelly on his toast. He’s not hungry, he never is, but he forces himself to clean the plate, not a crumb going to waste. He needed to be strong, he needed his energy regardless of the nausea crawling up his throat and the persistent urge to rot away.
Mind puts one of leftovers in a container when he’s finished, writing down the date on a red sticky note, a raised star sticker stuck on the top right corner from a sticker sheet full of textured shapes. Crowns, hearts, and stars.
The fridge is already fully stocked, stacked to the brim with labeled and color coded containers. He takes out the oldest to make room, dumping untouched mashed potatoes and pork into the trash and neatly piling the dishes in the sink. He puts the third plate of breakfast the microwave, heating it up and walking it back down the hallways with him.
The heat burns his metal hand. He can’t feel it.
The man stops at a door, knocking with three perfects hits and carefully placing the plate and a glass of water on the floor beside it. He doesn’t linger, already halfway down the hall when the alarm rings again.
There we go. Whole was waking up.
Mind opens a door to reveal a control panel, sitting down stiffly in the worn office chair, two empty ones pushed to the far edge of the room.
He flexes his fingers and pushes a button, finally getting to work.
In his room the calendar is freshly marked on the 30th. Exactly 30 days since Soul had left them. He doesn’t dwell on it.