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He's never getting out of here.
It was all fake.
He was right.
He was fucking right.
He doesn't know why he hoped to be wrong, he knows Caine, he knows this stupid fucking circus, he knows nothing good happens here. He knows he'll never escape.
No amount of knowing makes it hurt less, no amount of knowing will fill the void in his chest.
His room feels cold. His body feels like lead, he's surprised he hasn't started sinking through his bed.
He's been staring at the same spot on his ceiling for hours now. No matter how long he goes without blinking, his eyes never feel dry.
He slowly turns his head, looking at the wall across from his bed. Just earlier today he nearly abstracted, and now he wishes Pomni and Ragatha had never knocked on his door.
He wishes that weird hole in his wall would come back and finish the job.
It's not like anyone would miss him.
His hand creeps off the bed, fingers searching the floor until they hit something cold. He picks the scissors up off the floor, moving them to rest over his stomach and staring at them.
He stole these scissors from Ragatha ages ago, originally just to mess with her. That was until Ribbit abstracted.
Jax learned that while his body heals ridiculously fast, he still feels pain. Which basically means he can destroy his skin at night, and none of it will be visible the next day.
He barely hesitates to press the metal to his arm, slicing it across with the force of all the pent-up rage and anguish he's been feeling.
His skin splits open, pain shooting up his arm, but no blood comes out. In fact, there's nothing there, just the same purple as his skin all the way through.
He wishes he could bleed. He wants to feel it run down his arms, drip down his legs, anything to make him feel real. At least the pain reminds him that he's still alive.
Again and again he cuts into his skin, until he has no room left on that arm. He can already see the first cut closing up.
A drop of something wet hits his arm, and for a second he thinks he's managed to draw blood, until he realizes it came from his face.
He doesn't know when he started crying, but he isn't sure he cares. He doesn't think he cares about anything anymore.
He switches to his other arm, tearing his skin open until he physically can't anymore. His hands are shaking, the cuts on his arms have been getting more and more shallow as he loses his strength from the pain and the exhaustion creeping in.
He drops the scissors next to him, his breathing shaky as he tries not to sob. He fails of course, one sob breaking the dam before he starts whimpering and curling in on himself to muffle his crying.
He's pathetic.
Sitting alone in his room, sobbing and cutting himself.
What would Ribbit think? Or Kaufmo? Hell, even Pomni?
Not that it matters. They're both gone because of him, and Pomni doesn't know what she's getting herself into by trying to help him. He's a lost cause and everyone else knows it.
He just wishes he would abstract already.