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There's this old idea about nails. Step on one, and it punctures; step on many, and it's just new ground. That's how nail beds are possible. There are so many that the weight of the body spreads out on them, so no one point is pressing up too much.
Of course, it's never really that simple, is it? Some nails get worn down, bent and twisted and out of shape until there's suddenly a missing pressure and the lack of push feels like a comforting hand being pulled away. Other nails get longer, sharper, hardened by time and rust that grows like kudzu on a tree. Pressing on the indented skin until a rush of warmth, until the red of the insides wraps around the metal like a blanket.
The bed of nails is what matters, though, at the end. Not the person on top of it. The nails will be there after they're gone.
The room isn't dull. Far from it. Always messy and cluttered, where neon orange and warm yellows light up the bedroom from the corner where the wall meets the ceiling, the nightstand, the dresser, the desk. No overhead light. Too stressful. Some dumb game playing on the computer at the desk, a show on the screen over the bed. The piles of blankets on the bed and the plushes are only there to cover the nails that push out of the wood board beneath them. Despite them.
A knock at the door. Break in the routine. Bad sign. The knock is too sudden. (A sharp push of a nail in the lower back, on the left, between ribs.) Then a voice behind the door, an incomprehensible name and then, “dinner”. No response is given. A sigh. “Orange, dinner.”
Why now? This never happens. Nobody ever asks because everybody knows that the nails grow faster around the others. The edgy quietness, the annoying loudness, the arguing. “Not hungry. I'll get something to eat later.” The truth. That's usually what happens anyway. Midnight snacks and all. It works.
“It's not a question, Orange. Come eat dinner.”
No response. No need to. Never has been a need to, honestly, not when it's better like that. There's a sigh, and then the voice is gone.
It's easily forgettable, honestly. He was quiet anyways, enough so that it takes the other man's silent glance at his empty chair to remember that that one has gone on. A surprise to everyone, really. Well, a surprise, but not really something to care about. People run through nails like water. When they're there, all they do is cause rust, anyways. Better off he's gone.
What's more surprising is the other empty chair, where the loud one sits. With a leg that has been broken a trillion times, now taped together with what must be at least one roll of duct tape, it looks almost sad without someone grinning wildly in it. Then it clicks- this is why this happened. There's only two now. But that doesn't really make sense, does it? The loud one should've never gotten pulled away like the quiet one did. He's much too crude, too violent for their bland tastes. The quiet one could blend in. This one couldn't.
“So, Remus left too?”
Silence thick enough to feel on the tongue. What else did the man expect? There's no point in dancing around it. Pulling a bandaid off slow only prolongs the pain.
“...No. He's in his room.”
A snort. “You sure? Don't think he's ever missed dinner.”
More tensly. “Yes, I'm sure,” and that incomprehensible name again. A sharp jab from an already existing nail. A scowl.
“...Orange,” the man corrects himself. A sharp nod.
“Right.”
Dinner passes by quiet. As much as it is better than the arguing, it is still much worse than something. That's the reason for the show still playing in the bedroom. Sound is an iron maiden. Silence is nothing but the squeak as it closes on a warm body.
That's the reason that the dining room seems to be so heavy with tension, enough to press down on the nape of the neck until there's the salt of sweat. And then, as if clockwork, there's commotion, like it always is around here. There's the loud man, coming down the stairs. He's strangely quiet, not stomping like normal, pointedly ignoring the table, but the anger rolls off of him like honey. This must be how a vampire feels, feeding off of the warmth of others like a leech. The loud one's glance at the table, followed by another, longer one, does not go unnoticed. He looks surprised to see someone other than the quiet man sitting next to the snake. Then he huffs, and the moment is over, and he's going to leave.
The snake watches with wide eyes, then stands, narrowing them. “Ah- Remus. Come eat.”
“No. Not hungry.” Another wave of sweet madness, hot enough to burn. It's time to go.
“No, it's not a question. You have to eat and- Orange! You weren't done with your plate, either! Both of you need to sssit down! It'ss a wonder one of you hasn't keeled over, really, with how atrocious you all eat! I mean, trul-” A sharp jab just under the heart.
“Struggling with not having Virgil trail after you like a helpless toddler? It's okay. Morality is cooking for him now. Don't get too excited.” Self-indulgent, really. The snake sucks in a breath. The loud one almost grins, letting out a sharp laugh.
“Orange.” No threat follows. There is no threat that the snake would be able to follow through, after all. The anger—no, not anger, stronger, hate, rolls off him like caramel, thicker and hotter, burnt.
“What about me?” This isn't teasing. This is anger, not sweet like theirs, but uncomfortable, but constant, like sweat that drips from the forehead.
The snake moves to respond. He's interrupted by the sound of a portal opening, and then Remus is gone.
The snake has never tried before. Never had a reason, for one. There are arguments, but those are common. And the snake has never gotten too close to these nails. But this time, he does. A sting of a slap, a scratch on the face through the gloves. There wasn't time to prepare, but there is plenty of time to react when the snake hesitates, though realizing what happened. What he had done.
The nail that forms grows rapidly enough that a crack forms in the wood. It pushes through the back, out the sternum.
There's no flash of red. Rather, a flash of orange.
And then the snake is on the floor, and he looks sick with terror, and then it's all gone. The nails pull through the other side of the board until there is nothing but cool wood and the stick of warm blood running down skin. The nails are gone, but the body remains. It's time to go. This time, not out of fullness.
This time, the snake does not protest.
Back in the room. It takes a moment to realize that the nails are actually still there, just barely. So slight it feels like ants rather than the usual jab of a needle. They slowly rise back up, but that doesn't get rid of the sickness. There is vomit in the trash can. Fear tastes worse than anger. Like a sour, pus-filled gummy, hard to swallow not just because of the taste but because of the sudden thickness of the throat. It twists in the stomach like a maggot, and then there is more vomit in the trash can. It refuses to leave, a bitter, metallic taste in the mouth like molded cheese served on a green-blue penny.
The chair settles with a squeak and then another as it's turned to face the computer screen. A frown. The game that's on now isn't enough. Need something new. A glance to the plushes on the bed. (They're doing a worse job at covering the nails, now.) Ducks. Ducks are great. Find one about that.
First result: Duck Life. Sure.
The click of a mouse as the game is started for the first time.