Chapter Text
Henry stared at his former, younger self in a voidless manner, the quiet recognition of everything the cave had hidden from him was dignified by the thud of his knees hitting the unforgiving sand. Henry knew this wasn't real, but the blood that coated the jagged rock thrashed him into suppressed torment that he hadn't felt in years. How could he have forgotten this? The day that changed it all, the memory fading and simultaneously lagging behind in his mind as he watched it unfold in front of him. The sheen of the grey, metal suitcase coldly glared at Henry, as if to send a message.
"I'll ruin your life, Henry," a dark, booming voice flooded his eardrums. It crawled across the pores of his skin, sending shivers of fear through his spine and out through his limbs. He wasn't sure if it was the suitcase, its unstable capabilities combined with the undiluted malice it contained caused him to pull his shoulders up, clenching them tightly as if he could squeeze the voice away from his mind. A painful groan escapes his mouth, the voice leaving a disgusting trail of trepidation in Henry's body, his eyes unable to pull away from the bastard of a suitcase as his former self unclips the item. A grey and dull physical object, juxtaposed with the red-hot, glowing rock inside.
The familiar glow of the molten rock punches at his mental state, like the first swing in a school yard fight. The kids yelling, encouraging the fight replaced with Henry's inner turmoil, the voice of his past and former self mixing with his abusers voice, a cacophony of pure noise, enragement, guilt and anguish all at once.
Stay.
Run.
Watch.
Don't.
However, the teacher that comes in to break up the fight never came.
No one came to save him.
No one.
The comforting voice that society, that the world promised him was silent, reticent. The hands he was supposed to feel pull him away, from all the contact never arrived, haunting every fibre of his being with every minute that went by without them. Where was the person who was supposed to save him? A sob fills the cave, his shoulders unnervingly tense but rickety. The blood littered the boy's face, a constellation of red, glistening and dancing in the light of the lantern.
But the truth was that this was the real world. The metaphorical concept of a teacher coming to save him was pathetic. Idiotic. Careless. Stupid. Remember what you are here for. Society hates you, this fight wasn't as simple as a schoolyard brawl. They know that, they make it complex to rattle you. You're above them, above them all. Above the student you're fighting, above all the students surrounding you, and most certainly the teacher. They never came to break up the fight because you will win—and everyone already knew that.
The rock rests in that little boy's hand, Henry's chest heaving, twisted by the agony of reliving it. He was just a kid, with dreams and aspirations. Henry's fist rams into the ground, his other hand pushing into the dusty sand to stabilise his torso. He is so pathetic that he can't even remember what his fantasy was in the first place. The luxury of having your own thoughts was a privilege that everyone else took for granted.
They're so selfish, they can't even appreciate what they have. How will they abide to our version of society without the practical control we bring to the table? You're saving them, the audacity to not thank you is appalling.
His arduous whine is cut off by indescribable, excruciating pain.
Everywhere. Synapses fire as rapidly as a military-grade minigun. The flesh cramps up in his limbs, his spine cracks as his shoulder falls to the ground, contorting against the roughness of the sand. Henry battles with the trying strain in his neck, creaking his neck to see a blurry, young Henry, his head hung backward, jaw unnervingly tense but slack synchronously. Tears spill onto the dryness of the sand, the rock painting the childs hand with unadulterated evil. Authentic corruption.
Henry's vocal chords rasp against the tension, battling to murmur the words he never could in the past.
No. Stop, please. Please.
But the Mindflayer doesn't listen to a child plead. It only brings him enjoyment. Manners get you nowhere in his world.
"I-I can't," Henry barely gets out coherently, his eyes squeeze shut, in hopes of stopping the pain. The pain that's killing his flesh, his veins, his bones. He can feel him everywhere, in places no one should have ever seen. There was no privacy when it came to the Mindflayer, everything he's ever thought has been touched, caressed, utilised by him. It used to make him feel ill, bile crawling and hooking its way up his throat, akin to a rock climber. His compliance and conformity should make him feel that ill oncemore, but the particles of the Mindflayer are too strong, too intoxicating.
The aptitude of adapting the Mindflayers intentions blended into Henry's thoughts until he couldn't differentiate them anymore. He was One with him, the irony of his lab number and his predicament stinging, adding a dull ache to the back of his eye sockets. The question of if he really chose this life, this power, rattles around his mind carefully, like a spin top on a traditional wooden table, varnished and sleek. The question pushes further, barging deeper into his brain, spinning around like a record. It digs, searching relentlessly, replaying over and over like a yearning hyperfixation on a perfectly crafted song. There was something about the Mindflayer that was intentionally addictive, needle to addict, your first love, the way that a shot of alcohol stings so beautifully. Poets would cry in the face of these disastrous and mosaic emotions.
Fingernails dig into the palms of his hands, his villainous hands. Why did he do this? He was a monster, a force that belongs in the deepest depths of hell. To rot and burn. He would add to die, but that would be too easy on him. Henry didn't even know if he was referring to himself or the particles that infected him anymore. His lip quivered, the muscles in his cheeks were straining so tightly that if he let them relax, his face would melt off, skin shedding onto the granules of rock, the red stickiness of blood would colour the only stable thing in this world.
Normality reached out at him, only to pull back again, false hope drowning Henry's lungs, working overtime just to be able to breathe.
You're powerful, you're talented, you can have everything. Rule this unforgiving, cruel world. Remember who was there for you—don't forget who made you.
He felt difference. Not the difference he usually feels from others, that's obvious. There's someone else, here. His eyes attempt to dart around the room, the torture slowly backing away with cowardice. His senses are fading back respectively, but he can't locate anyone, nor anything. For a minute the hope that flooded his nervous system made him feel real again, like he wasn't living a nightmare. The joy of someone coming to save him, not save people from him, the feeling would be so euphoric. Screams internally filled his mind as he gulped in more air, just let him have one good thing.
He was let down, again.