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Marceline’s arms itched.
No… no, itched wasn’t the right word. It was less of a tangible sensation, less of a tingling than she would describe. It was an urge, sitting just beneath her skin, aching to be set free. An urge, sitting in the back of her mind, feral but oh-so-human, alien from her vampiric urges, whispering at her to spill her friends’ blood over the floor, watching as the crimson pools onto the cool grounds beneath her feet.
The best part about accelerated regeneration is that it never leaves scars.
Reckless stories she isn’t quite ready to tell Bubblegum, the tip of her forked tongue curling back in embarrassment at the thought of speaking such words aloud, scars hidden, memories faded to anyone except her, the epics on her skin lost to time.
Memories of a darker place, caught in the back of her mind, no longer dragged to the forefront of her consciousness at the smallest glance at her bare arms.
Just pure, unblemished skin gazing back at her.
She could smile with her friends, never again have to worry about hiding her bad habits.
She could pretend to be happy, and pray to Glob that one day it wouldn’t be pretend.
The worst part about accelerated regeneration is that it never leaves scars.
Marceline still feels the piercing guilt, stabbing through her heart like a stake in her chest. No matter what she tells herself, no matter what she knows, that Simon is back, it wasn’t her fault, the aching memory of his fading figure in the snow never leaves her. The very thought of it makes the place somewhere under her skin burn, burn with that tantalizing need to be set free.
Long, spindly fingers morph into wolfish claws, raking her nails across the skin. Setting the urges free.
In but a moment, the wounds close, red ichor never given the chance to spill.
It aches, somewhere deep in her throat.
She doesn’t know why, she knows it’ll just be a hindrance, more unnecessary things for Bubblegum to fuss over—more love that she’s never deserved—but she needs it, needs that familiar sting as her now-cold blood meets her house’s warm air.
When she was younger, she’d stare at those faded, foreign words to ease the itch.
When supplies were low, bandages dirty, and she couldn’t risk infection in the hellish post-apocalyptic world that was her home, she’d stare at her bare arms for hours on end, tracing the familiar patterns with her eyes, reminiscing on the feel of the dull metal blades against her skin, relishing in remembrance of that refreshing ache, like a cool breeze on a hot summer afternoon.
She’d relish in the map on her skin, making up stories of mutant battles and brave heroics to the humans she had then called family.
Her hand instinctively raises to the side of her neck, the one marking on her otherwise pure skin.
Just two tiny pinpricks.
She didn’t even know if she could die, regardless of her vampirism. Being half-demon wasn’t something well-researched.
Two tiny pinpricks.
The only scar that remains, the only link between her life and her not-life.
She had died that day, regardless of the person who stood there, staring at her empty mirror. She had died that day, a part of her that she’d never get back.
Sometimes she wishes that this version of her would join that old self, to finally become whole again in the realms of Death.
Sighing, Marceline affixes a familiar smile to her face, ignoring the foreign ache it brings her.
“Coming!” she calls down to Bubblegum, grabbing a blanket as she walks downstairs.
She’s fine. She has to be. Bubblegum should never see her as anything less—it’s her fault she left, so she swore to herself she’d never hurt Bubblegum again.
Glob, she just wishes someone could see her aching, invisible scars, sitting just beneath her skin.