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He deserves it.
Sunday didn’t do it knowingly, even now he has a hard time understanding where it got twisted so bad he ended up doing the opposite of what he wanted to achieve, but even that doesn’t eliminate the fact that he, in fact, did it.
Penacony has to deal with the consequences, has to climb out of what he did to return to a finally normal life and Robin… Sunday’s main wish was keeping her safe, building things around so she had the happiness she deserved and the only thing he achieved is the opposite.
He truly deserves it, but understanding and coming to terms with it doesn’t make him feel less.
Sunday could feel the anger coming out of the ones who brought him here since the very beginning. Their eyes glared at him even when he was all weak and disoriented and they were far from gentle when shoving him into the chair and securing the chains around his limbs, a part of him even thought they weren’t going to care about the consequences and strangle him when the chain around his neck felt too tight.
It made sense, of course, even if they didn’t know or understand all the details of his transgressions, they were the victims of what he did and their anger was reasonable.
Understanding that, however, doesn’t save him from suffering.
Again.
Sunday was part of one of the most respected families. Wherever he went he was recognised and treated with the respect his position demanded, with even his physical appearance becoming a topic that earned him yet another level of respect and appreciation. And while he had never allowed all of it to get to his head, too focused on his goal, he admittedly got used to it.
Going from that to the complete opposite is yet another layer added to his suffering.
He’s still very aware that he deserves it. He’s now a criminal who did horrible things, expecting to be treated like before is ridiculous, but the cruelty still surprises him.
The food they deliver to him never tastes well. Every time he brings it to his lips he discovers it’s either burnt, bland, over-seasoned or straight up not fully cooked. His stomach protests with every bite, cramping so that pain adds to the one he hard chair and tight chains bring to him.
They laugh at him that one time he asked if they could add a bit less salt.
One, though, looked as if he was going to punch him in the face.
They never ask if the chains are too tight nor seem to care. After some weeks Sunday had managed to control the natural need to strain against their hold whenever he tries to shift his position and they pull at his arm, but they still hurt, even if he’s not moving.
His right wrist has already been rubbed raw by the simple movement he makes to eat, the angry red lines above the metal cuff worsening until the skin finally broke and left him with dried blood on both his skin and clothes. His left is heading in the same direction given he’s trying to use it more to spare his right the pain. The only thing that saves his ankles are his socks, though, he’s starting to believe his luck will also run out with that because his feet feel numb with the lack of movement and moving will probably bring the same result.
Above all, however, it’s his neck.
The steel collar is tight against his throat, the pressure increases when he swallows or even if he shifts his position ever so-lightly, something especially nightmare-inducing when it’s night and he moves unconsciously while trying to sleep. More than once waking up with a start because he can’t breathe and he feels as if someone is strangling him.
Sunday knew mentioning it would do nothing, they seemed to enjoy his suffering, but after weeks of the torture he dared to mention he didn’t want to receive any kind of special treatment, he couldn’t escape the windowless and locked cell, he just wished to rest from the unnecessary tightness.
“Die, would save Penacony from wasting resources on you.”
Sunday has never been a stranger to death. Their mother and a lot of people he knew died when he was still a kid, his own death had already been decided when he was found guilty and his crimes deemed too severe to be punished in any other way, but hearing it like that manages to…hurt.
He blames it on the decaying state of mind he has now, the way what used to be one his strongest traits is now something prone to overthinking and going down a spiral built by his own hands but in the end, it’s not that it matters much. He is in that hole that is an inescapable as the cell that physically contains him and giving it that power is a sentence he added to the one he already has.
That’s when the worst begins.
Sunday didn’t know it could happen, honestly, everything already felt enough to drive a more normal person crazy, but he’s proven wrong few days after voicing out his plead.
With no windows or anything that allows him to see the outside world, Sunday relies entirely on the routine the guards have set and his own body that still tries to retain what used to be his routine while free. His stomach starts protesting around the time food comes and exhaustion pulls him into an uncomfortable sleep when the lights are turned off, reducing his days to night and day in the most simple form, with a single lightbulb controlling everything.
And that’s everything they need.
It starts off with the light turning off when his body still has the energy to keep his eyes open. The entire room is swallowed by darkness so dense he can barely make his own body, the signal clashing against that sensation that tells him it doesn’t feel right. Sunday spends a moment thinking they made a mistake or are just doing it to mess with him, he expects them to turn on again at one point, but it doesn’t and a small voice in the back of his hand tells him that maybe he’s the one who made the mistake and forces himself to fall asleep.
Something tells him he doesn’t sleep that long when they are turned back on but says nothing. Going through his normal day until the same happens again and that spark of confusion grows, mixing with a small but existing spark of worry that makes him wonder if his condition has deteriorated enough he can’t even keep track of his own body.
And then, the lights turn on way before his brain is fully asleep.
The sudden light makes him jump, pull at the chains so they dig more into his skin as he feel his eyes burning with the sudden light, forcing him to close them again until he’s more ready. He opens them again expecting to see someone walking inside to inform him his sentence is being executed right now or that something happened because there’s now ay a whole night has gone by already.
But there’s no one.
No one comes, the door remains shut and no noises come from outside that says there’s someone around, everything is that unsettling stillness that reaches into his mind to leave him feeling anxious and on edge. What are they doing?
There’s no answer, obviously. They lights remain on and nothing comes until way later, the guard carrying a tray of that same horrible food he has to eat doesn’t even spare him a glance as he sets it down and leaves with nothing else. It’s the clearest way he has to confirm they are indeed messing with him, probably a consequence of his request days ago, but the hopes it doesn’t go beyond that.
They will get bored of it.
Eventually.
Hopefully.
They don’t.
The lights are on most of the time, only turning off for such a short time he can’t really call it rest, messing even further with the routine he got used to since he got here, how long has it been? He has no idea and what they are doing isn’t helping. It’s methodical and cruel, taking away the lifejacket from a drowning man who has no energy to continue swimming. Sunday has nothing to know what’s going on outside of here, has no way of telling if it’s night or day and the stress on his body soon aggravates it.
He’s exhausted, with barely enough energy to continue eating, but his body is in too much discomfort and pain to fall asleep. The light feels like the sun shinning right in front of him and trying to turn away is impossible without feeling he’s getting strangled, reducing his options to only enduring and dealing with it.
Something that stops being an option when enough time has happened.
At one point it’s not just the bone-deep exhaustion the lack of sleep leaves him with, it’s not just the pain, it’s, again, his decaying mind that has no idea how to deal with all of it. He’s desperately wanting to control something as basic as understanding how a day works but has nothing to do so. The patterns are too irregular, to the point he can’t even trust his own body and even when he, at one point, is sure he passes out due exhaustion, he’s woken up by a loud hit against the door the feels like being injected some kind of chemical that makes his heart race and feel sleeping is impossible.
The worst is the fear.
Sunday fights it off for the longest time, clinging to everything he was taught as Gopher molded him into the Head of the Family they wanted and needed. He tries to remain rational even when he feels his chest tight and finds nothing to hold onto and that keeps him from becoming fully submerged, but the weak twig eventually snaps and he feels every single thing.
The disconnection with the outside world used to be manageable but now feels impossible to process, he’s desperate to know what’s going on outside of these four walls. Desperate to pull his mind back into a state where he isn’t doubting every single thing he feels and or even thinks because it doesn’t matter how rational and logic his thought seems to be, it still manages to come out wrong and make him feel he’s wrong. Fear is reaching so deep inside of him he no longer knows what’s real and what’s not. He can’t tell if the guards truly look happy about his pathetic state or not, can’t even tell if he truly is bleeding or not.
That’s when the tears come.
He somehow has the mental ability to fight them off at first, aware of what they mean and how allowing them out will mean he has hit the lowest point, but it’s impossible when things keep pilling on top of him and nothing makes it better. They come with the memories of times where he was someone who cried a lot, they remind him of their mother, the way she used to say it was fine if he cried, and they remind him of Robin, how she always knew how to help him.
Sunday is sure they do laugh at him, despite the mess inside his mind, he is aware of the pathetic view he now is, and while he manages to hold their gaze with teary eyes when they walk inside, he knows it’s nothing but pure entertainment, the kind that fils them with pride at knowing it’s because of them. His disheveled, hurt and trembling form is not the one Penacony knew and they enjoy the descent.
He still looks like that when Jade appears.
Sunday still tries to hold himself with as much dignity as possible. There’s tears in the corner of his eyes and dried tear tracks on his cheeks, body mostly slumped over the chair, dried blood adorning his wrists and surely an ugly bruise on his neck, but he tries, going as far as asking her to leave him alone, pretending not to be interested in her offer even when his already collapsed brain perks up at the idea of not dying.
“Fulfill that promise of yours.”
The worst of his injuries are treated before he’s pushed back to deal with whatever life has planned for him. He needs to leave Penacony, he’s still a criminal, the ones who hate him still hate him and wish to see him die and suffer, but Sunday wants to say goodbye to his siter.
He still doesn’t sleep.
He tries, they offer a small room for him to rest before they guide him out and Sunday curls on the bed, closes his eyes and tries to calm his mind enough so sleep can easily come, but he can’t. Every time he feels close to, he wakes up with a start, in the same way he would whenever they came to hit his door and when he gets past that stage, he wakes up feeling he can’t breath, the chain around his neck back to strangle him until he dies.
It’s ridiculous how tired he is and yet, he can’t sleep.
“I’m sure you will find what you look for and will get better.”
Sunday is still awake when he boards the train.
There’s still distrust shinning in their eyes when they look at him, but the edges are softer. Sunday guesses that’s what seeing someone go through a full catharsis that’s mostly about pain and learning to live with the consequences of what you do causes and seeing him leaving his sister surely aided. He’s a temporary member yet Welt has already called him one of his trailblazing goals.
Sunday’s heart flutters yet it is hard to deal with it.
“We will adapt one of the rooms for you, but it will take some time to take everything they shove there,” the conductor sighs. “If they all help, it should be easier.”
“I have already bothered everyone enough,” he says, holding the blanket and pillow closer to him. “I’ll be fine here.”
“That’s no place to sleep!” March argues. “Your back will kill you.”
He doesn’t know what to reply, he has never been good with it and it’s not that he will sleep much or at all. They don’t need to know, though.
“We will get it cleaned in no time,” Himeko hums, patting his shoulder. “For now, rest, it was a tiring day.”
At this point, Sunday’s entire existence is exhausting, but the burning pain on his wrists and neck tells him he can’t just rest. “Please don’t worry, I appreciate what you have done for me.”
One by one, Sunday sees them leaving the area, with the conductor lowering the lights before he too leaves. It is until then that he lets out a sighs and lets his body hit the sofa. His muscles ache, the headache is reaching dizzying levels and yet, he can’t bring himself to lie down. He already knows how it will go, why would he willingly go for it?
But he’s so tired.
He paces around the place for a long time, weighing and considering his options as if he had many, eyeing the blanket and pillow he pushed to the side until his legs feel close to giving out and he ends up returning. Maybe this time will be different, maybe leaving Penacony is what he needed, he’s afar away from them, maybe the small movement he can feel will help.
For a moment, he believes it worked.
His brain slows down, his breathing becomes less erratic and the pain on his limbs diminishes. Somehow, Sunday is aware of the calmness that starts to reach for him, he could cry for how beautiful it is, but it ends too soon. He hears the bang against the door, feels the chain tightening around his neck, the hard chair below him and the adrenaline that makes him jerk against the chains while a dark figure approaches him.
Sunday’s entire body jerks into a sitting position, breathing agitated, vision swimming and every single part of his body aching so bad he is sure something did come here to beat him to death. He was such a fool, how could he—
“I apologise, I thought we were being quiet and—”
His head snaps to the side when he hears the voice, eyes taking ages to make out the two figures that are closer to the other side and recognise them as Himeko and Welt. Sunday feels their increasing worry and he struggles against his stupid body to get his breathing back under control, put on the mask he wears for Aeons know how long, but he can’t, everything is too fresh.
“Is everything alright?” Himeko asks, voice soft. “We didn’t mean to startle you.”
They don’t know it has nothing to do with waking up like that after being startled, how would they know, Sunday isn’t saying anything, but his reaction little by little reveal it. Both step closer as carefully and slowly as they can, Himeko keeping her hands up so Sunday feels no threat while Welt places his cane in front so it’s also visible.
“Sunday?”
That’s when he snaps out of spiral he felt into. His body jerks, chest heaving as he holds onto the edge of the sofa to keep his body from toppling over. “I-I… I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Welt states, brows pulled into a frown. “Please tell us so we can help.”
He shakes his head out of instinct. The head of the House can’t show weakness, can’t crumble under the pressure. He is supposed to be this immovable figure who is supposed to remain standing despite everything.
But the Sunday who boarded the train is just… Sunday.
“I can’t sleep,” he admits quietly. “I haven’t been for a while and exhaustion is catching up to me.”
They don’t need to know the extend of it, the reason behind it, it merely feels… right to say it even when their expression turns even more concerned and they exchange a glance that seems to say they weren’t expecting it.
“For how long?” Himeko asks.
“I… don’t really know.”
It drops like one of those containers made of metal and that makes a horrible sound when they hit the floor. Sunday can feel the way they look at him, the confusing mass of emotions pouring out of them making his chest tighten and tighten until there’s a hand on his shoulder.
“We can help,” Welt says. “You’re safe in here.”
And that’s why he tried, why he thought it would stop once here, but he was wrong and it will happen the exact same thing as soon as he dares to—
“Why don’t you try while we’re here?”
His eyes snap up at her, wide and confused looking for something that says he did hear right. “W-What?”
“We went to collect some data we will be analysing,” she continues. “We were going to do it in the other room, but we can stay here.”
It’s dumb the way he just stares at her for a long time, the words are the simplest yet he can’t just put them together. It’s the peak of ridiculousness, the biggest proof anyone could use to say he has reached his lowest. It’s been a long time since he stopped being a kid afraid of the dark, but the shadow’s plaguing his mind are no longer product of his imaginationg.
They wield a chain to strangle him.
“I could never bother you with that,” he still says, eyes down. “I will handle it, you don’t need to worry.”
The silence that follows seems to say they get it and have accepted it. Something that would make sense considering they haven’t known this version of him for long, so he swallows it all and smiles the best he can. When they stand up he does lament the lost chance, but instead of leaving, they head for the table with another sofa in the corner. Sunday sees them sitting down, pulling out a folder and starting to talk.
It’s weird, of course, his mind doesn’t fully understand what is going on, but seeing them go on with it with nothing else, he decides to settle back, entertaining his mind with his own fingers and a moment later, his phone, moving between screens even when he isn’t’ really paying attention to anything.
Thing is… their voices are soothing.
They are calm, controlled to deliver a volume that is almost pleasant. Sunday can’t understand what they are talking about, but he doesn’t need to, the tone is soothing and after a moment… he starts to reconsider.
He stomps on it forcefully because as injured and tired as he is, he’ still supposed to be Sunday, it’s still humiliating and even when he has nothing to return to or that will need him looking like before, he can’t. There’s also fear. That one that goes deep inside his bones and that tells him the most horrible thing will return, but Himeko’s and Welt’s voice take a more soothing tone and his body trembles.
The exhaustion pulses, that blinding pain behind his eyes leaving him holding on the sofa again as he closes his eyes and little by little lets his body fall on his side. His eyes open again when he’s lying down, the fear reaching into his chest like before, promising the worst like all the other times.
“We still have a long way to go.”
He looks up when Welt speaks again. His body trembles, eyes fluttering, remaining open for as long as the position and warmness of the place allow him to.
Sunday doesn’t know at one point they finally close, he’s still focusing on their voices that say there’s real people there, real people who care about him.
Real people capable of fighting off those shadows.