Work Text:
As Gregor Samsa woke up from unsettling dreams, he was alone.
The hospital room was white and stale. The beeping of the monitor was pounding in his ears, assaulting his already sensitive senses. It was like this every morning, every afternoon, every evening, and every night.
He would wake up, look around, stare at the ceiling, refuse to eat whatever was given to him, and fall asleep again.
He doesn't see a lot of people anymore. Hohenheim, on occasion, checked his physical condition, but that was about it. Strangers walk past his room. Sometimes his coworkers stand outside. But that was everything.
He sat there quietly, the lights strained his eyes, he was cold, but he was also sweating. He doesn't know what to do.
He stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours, thinks about everything he's done, wondering where it all went wrong. There's nothing he thought could have triggered his sudden metamorphosis. Was it Valencina's boasting? Or was it just him? Was it just his fault?
Heathcliff and Rodion must hate him now. He doesn't even want to start with Vergilius. He couldn't control himself, and now he's ruined it all. Heathcliff will never look at him the same way again. No more loving looks at the back of the bus. No more fingers brushing through his hair. No more hands to embrace him.
He's completely alone. Nobody will love him anymore.
He quietly hunched over, his human hand clenching the sheets like his life depended on it. It was the most amount of strength he has shown in the past few days, ever since he was just dumped inside of this room without any way out. Just like when he was young.
It always comes back to this. No matter who he meets, no matter what he decides to do, he always ends up in a stale and empty room. He sees it now.
His vision blurred. Small drops of water falling onto the thin sheets. He's been doomed from the start, and there's absolutely nothing he can do about it. He feels hopeless.
In the empty room he has been confined in, Gregor Samsa weeps.