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Something twisted behind his eyes, the matter of his head churning in his clay skull. He dulled, mind reeling, barely aware enough to understand the glow upon his skin, the world shifting under him without a care.
“There’s work to be done,” they say, words weaving between real and not real, threading infinity between his ears so much so it makes his eyes hurt more. “Rest is a gift, and you are not rewarded yet.”
“Fuck off,” he spat, pushing his goggles up and wiping the ire from his eyes.
“Speak to me like an adult,” they say, their haunting voice made of nothing echoing in his mind like it was his own thoughts. “Do your job, fulfill your purpose. Is that not your desire, as I made it to be?”
“I can’t function on no sleep. I don’t know what you think I’m made of, but it’s not the same as you,” he said, the breath of a mausoleum coming out in a yawn.
“Speak with respect,” they stern, stepping closer to the slumped man. Or perhaps the space shifts to reel him closer, he can’t tell.
“I’ll get your shit done tomorrow, it’s not my fault you ask me to do impossible things.” He stretched, his bones aching like they were molting in his muscles.
Space shifted again, or maybe they stepped closer. Violet engulfed his sight, then a cold force rended him by the neck. He choked, grabbing at their wrist, kicking with deprived legs in a vain effort.
“You will do as you’re told, when you’re told. Do not back-talk me, and do not try to excuse yourself. Am I understood?” they snarl, fingers close enough to feel his pulse, loud enough compared to the silence in their veins to make the man squirm.
He choked again, hands clawing now as air wheezed out and never wheezed back in. He gritted his teeth as an act of defiance, struggling against the fact of their existence closing in on his windpipe.
“Everything around you could be turned to dust, and that dust could be less than nothing if I will it so. You are not the one in control here, so do as you’re told and do not make me repeat myself.” A flicker of something casts waves in their brilliant, violet visage, stars twinkling in anger, but the cosmos rippled like a pond in the rain.
They were everything. They were the cause of everything. Something so large it felt like a joke, something so important he wondered why it ever chose him. He felt the stars reflect in his eyes, the vastness of their being only able to be comprehended as something still so massive, so encompassing, so horrifyingly beautiful. Freedom would never be his choice if everything he knew was hand-picked.
He nodded, his lungs folding in on themselves, and his face feeling like static replaced his blood. Tears bubbled in his eyes, marbling a view that already felt discolored like a dream. They turned their head over to the side, then he was dropped to the floor, coughing as bitter air recolored his face and refilled his lungs.
“You’re sick,” he hacked, clutching at his throat, liquid asphyxiation finally being blinked down his cheeks.
“You’re made from parts of me, so what does that say about you?” they ask, looking for no answer from the man who is only fed them. “You’ve done wretched things, and yet I don’t call you foul things. Bite your tongue and put your anger towards something productive.”
He hated them, the words of it dancing with something awful in his mouth, but he refused to spit venom. He hated them, but he wasn’t sure if he could hate something so big. He simply didn’t have enough anger in his body to fill out their portrait.
“Rest if you must, if you simply cannot go on further without it, but know I think less of you if you do,” they echo one last time, before space shifts again, and he’s back in his room with a bruise on his neck and a thicket of thorns wrapped between his ribs.