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He needs to be quick. Lily's demand for tea to be prepared could only buy him so much free time. Minutes, at the most. But he needs to see.
Nearly tipping into the doorframe, eyelids feeling heavier, the lightswitch flicks on, and he closes the door quietly behind. As quiet as he can be anyway, His eyes lag looking over everything. Plastic and purple. Fake. Lily's paradise. Various bottles sit on the counters, all likely either made up brands or officially branded by Playtime Co.
He hadn't noticed it previously, but at the prospect of water, his body had begun screaming for it. In anticipation, his hands felt numb and shaky twisting the knob.
And the water ran. It actually did. He just stands there for a moment, scooping water to his mouth. And he had needed it. Desperately, like his body finally decided to send those signals to his brain and began screaming for it.
Theres a weird tinge in the water, and it grows after he takes several more sips.
His mind clears slightly. Focusing his eyes forward, theres a rusty discoloration in the water. Blood? He pried his body back, even though every instinct in him yelled to continue no matter that.
His head grew fuzzy, throat tightening. The light seemed to pulsate, and the music hadn't stopped. He eyed his reflection for the first time. Butchered, he looked. He dint look much different than they all did, he thought of the images on the tape.
There were so many dead bodies shown in that footage.
If he didnt know better, he wouldn't have even realized thats everything that was laying there.
He swallows down the taste, metallic. Stares. Looks at himself, really looks. His own eyes scare him. Dark and unknown, evil.
What is he now?
What is he doing?
He wants to slip back into that haze. It would be so easy to just continue on doing and doing and doing—but he can't just do that. Shouldnt have ever.
he continues on looking. His reflection seems to stay there, staring at him just intensely as he's staring at it. An selfish part of his mind wants to know. Why couldn't he have just kept on living? But he cant imagine anything outside of this. Just a void. There's nothing.
He thinks od all those empty cribs. All the kids rooms, all the same. How many were tears cried? How many are still? But he can help them. If theres anything he can do is to give them all closure, set them free.
They wouldnt have to scrabble, festering and rotting, awaiting the end, long having forgotten who they'd been.
Blood runs from his hands, pink dissolving into the sink. He's been going about it wrong.