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Heart stood in his bathroom, staring blankly at the empty, perfectly shiny porcelain of the bathtub, the brightness blurry and hurting his already damaged eyes. He stayed there for a moment, before reaching down to turn on the hot water. Straight hot. He plugged up the drain, watching the water heat up, feeling steam start to rise from the flowing stream. After a second, he moved to start undressing, peeling off his hoodie first. He forgot he wasn't wearing a shirt under it (not after earlier), and shivered a bit once the cold bathroom air touched his slightly battered, bare chest. He tossed his hoodie to the side, in the general direction of his dirty clothes hamper. He then reached for the waistband of his rumpled sweatpants, hesitating for a moment before pulling them down as fast as he could manage. He didn't want to prolong it. Didn't want to feel even slightly close to how he did before. His thighs stung a bit from the abrupt motion, faint smears of violet blood streaking his pale skin, but he didn't care.
Heart's hands stopped after that. He looked down, legs and navel aching with a foreign pain. One he'd never known before but recognized. Knew it too well yet not at all. He closed his eyes for a moment, before throwing his pants away with his hoodie and peeling off his underwear and socks with almost ghostly detachment. He sighed once he had no more clothes to remove, fully exposed— nowhere to hide. He slowly went up to the side of the tub, carefully stepping over the edge and into the scalding hot water. His skin burned and tingled, but he couldn't help but think it still wasn't hot enough. Not to burn away what lingered on him. He just had to deal with it, though. He lowered himself further into the near-boiling water, but it felt like nothing to him. Not anymore.
He sat there for a moment, the bright, blinding whiteness of the bathroom continuing to burn what was left of his eyes. It reminded him too much of The Sun. He hated that, so he closed his eyes, before realizing that he needed what was left of his vision to get himself clean. So he opened them again. He shut off the water, soaking in the burning water for a while longer while he... thought. He hated thinking. Hated anything related to his mind. Both the thing in his head and the other Third he had the curse of sharing this headspace with. After a minute of procrastinating and thinking, he decided he should probably try cleaning off his filth.
He reached for his soap and his old loofah that he'd had since forever, dunking it in water briefly. He squirted as much soap as he could onto the loofah, the scent of overly sweet strawberries clouding his nostrils. He then started to scrub at his skin; starting at his arms, he scrubbed and scrubbed until he couldn't feel anything except the rawness of his skin. He had to get Mind's scent off of him. That sickly metallic smell mixed with cedar and frigid mint— he hated it. Much like he hated everything else about his other half. (How did you let this happen, then?) He asked himself, continuing to drag the soap-covered loofah across his body, now desperately scouring his torso with increasingly frantic energy. He had to get every trace of that wretched automaton off of his skin, no matter how bad it hurt him or how hard he had to try.
Heart's skin started to burn; but he didn't care. Didn't care about anything but cleansing himself of every trace of that horrible, disturbing "ecounter" he'd had just about an hour ago. He continued to wash himself with rapidly growing desperation. He hadn't even noticed the tears starting to form, blurring and obscuring his already horrible vision. They fell hotly onto his arm and into the water, only contributing to the burn and ache on both the inside and outside of his body. He didn't even realize that he had finished washing himself, until he rinsed and cycled over it again, rubbing his abused skin with frantic streaks.
Heart hoped, prayed to Harmonia above (if She was even listening, or alive at this point) that he'd scrubbed off those horrid blue stains on his neck and chest, but he knew that the bruises would linger for much longer and couldn't be simply washed away. He hated that. Hated everything right now, actually. Hated Mind, hated his stupid "punishments". Hated how bright everything seemed. Hated how much he hurt and ached. Hated the fact that he couldn't do anything about this. Hated how Soul wouldn't believe him if he said something. He hated. And he'd hate for a while. He'd hate until these bruises faded, until he didn't have to feel everything yet nothing, until he could speak out, until that stupid fucking crown was knocked right off of Mind's head and he wasn't such a smug bastard. And apparently he'd hate forever.
Heart finally finished trying to tear his own skin off of him, not paying any mind to the soap suds everywhere or the blood running down his thighs. He didn't bother rinsing out his loofah, just getting enough soap off of himself to be deemed acceptable and pulling out the drain. He had to force himself up from the bath, grabbing onto the wall for support as he picked up a stray towel from the floor, unsure if it was fully clean or not. He wrapped himself up in the scratchy fabric, burning pain flaring up his legs as he did so. He ended up on the floor, sitting on a bathroom rug and staring up at the ceiling to the best of his ability. Eventually, the tears returned; not like they'd ever left, just hid behind his eyes like cowards.
Heart ended up with his face pressed into his knees, sobs forcing themselves free from his chest after being lodged deep in his ribs for ages. He sobbed and cried and put on a pathetic, pitiful little show for an imaginary audience. He always did. He was always the center of attention, wasn't he? Ironic, he hated being looked at. Being watched. Being judged. Yet that's the only thing he ever invited with his dramatic wails and woes. Attention. That's the one thing he hated most, even more than Mind perhaps. Or maybe he hated them both equally. Yeah, that sounded more right. His lower organs protested greatly at the theatrical tantrum, aching and pulsing with insistent reminders of Mind's newest punishment.
He couldn't stand the thought of what Mind did to him, but he couldn't stop thinking about it. Replaying it in his head. Almost... Almost wanting it again. But that wasn't right. Not at all. He hated Mind, and Mind hated him. that was that.
At least Heart hoped it was.
Heart continued to cry and sob and wail, his tears a seemingly endless flow despite how much he emptied his ducts every single day. It was pathetic and futile and pitiful, how much he cried. Like he was an endless ocean of tears. He never ran out of things to cry about. That's another thing he hated. Crying. Mind and Soul probably thinks he loves it, but he cant stand the ache of his tight throat and the burn of overused tear ducts struggling to produce enough water for each tear. Sometimes tears didn't even come. It was just sadness and tightness and agony. He hated those moments more.
After Harmonia-knows-how-long of Heart sitting there and sobbing like a kicked puppy, his tears dried for once and his aching ceased, if just for a moment. He stood up on shaky legs, thighs still smeared with blood and sticking slightly to the towel. He winced as he pulled the towel off of the cuts leaking violet on his leg, the towel now also stained with his selfishness. He threw the towel to the side, not caring what it hit, and kept his eyes open just enough to find the extra hoodie and pair of boxers he kept in this bathroom. Eventually, he found them, slipping them on without thinking. He didn't think. Didn't need to anymore. He'd already thought too much, plus it was Mind's job to focus on that.
Heart pushed open the bathroom door, turning the light off and being greeted by comforting dimness. His room was much darker than the bathroom was, and much more friendly to the eye. His sight was worse in the low light, but it didn't hurt anymore. It didn't feel like the light was stabbing him through the retinas anymore, and that was always welcome. He collapsed onto his bed, burying himself into his abundance of blankets and pillows, ignoring the sharp protests and aches his body emitted. He didn't want to think of those right now. He was tired. All he wanted to think of now was sleep.
So, with blood the shade of galactic nebulae seeping into his clothes and the ache of overuse in his lower half, Heart fell into the worst possible sleep he'd had since the first Cacophony. But it was better than staying awake with his thoughts. He hated being awake.