Work Text:
“Kris?” A gentle, motherly voice calls through the bathroom door. Kris's eyes shoot to the handle as it rattles, the lock holding the door shut. “...Honey? It’s late... are you alright in there?” Their pulse thuds hard in their ears, a knot squeezing in their stomach as they try to focus on the sound of the running water instead of the anxious thoughts crowding in. The silence between them is bloated with memories of other nights like this, caught between the urge to reach out and the terror of being truly seen.
Fear settles under their skin, cold and sharp, while shame stings at their silence, a heavy ache that keeps them glued to the spot. They picture their mother waiting, worry carved in her voice, but all Kris can think of is how much they do not want to explain themselves, how much they wish they could just disappear, unseen and untouched by the worries pressing in from both sides.
Exhaustion weighs down their limbs. Their emotions feel tangled and heavy, as if their own body is working against them, a fog they can’t shake. Kris closes their eyes, hoping the sound of the water will drown out everything else.
The darkness behind Kris's eyelids shifts. Their heart pounds as their eyes shoot open and they see a beam of red energy racing toward them. Kris dives out of the way, rolling on the ground and raising their shield. Suddenly, two red blades slam into the shield, pushing Kris back, their feet sliding as they face their attacker, a faceless, gray figure surrounded by a crimson glow. For a split second, the figure’s presence digs under Kris's skin, prickling with a recognition they cannot name. The way it moves, haunted and relentless, feels almost like watching their own reflection.
The light pulses with the same anxious tension in Kris's chest, matching their heartbeat with every attack. There is something unsettlingly familiar about the figure’s movements, the way its shoulders hunch, and the uncertain grip of its blades, echoing habits Kris has seen in their own reflection. The figure’s outline blurs in Kris's vision, growing hazier as it draws closer.
“You know you can talk to me about anything, right, darling?” The maternal voice echoes in Kris's ears. It takes a somber breath before continuing, “I’ll always be here for you.”
“I’m fine,” Kris rebuffs, trying their best to sound assertive, yet the true emotion breaks through. Their voice sounds groveling and exhausted, and almost as if it wasn’t their own.
Kris thrusts their shield forward, bashing the attacker back before charging at them, drawing their sword. The figure steps to the side, avoiding a forward slash, and Kris growls, turning and throwing their arm outward to the figure, landing a blow across the figure’s chest. A deep gash forms on the being’s front as it begins to bleed, staining the gray striped sweater the being wore red.
The being’s head tilts as it stands unmoving, its nonexistent eyes staring directly at Kris. The being absently touches its wrist. Suddenly, a sharp pain flares under Kris's chestplate, as if the wound they dealt had somehow opened inside their own body. They drop to their knees, clutching their chest, panic flaring along with the physical pain that beats raw through flesh and memory both, impossible to separate.
They looked down at their hand as they removed it from their chest; crimson smeared across their trembling fingers, warm and sticky even though no blood marked their armor. A chill crept beneath the heavy plating, prickling goosebumps along their skin as the sterile scent of metal and sweat filled their nose. The ache in Kris's chest hollowed out into a void, stretching wide and raw, while their breath shivered in and out, thin as thread. The taste of copper clung to the inside of their mouth.
Every nerve buzzed with an uneasy cold, the image of the bleeding figure etched behind their eyes, burning with a fierce clarity that refused to be blinked away. For a fleeting moment, Kris clung to the physical pain as if it proved they were still here, each sting and ache grounding them, making their turmoil visible and undeniable when everything inside felt lost and unmoored.
“…Are you sure? You sound… tired. Why don’t you come to bed?” Kris stammers, their hands weighing on the porcelain sink. “I… I can’t, yet, I’m still… in the bathroom.”
“Well, did you fall in?” Their mother jokes, trying to lighten the situation. Kris scoffs and stutters as a slight laugh shakes the breath they speak with, “N-No, I just, uh, have a… stomach ache.”
Each blink drags Kris between the closed-in silence of the bathroom and the shifting, surreal scene of the battle. Kris can't tell if this battle is a hallucination, a dream, or a memory, only that it's overwhelming and all-consuming. The strong scent of soap and the cold touch of porcelain remind them, fleetingly, that they are hunched over the bathroom sink.
Yet even these anchors feel insubstantial, as if with every heartbeat reality is sliding out of focus. But with a flash, the feeling under their hands vanishes, replaced by the trembling earth beneath their boots. A choking panic rises in Kris's throat as they find themselves, once again, face to face with the emotionless being whose mere existence seems to taunt them.
Kris barely has time to register the change before they are met with a knee to the face, knocking them flat on their back. The figure looms over Kris, staring directly into their eyes. This fuels their anger even more as Kris staggers to their feet, forcing shaking limbs to cooperate as they ready their weaponry and charge at the being. The figure evades several slashes and shield bashes, landing blows onto Kris's armor between each of their attacks, each hit chipping away at their strength and determination.
For a short moment, Kris feels as if the figure moves in perfect step with their own, each blow throbbing through their ears. The figure is wordless and rigid, its presence disturbingly familiar, as if it were peering into Kris's own mind. Fury bursts out raw and rampant as Kris yells, using their shield to knock the being back and stagger it. They slash their sword across its chest again, creating another deep wound that begins to drip blood onto the ground.
“You’ve had a lot of stomach aches this time of night recently, dear. Are you sure you’re alright? I’m worried about you…” Kris inhales deeply as their mother speaks, exhaling when she finishes. The hesitation in her speech lingers, just slightly longer than usual, like she's searching for something in Kris's answer. They catch the weak sound of shifting footsteps outside the door, as if their mother is weighing whether to say more.
“I’m fine, okay? Please, just go back to bed.” They bite back a sob, tears beginning to form in the corners of their eyes as they plead. “I’ll be done in here soon.” The figure lunges at Kris, slashing quickly with its two blades as Kris struggles to block each hit.
Their arms grow weaker, small cuts appearing on the unarmored parts of their forearms with every blow. Kris sweeps the figure’s legs, knocking it onto its side and kicking at its head. The figure rolls back and quickly recovers, standing ready. Its movements are almost inhuman, far too fast for Kris to match. A red aura swirls around the figure as it charges up and fires powerful beams of energy.
Kris ducks and weaves between the beams, barely avoiding the burning light, their heart pounding as they rush forward, blocking a steady laser with their shield. The figure pours more energy into the blast, stopping Kris in place. Kris struggles to stay upright, gripping the shield’s handle tightly as each breath gets heavier and each blink lasts longer.
They plant their feet and push forward, step by step, against the energy. The figure stops its attack and prepares another. Kris throws their shield, hitting the figure in the chest and staggering it, then dashes in and unleashes a series of sword slashes. The figure blocks each one with bursts of energy, moving even faster than Kris can. They gasp for breath as their attacks slow, their body giving out while their frustration grows.
Kris hurls their sword down in a blind fury, panic and terror twisting every moment into something raw and brutal. With a guttural cry, they drive their arm back into a crude swing, a Hail Mary at the figure to end their pain, knuckles splitting as their bloody fist smashes into its chest. The being is stunned, motionless in front of them, dropping its guard. Kris doesn’t hesitate; they tackle the being to the ground like a cornered animal, straddling it before beginning to unleash a flurry of blows all over the figure’s form, yelling out with each connected punch, almost as if they felt it on their own body.
Their voice was breaking, the world narrowing to the crunch of bone and the taste of iron on their tongue. It’s not just rage, it’s survival, pure, clawing desperation, each strike a plea for the pain to stop, to matter, to mean something. Every breath comes heavy and quick, fire ripping down their throat with each stunted exhale as each punch thrown comes faster and faster, fueled with the pain from the one before.
“Alright, sweetie. I’m going back to sleep. I’ll be in my room if you need anything, okay? I love you.”
Their mother’s voice radiates throughout Kris's mind as they mercilessly pound the figure’s body, the cracking of bone echoing more and more as their anger grows uncontrolled. Their body can’t keep up with them anymore - their hair, soaked with sweat, obscures their vision as it hangs down in their face. Their hands throb in pain; the only thing keeping them from stopping is the fury they feel, strength like a prisoner tasting freedom for the first time.
Blood begins to flow from Kris's head, just like the figure’s, and as it begins to cough up blood, so do they. It’s impossible to tell if these wounds are real or if they are the echo of something deeper, psychological pain bleeding into the physical world. To Kris, the line blurs; every bruise, every drop feels achingly real in the moment, as if their mind's torment is tearing through the body.
Kris's grunts become screams as the onslaught continues, until it finally comes to a halt. Kris inhales deeply and grasps the figure around its neck. They begin to squeeze with the last of their strength. A long, wide bruise starts to form on Kris's neck as they squeeze harder and harder, and breathing gets more difficult, a sense of suffocation pressing both mind and body as their grip continues to tighten.
Kris's breath tore from their lungs, ragged and desperate, their chest burning as if every gasp might be their last. Their vision fractured, shattering into shards of light and darkness, the world narrowing to the faceless mask before them. Every instinct screamed to let go, but shame twisted inside them, poisonous and insistent, if they stopped, if they faltered, the pain would only follow them back into the world outside these walls.
The figure’s blank face seemed to mock them, silent and unyielding. Kris's hands trembled violently as they squeezed, nails digging deep into flesh that felt sickeningly familiar. Their arms shook with exhaustion, yet some stubborn, wounded part of them refused to release its grip.
From beyond the bathroom door, their mother’s voice broke through, sharper now, fear cutting through the gentle concern. “Kris? Honey, please, answer me. I’m really worried. Kris?”
A fresh wave of shame crashed over them, hot and suffocating. They wanted to call back, to reassure her, but their throat cinched tight around a sob. All they could manage was another strangled gasp, barely audible above the pounding of blood in their ears. It was all unraveling, her worry, the pain, the violence in their own hands.
Kris's fingers slipped, strength guttering out. Their breathing slowed, each inhale a battle, each blink a struggle against the blackness closing in. They felt weak, defeated, and exposed, the echo of their mother’s plea ringing in their mind as they finally collapsed, swallowed by exhaustion and shame.