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Dylan had stopped counting the days sometime during the first or second week after the accident. Time had long since blurred into the same cycle: his tray of food appeared, the tray disappeared, the lights dimmed, the lights brightened. Sometimes there was the soft hiss of gas before the door opened and the cleaners came in while he was already floating somewhere soft and far away. He never saw them. When he woke, the cell was spotless again.
He hadn't seen a human face in... he didn't know. Weeks. Months.
"Dr. Darling?"
His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder.
"Darling! Casper! I know you're listening. You're always listening."
Nothing.
He paced the length of the cell, his bare feet stomping down against the floor. The tray from earlier still sat on the floor near the glass. Anger flashed through Dylan, and he kicked it. It skittered, plastic clattering, the half-eaten remains of his meal spilling. The sound was too small for what his anger wanted. He kicked the wall next. Then he punched the glass. Again and again. His knuckles split on the third hit, blood smearing.
It'd be gone in a few hours. It always was.
"I didn't mean to!" The words tore out of him. "Roberts, I didn't... he wouldn't stop. I just wanted him to stop. I didn't know it would-I didn't mean-"
His throat burned, the consequences of his sudden outburst.
"Talk to me! Come in here! I'm not going to hurt anyone! I can control it now, I swear I can control it, I just-I just..."
Nobody answered.
Somewhere outside of this room, this House, people were living their lives while Dylan had been left, abandoned and forgotten about, to rot in a box that smelled like disinfectant and his own blood.
Hot rage rose in Dylan's chest, the kind that made his hands shake and his vision blur. It was the same kind that he had felt before Roberts died.
Before he even realized he was moving, he was slamming his palms against the glass, against the smeared blood.
"Darling, you fucking coward! You promised-you said you'd help me-where the fuck are you?!"
His throat burned. He swallowed against it, tasting blood, and screamed anyway.
"Anyone! I'm right here! I'm still here! Please!"
The sound that came out of his mouth next wasn't words. It was a long, shredded howl that left his vocal cords feeling like they'd been flayed.
Dylan slid down the glass, his knees hitting the floor hard. For a second he couldn't make any sound at all - just a thin, useless click of air. Then the sting came back with every breath. His chest tightened with the effort of trying again and when he tried to swallow, it felt like he was swallowing glass.
He pressed his forehead to the cold floor and whispered the name one last time, almost soundless.
"Casper..."
The word left a thin copper film on his tongue.
And no one came.