nothing really aside from dark thoughts

the ache


angel's thoughts on mysti, post contamination.

you better lie down cause the angels are watching,
she closed her eyes and said “quit with the talking – you can hurt me, do whatever you like”
so he said: shut your mouth girl, the angels are listening - she crossed herself, now the moments are missing
“you can hurt me, do whatever you like.”

His insides feel twisted – like dark through his bone marrow, it feels like if he cracked it open it would bleed black ichor like poison, like theirs theirs theirs – the twists grow and his stomach curls at the thought. If only they hadn’t become what they are now, rotten and contaminated. There was always rot there, an ick that flowed from their aura, but not like this. This is sharp teeth and laughter too grating and coldness. This is a person who would cut him down all the way to the bone without a second thought. This is a being who would eat him alive.

He knows the former them is in there somewhere, stuck between the hunger of a blood-only diet and a death god’s – no, death itself’s – apathy. No prejudice – but no forgiveness either. He wishes he could pull it back out. Extract it. Make them themselves again (they would say the self does not exist if they knew).

His thoughts on them are cold these days. Ice. Sharp and piercing – through the skin. The skin. God, he wants to go into their lab and grab them and shove them down and feel their skin in his teeth and his hands and all over and blood and saliva and everything else and – he stops the thought. He has enough control to stay away. He wouldn’t do anything in real life (at least he hopes he wouldn’t) but the thoughts, the fantasies are bad enough. Ruminating is not helping him. At all.

Fuck, he misses them. Thankfully he’s with no one else (even his occasional sleeping with Emily has gotten rarer) so the ache is easy to bury, but fuck… A decade and they’re gone now. Just an imposter (isn’t it the truest self? He can hear them taunt) living in their flesh. Burying them beneath that skull (it cracked red open once upon a time and he still remembers the way the salt of his tears tasted in his mouth) and puppeteering what remained.

Maybe they’ll get better (It’s been two whole years of rot, a year and two months to the date they stopped talking) but maybe they won’t. Maybe not. Maybe they’ll be like this another decade. Another century. Thankfully this castle is big (Azrael doesn’t want to leave. Of course he doesn’t want to leave) or he’d be sick all the time with their aura and the missing. And god he misses them, misses that obsession that made his brain constantly dizzy. Misses them as they were. As they may never be again.