Crewe
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"Hmm." It hummed and glided back over to her, taking her chin in its long, spindly fingers. Its grip was deceptively strong, digging painfully into her jaw and leaving bloody smears on her skin. It never hurt when Zam touched her, ever. Zam was always so, so gentle. So careful, so scared of hurting her even the slightest bit. The contrast brought tears to her eyes before the pain. "You can see her right now, can't you?" It asked, a mocking smile spreading across its face. "Her body's right here. And she can see you, too, by the way. You should hear her begging me not to hurt you. How pathetically do you think she'd cry if I did anyways?"
"Please," Graecie begged. She didn't care about the threats; she didn't care about herself, except that it would hurt Zam to see her body used that way. "Please."
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The It demon took back control of Zam's body; to save her life, Graecie left everything behind and went into hiding with only It for company. Until she can find a way to save Zam, she's stuck here, and every day is another little step towards despair...
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The lamb bleats in protest, high and in pain. It yanks him out of his thoughts, and to his horror realizes his copper hand has closed so tight around the lamb's wool that there are spots of blood where it's been torn out. Its little hoof strikes his copper leg as it struggles to get away, and he doesn't feel it at all.
"Oh no!" he yelps, and lets go so fast the lamb flounders and falls further into his lap. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry little one, I didn't mean it—"
The lamb gets its feet under it and runs away, calling for its mother. He pulls his knees to his chest and tucks his hands under his arms where they can't do any more damage. "I'm sorry," he says, plaintively, closing his fist around the loose fabric of his shirt. "I would never…"
He didn't mean it. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. He wants to save them.
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Sausage never means to hurt anyone.
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Your life is not your own: this is your oldest truth, your foundation.
You learned it first at three years old, when your mother arranged your arms to hold your newborn sister in your lap, and whispered to you the words that would change you. This is your sister, Nom, you still hear her say in your dreams. You'll take care of her, won't you?
You promised, and you meant it, and you failed; but you tried. Oh, you tried. Katie looks at you now with fear in her eyes. She tries to hide it, looking down at the table, but she can't stop glancing up at you between dice rolls. You look away, trying to make it easier on her. There's so much you want to tell her, so much you still want to talk to her about, but the words get tangled up on the branches growing inside you, caught in your throat, building into one silent, desperate cry: I love you, I love you, I love you, I'm sorry. It's for the best; there's nothing you can say that won't hurt her more.
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Nom, what he's made to be, and what he chooses to do.
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"You're not fooling anybody," 4C says with a sniff. He isn't even looking at him, studying his own nails. "We all know you won't bother."
"Maybe I should," Nom says. "I can talk to Scott. He… he'll understand."
"But why bother? Talking won't fix what's wrong with you."
"Because I can't talk to you."
That gets his attention. 4C turns a withering look on him. "And whose fault is that?"
It always comes back to this, talking to the ghost. "I still miss you," he says, twisting his fingers together so he doesn't reach out for him. He hasn't quite hit that low, yet. "I wish you could be here."
The ghost scoffs, and then Nom is alone again, to brush the crumbs off the table and stand with a sigh.
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Nom is being haunted.
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You dream of coming home: not to the high ceilings and magnificence of the monarch's quarters that shouldn't be yours, not to the bare room in the new knights' barracks that waits for you to mark it as your own, or your cozy cottage hidden below the well; not even to your old bunk, in a barracks long since reduced to rubble, where you spent the worst years of your life. You dream of the home where you used to have a family, back when you were a person. But you open the door and they aren't there: instead he is, sitting on the table, kicking his feet.
Hi, Nom, he says, in a sing-song voice. You shouldn't hurt this much, in a dream. Hey, you dropped this. He cocks his head and smiles; you know, because you know him, that he's taken something from you. He always takes things from you, but he always gives them back, doesn't he? He holds out his hand and sitting in it is your own beating heart.
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Nom is sick, in body and soul.
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