Chapter Text
Trophy snapped awake.
He inhaled and squeezed his eyes shut, nuclear hot urgency and pain— pain, lighting up his mind, pulsing from his arm. Like a digging, a stabbing, a—
-
—knocking on his bedroom door.
Tissues squeezed his eyes together, and then opened them.
Slowly, he shoved his blanket away from over his head, groggily wiping away drool from the edge of his mouth. He’d forgotten to turn off the television before he’d finally passed out. It was stuck on the ‘Continue Watching? Yes or No’ page, dull light illuminating the dark room just enough to make out a shadow shifting from foot to foot in the hallway through the door crack.
As his eyes adjusted, he could see through the slight gaps in the curtains that it was still dark out. Tissues wiped the beads of tired tears from his eyes and turned his blurry gaze to the alarm clock on his drawer. He had to blink a few times to make it out:
12:15 AM
“Trophy?”
It was a soft-spoken and hesitant voice, muffled through the door, so probably Suitcase. He could hear others too, he realized as his hearing registered his surroundings past its dull ringing — lots of voices, overlapping each other as if the whole Hotel had just woken up, but they were all too incoherent to make out.
Suitcase knocked on the door again. “Trophy? Tissues? Are you guys awake?”
Tissues sniffled and began making his way to the door, blinking away the phosphates stabbing his eyes and trying to hold in his dizziness. Dull pain radiated from his head and his arms where he’d dug his fingernails into his wrists, small spots of blood beading from the crescent-shaped scars- layered over thin horizontal scars that blended in with the rest of his ghostly-pale body, concealed by his hoodie.
Opening the door, he cast an uneasy glance to the empty, rumpled sheets of Trophy’s bed.
The hallway didn’t lighten up until around 7:00 AM, so the lights were still darkened, thankfully — though light was still present in multiple phone flashlights turned on and moving around down the hall. He could hear softened conversations, yawns and borderline yelling occurring on either side of where Tissues and Suitcase were standing. He was right: the entire hotel was awake.
Further down the hall, others had been coaxed out of their rooms, and were whispering to and arguing with those who had woken them up; Lightbulb nervously talking to a confused Baseball, Paintbrush nearly beginning to yell at Nickel beside each other. Paper’s eyes rolled at Salt, who was complaining entirely too loudly about him to Pepper, a cucumber slice still stuck to her cheek, wearing matching pajamas, black and white. Tissues could even see OJ leaning over the staircase railing with The Cherries’ hand in his, Lefty clutching a small blanket as Righty mumbled something to OJ.
Across the way, Cheesy was rubbing his eyes and squinting at a rapidly talking Fan, Bomb leaning on the doorway behind Cheesy hastily trying to pull on a shirt. Next door to the left, Microphone was still half-asleep but trying her best to listen, hanging off of a very alert Soap talking hushedly to Pickle. Tissues caught fragments of their conversation as best as he could: “missing… okay? you look… nothing… meeting downstairs… found… no service…” Nothing that he could really string together, but his heart skipped a beat when he heard ‘missing.’ The empty bed behind him felt like it was screaming at him. It only made his arms throb harder.
Even though Pickle’s back was turned to him, he could hear from the tone of his voice he sounded uncharacteristically… stoic, almost- hollow. His shoulders quivered, hands white-knuckling Mic and Soap’s doorframe anxiously. Meeting downstairs? Hm…
Most of the hotel had started shuffling down the stairs to the lobby, as OJ and the others tried to herd them over there with varied success. He could hear Yin-Yang yell when he tripped over one of the abandoned moving boxes left in the middle of the hall near the staircase. Suitcase twitched.
Tissues squinted at her, rubbing his eyes.
Her entire body was swaying and shifting with nerves, and her robotic hands tugged at the back of her messy brown hair, empty of any ribbons or other yellow adornments. She wore oversized yellow pajamas and old rabbit slippers. Next to her foot, the crab he’d seen around, someone’s pet, was peeking out at Tissues. She didn’t seem to notice it.
The bags under her eyes were dark enough to rival Tissues’ own, the kind he knew didn’t come from just being woken up in the middle of the night— he was all too familiar with insomnia, because of his condishawn keeping him up all night. For Tissues, it was either sleepless, pain-filled nights or bedrotting and napping in til four in the afternoon.
“What’s— ACHOO!!!— happening?” Tissues asked through a loud sneeze. Several of the contestants’ eyes were drawn to the noise, before flitting away. “I need a full night’s rest because of my condishawn, so what da heck?”
He already had an idea of what was going on, but he was being honest about needing sleep — he could already feel his eyes drooping, filling with tears as he blinked the bleariness away once again.
Tissues was sure the meeting downstairs was serious or whatever, but he was too tired to deal with this right now. He was tossing and turning all night between the self-inflicted pain in his arms and the screaming turmoil in his head.
Suitcase looked over Tissues’s shoulder behind him. He got a weird feeling of deja vu and realized he’d been in this exact position with Test Tube only yesterday.
She bit her lip and her eyes darted to look at him, eyebrows furrowing. “Where’s Trophy?”
Tissues shrugged and sniffled. He tugged his hoodie sleeves over his hands, trying to conceal his nervousness. “Erm. I dunno. I guess he didn’t come back after he yelled at OJ.”
Hearing the heated argument through the door had been nerve wracking, but the sound of Trophy’s feet stomping away and out of the hotel had put his mind at ease- for about two seconds. He’d spent the rest of the time wondering if he should bring the issue of what he’d found in Trophy’s locked drawer to OJ… what would Trophy do to him? What if he was wrong? He didn’t even have any friends and everyone hated him and called him disgusting and gross, and he was disgusting and gross and he felt terrible all the time, he couldn’t do this, what if they didn’t even believe him?
He’d managed to pass out after a while under his blanket as the television droned on, conflicted and full of feelings that made him sick and tired, the pull of sleep a reprieve—
Only to then be woken up at three in the freaking morning on top of everything. Now his sleep schedule was probably gonna be all messed up, ugh, as if it weren’t aready. Freak his stupid baka life.
But Trophy… hadn’t come back yet, which was odd. It’s not like he would’ve spent the night anywhere else. And what he’d found in that drawer… Knife… where was Knife? A glance down either side of the hall gave him no indication he was here, but that didn’t mean anything. His arms and head continued to throb, but now his heart did too.
Was the meeting downstairs about… Trophy? Did he… do something to… It would make sense, really… Why else would he have Knife’s belongings in his drawer? And Test Tube…
Test Tube had visited him yesterday. She’d been asking about Trophy. About him being suspicious or… something like that. He couldn’t really remember much of their one-sided conversation but– what if she was right?
What if she was the one who called the meeting? And she’d found something about Trophy, that explained the locked drawer, the storming off, Tissues waking up for a few minutes in the middle of the night to slamming doors? Something terrible that he’d done? Test Tube probably hadn’t told them yet, but they must know it was important.
Tissues’ stomach turned as he sneezed again, and he got the sudden urge to throw up from all the nerves in him.
“Yelled at OJ?” Suitcase blinked. “Um, alright then… he’s probably just downstairs already… hopefully…” She bit her lip in thought. “Well, if you can’t already tell, we’re having an emergency meeting. Pickle didn’t tell me much, but it’s really important… Sooooo you need to come downstairs.”
Suitcase looked to the right, eyes locked nervously on a specific doorway in the hall. “I’ll be downstairs, in- in the lobby, the lobby,” she choked out. Suitcase gave him a small little smile, strained and obviously fake- probably tired of being around him- and sped as quickly as she could down the hall and the stairs, her head turned down toward the carpet as she weaved her way through the other contestants.
Tissues looked in the direction she’d been staring at. Pickle lingered uncomfortably near it as Soap and Mic walked with him to the stairs, still whispering. It must have been his room. His and… Knife’s room.
That all but confirmed Tissues’ theory. Knife and Suitcase were close, right? Trophy had ranted about the two of them before, so they had at least that in common, along with being in the final four. And sometimes when he was downstairs he’d see Pickle and Knife playing video games together, joking around and teasing each other. (Sometimes he would try to work up the nerve to join them, but was never able to. Especially when Soap looked at him like he was a germ.)
It was all starting to add up- Of course Suitcase and Pickle would be worried about him, if Trophy had done something to him like Tissues thought he had!
Test Tube was down there right now, ready to tell them everything… and Tissues had evidence of all that he had done. Evidence of his bullying, his theft and abuse, that he’d taken something too far for the last time. No one would be her with just her words. But with Tissues…
And Trophy wasn’t here to stop him. He was gone, and he wasn’t here. No foreboding shadow under the bathroom doorway. No constant yelling making him feel shittier than he already did, or kicking him out to spend the night on one of the medical rooms’ lumpy cots after a particularly bad coughing fit. No more isolation: he could have friends if he got rid of Trophy… real friends, something he’d wanted so desperately when joining the competition and failed at so miserably.
It was now or never. Tissues squeezed his eyes shut as he scrounged up the courage to turn back around into the room.
Tissues took the key still on top of Trophy’s entomology book and unlocked the drawer. He could hear everyone else leaving, talking to each other about the annoyance of being woken up in the middle of the night for an unknown meeting as they made their way to the lobby. An unknown, maybe even unimportant meeting to them, but not to Tissues.
He had the ability to stop it all. To be happier, and be useful. He wouldn’t be worthless, and that feeling was intoxicating, having a purpose in this place, to be wanted, it made him dizzy with excitement, it— it.
…why was the bathroom light on?
Tissues shook his head, irritated at his jumbled mind taking him off track. He had to do this, no time for distractions. This was probably the best thing he would do since joining Inanimate Insanity.
He could even imagine how everyone would react…
“What!? Are you sure, Tissues? This is crazy!”
“He has evidence, though.”
“If what you’re saying is true, then…”
Shocked and skeptical, at first, but then-
“Oh my god! I can’t believe we missed this!”
“You must’ve been so scared!”
“You’re so brave, Tissues, we can’t thank you enough for telling us this!”
-thankful and elated that he’d discovered this, and had the courage come forward with evidence-
“Screw that stupid Trophy, right guys!?”
“Yeah, he was such a mean bully- good thing he’s never coming back.”
“You saved the hotel, Tissues! You’re amazing!”
“Hey, we should hang out sometime…”
They’d all love and praise him now for getting rid of Trophy, and he could get another room with a roommate that didn’t bully him constantly.
“I wanna move in with him! He’s so brave and smart!”
“Wow Tissues, maybe you’re not so bad after all!??”
“No, I wanna be his roommate!”
“You’re a hero! You should be proud of yourself, buddy.”
He and Soap could even get along… OJ’s praise… everyone’s happiness and approval… he could finally have friends who wanted him around, and would hang out with him, and care about him… a family…
A family…
Maybe things would be better now, he thought as he walked out of the room.
His hoodie pockets were heavy, but his heart was lightening with every step. He felt more than hopeful, more than optimistic, he was—
-
— beyond pissed.
Trophy had woken up from a fucking nightmare like a child of all things in the middle of the night, and decided he couldn’t take this place anymore; the cold, the pain, all of it. He needed some fresh air and some fucking painkillers, and he needed those polaroids, he needed his camera.
So he’d snuck into the Hotel when he knew no one would be awake.
He was surprised to see the lobby lights still on, though. He could hear people talking. No matter. He needed this.
Trophy crept around the side of the Hotel, to the back where the dumpster was where he’d thrown his blood-soaked clothes out before, and walked up the small stairs that led to the back door entrance that was never locked. It was right next to some of the empty storage rooms, one he was pretty sure Fan used for his dorky podcast or whatever, and the medical room was on the other side of the hotel- so he decided to grab his shit from his room first before anything.
Distant voices drifted through the corridors as he walked up the stairs, pushing open the emergency exit door, entering his room. It sounded like arguing. Probably in the lobby. He ignored it even as his heart pounded; if he was quick, it wouldn’t matter.
Tissues was conked out on his bed and likely not waking up anytime soon, so he made a beeline for the bathroom first. He needed those polaroids more than anything. He wanted to surround himself in photographs, and he would, he would, but he also needed his camera which was still in his room to do that. He carefully flicked on the bathroom light and collected the polaroids, and then he returned back and opened his drawer, tossing clothes everywhere as he pulled on a more comfortable shirt and pants that weren’t covered in dried blood.
He also grabbed his letterman jacket after a few minutes of searching, left in a heap under his bed, and his camera. The cord was gone but he had an extra strap so he put it around his neck again.
He put the Polaroids as well as some extra clothes and his old and bloodied clothing into a dirty messenger bag, one of the few belongings that he’d brought to the island, with the intent to throw the bloodied clothes out in the dumpster when he left the hotel.
He had thrifted the messenger bag in high school- bugs were sewed onto it, beetles and moths and ladybugs and butterflies and praying mantises, ants trailing up the shoulder strap and worms and centipedes crawling along the edges of the bag, sewed with thin warm-toned thread… their bodies made with blue polka dotted and red plaid and green crisscrosses and orange satin and other scraps of fabric. He’d had the urge to learn how to sew for the longest time when he was a kid, but his mother hadn’t approved of it.
His fingers dragged obsessively along the patterned bugs, over the raised thread, just like when he’d first laid his eyes upon it in that shitty thrift store. He’d itched for a camera back then, suddenly inspired to go out and photograph some insects. They were, and still were, his favorite thing to capture.
Except now, his fingers itch to photograph a very different kind of subject.
Trophy shook this thought away as his hands snapped away from the bag. He slung the camera aroud his neck, grateful for the familiar weight, and the messenger bag around his shoulder.
He was idly wondering if he could grab some herbal tea and a thermos from the kitchen on his way down when he heard approaching footsteps.
He froze where he was on the floor, bolting up. He could hear doors being knocked on, people talking rather loudly for the late hour— those contestants from the lobby… why were they waking everyone up? Fuck, it didn’t matter, he needed to grab Knife’s shit from the drawer and hide… The drawer… next to Tissues.
Hunched over Tissues in the dark, his frame concealed by the blanket, he was suddenly possessed by something.
Hatred buzzed his heart. Unable to think, Trophy grabbed a pillow from his bed- ignoring the painful pulsing of his arm- and continued breathing heavily over Tissues’ sleeping body. He didn’t notice as the voices grew louder, or the knocking closer.
All he could think about was how easy it would be to smother him to death.
Really, everyone was so easy to kill. But Tissues was weaker than the average person. Too weak, too pathetic, and why was he allowed to be like that? It wasn’t fair. Maybe that was why Trophy pushed him around so often, it made him feel better about himself whenever Knife fought back and got the better of him, but something about it also just- made him feel powerful. Better than tissues and everyone else in this fucking place.
He hated his stupid fucking roomate, always contaminating his side of the room and being so fucking lazy and bringing down Trophy with him, reflecting the worse most weakest side of himself.
He hated all of them, and doing this- it was the right thing to do.
They really were all so easy to kill. He had the power here. He had the power to do anything.
Slowly with hands trembling from anticipation, Trophy began to bring down the pillow—
A knock interrupted him. Tissues startled awake, and Trophy jolted and cursed softly. He ran for the bathroom and closed the door as quietly as he could. Still breathing heavily, he leaned against it, ear pressed to the side, straining to listen to the muffled voices.
“...ophy? Tissues? Are you guys awake?”
He could hear Tissues stumble out of bed and open the door. The commotion in the hallway was getting louder, and Trophy could only make out fragments of what they were saying over the annoying fucking yapping of everyone in the hallway. After a few minutes of indecipherable talking, he could hear most of the footsteps and voices padding away. He exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when he heard footsteps in the room, meaning Tissues was still here.
Trophy could hear him grabbing something. His meds, probably. The door shut quickly after that.
He waited a moment before opening the bathroom door, flooding the room with light again, and carefully stepped over to the drawer. All he needed to do was retrieve Knife’s things, as well as his own phone he’d left behind in his anger when he’d stormed out of the hotel - yesterday. Only yesterday.
His phone was on the drawer and he placed it in his bag. He took the key that was on his entomology book and moved to unlock his drawer, but it was already slightly ajar. Trophy frowned and opened it, and his blood ran cold.
Knife’s things were gone. The pocket knife, Knife’s phone.
Where the fuck…? His head reeled. No no no no no, where is it?
Trophy frantically searched all around the dresser. Maybe it fell out? No, that didn’t make any sense. He definitely hadn’t taken it out and forgotten. Who could have possibly taken it? He didn’t misplace it, so… the only one…
Clarity hit Trophy suddenly.
Tissues.
He wasn’t getting his meds… he…
How did he find out? Had he really had the guts to unlock Trophy’s drawer??
A heat consumed his chest. He wanted to smother himself with the pillow as his body shook. What the fuck? What the fuck? Nonono, this isn’t happening, what the fuck, oh fuck- Why is this happening to me? Who the hell does that little bitch think he is?? He can’t just- he can’t just fucking do that, this isn’t happening, fuck, fuck, oh S*n…
Nonononono, panic will get him nowhere, why is he-!? He needs to… what can he do? Tissues had probably recognized Knife’s things… he was probably downstairs right now, showing off everything to OJ and every fucking contestant in this damn place - it’d only be a matter of time before the police arrived and everything would all be fucking ruined, why did this have to happen to him- would it all be for nothing!? Nonono, this can’t be happening, he has to- calm down- he can fix this. He can fix this, even though Tissues is—…
Trophy paused.
No. He wasn’t downstairs just yet.
Trophy can… fix this. He just has to be quick about it. He turned towards the door.
Fix this… he felt a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Maybe it was a smile borne from his growing recklessness, his growing insanity, because he felt like he was going insane just a bit, but…
He can fix this. He could do this himself, alone, like he always really was. Always alone. That’s how he wanted it. Trophy’s body shook but his smile remained, as he looked down at his shaking—
-
—hands wrapped around his mouth.
They were rough and sweaty, and their fingernails dug into Tissues’ cheek sharply. He let out a startled cry but found that it was muffled under the hand. Nobody else was around in the area around the elevator where Tissues had just exited, about to enter the lobby for the meeting.
Panic exploded in his head and he began trying to scream out, but that only led to him coughing wildly, unable to breathe, scratching and punching at his assaulter as frantically as he could, but he failed to even stop them in the slightest, only bruised his own hands as his fingers scraped against the fabric of a jacket — he could hear everyone’s overlapping voices fading away, and he couldn’t stop as he was dragged out of the hallway, through a doorway and shoved to the ground.
He fell to the floor with a cry forced from his chest that devolved into uncontrollable coughing. The door slammed shut, the sound of a lock clicking, and Tissues rapidly blank away the tears in his eyes so he could see clearly.
It was… Trophy.
It was Trophy. Standing rigid in front of the door, just staring at him, his arms at his side wearing his letterman jacket, with a slight smirk on his face- eyebrows furrowed just a little, and eyes- eyes that seemed distances away.
Suddenly they narrowed in on Tissues and a cruel expression appeared.
Click!
The flash from Trophy’s camera blinded him for a moment and he saw black spots dance along his vision.
He felt sick.
Trophy was now pacing back and forth around the room, looking around wildly, muttering under his breathe, but still smiling. It was wildly unnerving. He shot a sharp look at him,and Tissues shrunk back, his heart pounding in terror.
Trophy.
Trophy, here, now. Tissues was shaking.
He was frozen in place as his heart sunk to the deepest place it had ever gone.
He recognized the room they were in.
The sterile white walls, the cool floor, the low-hanging chill, the smell of Soap’s ever-lingering disinfectant. The sinks and the cabinets full of gauze and bandages and bitter pills, the tight air bending around the bright, fluorescent lights, and those two lumpy cots, his little miserable corner right next to the air vents.
It was the medical room. He’d spent half of his stay at Hotel OJ so far in here. Whenever his condishawn flared up and Trophy kicked him out of their room, or he needed to refill his medicine.
Soap often cleaned this place, but whenever he was in it she avoided the entire hallway. Everyone did, really, even when he was only curled up in that frigid corner and could barely lift his head. He swallowed bitterly.
Trophy continued pacing, but stopped suddenly- Tissues froze as he began striding towards him. He scrambled backwards but Trophy crouched down and grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, forcing him forwards. His hands shook with rage even as he continued smiling, balled tightly around the dark fabric.
And Tissues could see his eyes. His eyes, alight and crazed.
And then a grin splitting his face apart. Slowly crawling up his face like a bug.
He wondered if Trophy could feel his heartbeat. He whimpered and then bit his tongue a bit too hard. He tasted iron.
“You really thought you could just ruin everything so easily, huh?” He knows. He knows. Burning lowly beneath that smile was rage. He could feel Trophy’s chest shaking with unshed laughter. Like- like it was funny. Like Tissues was just a pathetic little joke, like his attempt to bring evidence to Test Tube, to get help, was, was just amusing and nothing more. It was nothing. He was nothing.
A hollow feeling filled his chest.
Knife’s things were burning a hole into his hoodie. All of Tissues’ worst nightmares were coming true. He was supposed to show everyone the evidence. He was supposed to be loved by everyone, gain a family, never sleep a night in this stupid room ever again, not be killed on the floor of it, paces away from the bed that served his miserable, sickly existence forcing down pills and and coughing his lungs out til there was blood on his hands and his wrists and his wrists-
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Everything was about to be fixed, and it would’ve been hard, but Tissues’ would have been wanted, been clean. He would be loved, nobody would think he was disgusting any more, just a slob unworthy of love or companionship or life, real life.
He couldn’t be killed by his horrible roommate in this room-, in this room that was just like his birth in a hospital room, his childhood in a room like this hooked up to machines, feeling this constant throbbing pain writhing in his throat and stinging his wrists red and wriggling under his skin- and his adulthood where nothing had changed, nothing. A circle of misery. Born sick, live miserable, and die sick. He’d thought he could find an escape, but his life really was just one dizzying circle, one pathetic little joke. A circle like a pill bottle lid. Like an orange bottle. Like flat chalky medicine. Like looping IV lines. Like fingerprint spirals. Like swirling waterspouts spinning and spinning and circling down in a lukewarm bathtub. Like the meat of his palms, his wrists, his arms, his thighs. Like two halves of a crescent-shaped scar.
Trophy scowled at his lack of an answer, but it wasn’t Tissues’ fault his throat had closed in on itself. He wrapped his shaking hand around Tissues’ hair and wrenched him backwards, and his vision split into sparkling stars pulsing pain, as he slammed his head against the rock hard, cold floor. And he did this to Tissues again. And again.
And again. And again. And again. And—
-
—again, AGAIN, AGAIN agAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN!!!!!!, and agaIN, AGAIN AND—
-
“Stop it, Trophy!” Tissues sobbed. He felt somethign trickle into his eye. “I’m-“ Again. “I’m sorr-“ His sobbing devolved into pain-stricken coughing- as staticky white-hotness crawled through his skull, engulfing his head and through Trophy’s hands- another skull-splitting bang, arms scratching uselessly at— no matter what he did he couldn’t—
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t-“ Again, again, his chest erupted in uncontrollable coughing he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe- “mean- to! I’M S-S-“ again again again “SORRY! I’M- SORRY, I’m sorry I’m sorry, please stop please just leave me alone, please stop please stop please stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop sdtop s top s t op s t op. s t o p S T OP STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE HELP ME PLEASE PLEASE PLAESE PLEA S E PLEASE JUST—
-
—“STOP IT, PLEASE, PLEASE TROPHY!” Trophy said mockingly. “P-P-PLEASE, please stop it Trophy, stop it stop it stop it, make it fucking STOP! IS THAT RIGHT!?” Trophy cackled, smashing Tissues’ head against the floor one final time. Blood was caked into the back of his teal hair, into his ear, and his head lolled to the side, eyes unfocused as his lips continued muttering pleads without any coherent words, as he continued sobbing and coughing.
Trophy’s hands unwrapped from his hair. Braced on either side of Tissues’ lolling head, they were bloodied and left handprints on the floor.
“You should’ve thought about making me stop it a long time ago. You did this to your self, you fucking baby.”
Tissues’ continued uncontrollably sobbing and coughing, his face ugly and red, his arms dazedly struggling for purchase beneath Trophy. He was like a fucking child, fragile, all the time. He didn’t have any right to be like this. He didn’t have the right. Trophy’s smile suddenly dropped. A bitter buzzing spread through his chest.
He lifted the camera hanging around his neck.
Click!
A polaroid slowly printed out. It was a picture of Tissues’ scrunched up face, all red, his hair crusted in blood, the tears, the gasping up-and-down of his meager chest. He could see the fear reflected in his fluttering eyes. He could see the glare of the camera. He set the polaroid into his letterman jacket’s pocket and took the camera off from around his neck, setting it off to the side. He stumbled off of Tissues’ body, who—
-
–started groaning. He bit his own lip to suppress the pitiful, stupid noises he was making, but he just couldn’t stop sobbing, it was a frantic thing, a terrified thing, bubbles of hysterical terror and coughing popping up his chest and he couldn’t stop for the life of him, he couldn’t stop if Trophy killed him now.
He watched with half-lidded, diluted eyes and a distracting pounding in his head which had only gotten louder and more sharply painful from this morning, as Trophy struggled with the lock on one of the medical cabinets and pulled out as many pill bottles as his shaking hands could carry. The terror was ice, and he started trying to crawl away, as much as his weak body could.
One of the bottles hit the floor and the lid flew off, sending countless—
-
–pills rolling away along the floor but he just shoved more into his arms. He thought he felt something brush his shoulder, but it was probably just his imagination- maybe he was getting a little too excited. He couldn’t help grinning hard as he saw Tissues try to crawl away towards the door but Trophy grabbed him by the back of his hair, pulling him back into the middle of the room, and slammed him back to the hard ground. He didn’t bother reading the labels of the pill bottles, just fumbled with the child-safety lids until he got them open. The sounds of Tissues’ sobbing began bordering on wailing and Trophy’s hands—
-
—moved to Tissue’s jaw and pried it open. Tissues gagged as he struggled to cough, he couldn’t sob but his chest still wobbled and his eyes still blurred with tears and his heart had seemingly stopped cold as his eyes processed the pill bottles next to Trophy. His arms were still useless, scrambling to try and pull Trophy’s hands off of his mouth or make his mouth close and failing, failing, failing-
The first bottle of pills was shoved down his throat, and Trophy stopped prying his jaw open to force it shut. The pills dissolved bitterly on Tissues’ tongue, clogging his throat until he was forced to swallow it or choke and he couldn’t stop shaking, he couldn’t, he didn’t–
-
—stop until he saw the painful bobbing of Tissues’ throat and then opened his jaw again, Tissues would never make another annoying, stupid fucking noise ever again–
-
—another psychotic laugh exploded out of Trophy but Tissues could barely hear it over his own rushing blood, like he was just a, thing and not a person some old sickly dog being force-fed pills why wouldn’t he get his hands off of his jaw? get off GET OFF PLEASE JUST STOP more pills forced down his throat and he gagged on them, crammed down, emptied bottle after bottle after sterile orange bottle, and his vision began to spin dangerously.
Colors and sparkles exploded, in his eyes and beneath his skin, turning the medical room and Trophy’s vicious smile into a swirling rainbow vortex. He tried to crawl away but- but his arms, his legs his body in pain, it’s all locking up. He could only barely twitch his fingers and he can’t lift or turn his head. His vision keeps swirling and spinning-
He feels light but the pain was still there. What were in those pills? This was giving him all the high without the relief of a painkiller, an amalgamation of lightness and dizziness that made his brain feel like it was soup and dripping grey matter out his his ears and nose, out of his screaming scalp and his eyes and the buzzing was white-hot— He blearily looked up at where he thought—
-
—Tissues couldn’t even move when Trophy playfully lifted his arm, couldn’t even wipe his nosebleed away, Tissues just let it fall back onto the floor with a thump as his diluted eyes stared at nothing. He let out a pitiful fucking whine, and a yelp when Trophy’s hands enclosed around Tissues’ throat- just like they had with Knife- and began to squeeze.
He let his fingernails dig into the soft column of Tissues’ throat. Red blossomed on his pale, sickly skin, blood beading under his fingernails and more smearing onto Tissues’ neck and collarbone from his hands. Tissues choked and his chest heaved, hands limp and twitching by his sides—
-
—chills crawling up his shoulder blades and buzzing in his throat when he couldn’t even lift his arms to try and pry those invading hands off of his exposed throat, soft and wracking up his—
-
—pupils dilated to all hell and crazed-looking. Soon enough he was wheezing and his eyes began to shiver and roll back, so Trophy let off some of the pressure. He raised his hand to his face, mockingly wiping off the trail of tears in his cheeks, leaving a red streak in its place. He could feel as Tissues’ throat bobbed in a dry swallow.
“Do you have to be such a fucking crybaby?” he hissed, lips twitching ever more upward. He felt like his face could split apart at any moment. He was smiling way too hard. “It gets old. It does nothing. It’s fucking annoying, you know? It’s annoying.”
Tissues shuddered and let his eyes slip closed, face scrunched up in agony. “Nuh-uh, wake the fuck up, bitch.” He snapped his fingers in front of Tissues, and when that only gave a flutter of his eyelashes, he forced his eyelids open. The red line under his eyelashes was squishy. His eyeballs looked soupy and red and blue with the angle of his stretched eyelid. Another tear pearled along his waterline.
Why should Tissues get a free pass just by closing his eyes? Fucking cowardly is what it is. At least Knife gave him a fight, even tied to a tree. Test Tube gave him one, but this asshole hadn’t even tried to fight Trophy off before. Just sat there on his ass looking up at him in frozen terror. No anger, no fight. Just weakness and pain. What a fucking privilege.
He hated how familiar those things felt so he let those thoughts fade away when he slammed Tissues’ head against the floor once more, this time by his throat. His pupils lolled to the side to stare at the ceiling and a groan of agony strang up from his throat. His shoulders quivered. Just for fun he did it again, and sharp wheezing burst from Tissues’ drooling mouth. Not like he could fight back with all of those fucking pills he’d injected making him high and docile- or even would.
Trophy stuck his hand in Tissues’ hoodie pockets and took out Knife’s pocket knife and his phone. Just like he expected. The angry heat in his chest grew outwards, nearly consuming the whole of his body—
-
—this sweet-smelling perfume covers the expanse of this disgusting body, sprayed over his hoodie but the smell of vomit of stiff dirty blood lingers, pooling over his thighs, raised along his arms, not enough, just enough relief, and his fingernails—
-
—throw the phone next to his shoulder bag, and tightened around the handle of the pocket knife. A disgusted expression replaced his grin.
Pulling up the sleeves of Tissues’ hoodie. Just like he thought, there were scars from fingernail indents and horizontal slices, some old, most new, layered on his wrists and the meat of his palms, criss-crossing each other, raised above the pale skin, creeping all the way up his arms. “You remind me of myself in the worst fucking ways.” He laughed bitterly. “I’ve never been so much of a pussy to cut myself, but the way you just… gave up. The moment you were booted from the competition, which was just inevitable. I didn’t have any friends either- not like I wanted any- but you didn’t even try. I mean, no wonder, with your disgusting fucking condishawn or whatever the fuck. But the difference between us is I chose to be alone.” Chose to take that picture of Knife, chose to scream at OJ countless times, chose to antagonize Cheesy and Soap and Paper and whoever else, chose to have his offer of friendship rejected by Pickle, and Box, and anyone, everyone in his entire life– “And you?”
Trophy leaned in so close to Tissues he could feel his staggering breath on his face, like a humid, sticky day, struggling to breathe with the emerging circle of red and purple watercolor around his throat- gorgeous watercolor, gorgeous moth-like colors. Suddenly enamored, he reached for his camera.
Click!
The flash made Tissues whimper. He giggled, and Trophy’s hands fisted around the handle of the knife, around Tissues’ scarred, bony little wrist, so thin and pale he could encircle his entire hand around it, the blue-gray veins practically popping out. His fingers twitched.
“You? You’re just fucking pathetic. That’s all you are. You couldn’t even fight back, it’s like- you knew you were destined to die like this. To have this hotel finally purged of your disgusting fucking existence. No more fucking sneezing on me in a closet the size of a coffin or in a cramped room. Isn’t that incredible?”
Tissues’ pupils pinpricked to the size of a fingernail. His fingers trembled in Trophy’s grip, and his throat bobbed, his chest seized suddenly, until he lifted up slightly- unable to tilt his head, vomit poured out from the sides of his half-open mouth, trickling down the side of his head and sticking in his hair to amalgamate with the blood, down his lips and flowing with the nosebleed, beneath his chin- watercolor-purple and red, coughs and gasps of pale white skin like gaps in a canvas, flowing into the sickly green.
The air stunk.
“You’re disgusting,” Trophy spat. Vomit stayed pooled in Tissues’ mouth and around his head, his nostrils expanding and retracting, forced lethargy fighting violently against desperation, his throat blocked and desperate for air. “You’re really, really, disgusting, but you know that. Fuck, I hate you! You’re so fucking weak, it’s like you don’t even… I’m doing you a favor, Tissues. You didn’t even try to fight back. You want this too, right?” Trophy laughed. “You want this! You don’t deserve this, but I’m giving it to you anyway. What the fuck is your life? You never leave our room- and now you’ll never leave this room, I guess,” he giggled again and lined the blade up with Tissues’ wrists.
Trophy slit a dark cut into Tissues’ scarred skin, welcomed by a strained gurgle that made Trophy laugh even harder. Soon the cut began flooding with blood, bright red and fresh, and it filled Trophy’s chest with pleasure, right next to the pleasant hot burn of his anger. “You’re disgusting. You don’t even deserve a quick death. I thought about smothering you before, but that would have been too quick. Way more than you would ever fucking deserve.”
The bright red continued pouring out of the cut, and he made a mirrored one on the other wrist, another two, three, pressed deeper, sawing in, squirting out in a rainbowing, magnificent arc like a fountain and into Trophy’s face, into his eye, splattering everywhere, over his jacket, his shirt, and he found he didn’t care, all he cared about was having found a vein- Click!- having pressed deeper, deeply- Click!- enough to drown out the anger in his soul with Tissues’ pained gurgles- Click!- that pathetic, disgusting part of him that was just like him, just as weak, just as lonely, just as much as a waste of air.
Tissues’ chest continued seizing, barely able to breathe from the vomit plugging his throat. Slowly Trophy allowed Tissues’ arms to flop to the sides, his wrists still hacked open and bleeding out, to plug Tissues’ nose with his fingers. He immediately began squirming, chest seizing once more, eyes crazed and darting everywhere, like a dog with rabies, trying to will his head to tilt or his hands to move and unable too with the rainbow high he was under.
He was drowning in his own fucking vomit while he bled out, while his eyes darted everywhere, desperate, desperate. Holy shit, Trophy thought, shaking in excitement.
“This is what you were finally meant for, Tissues,” Trophy whispered, revered. He knew Tissues probably couldn’t hear him and he didn’t care. Barely even processed the fact Tissues’ ears were bleeding as he gurgled and seized and continued crying, somehow. “It’s incredible. Aren’t you happy?” He giggled hysterically, unable to stop and uncaring that he sounded like a girl, and raised his camera with one hand, the other continuing to suffocate Tissues.
Click!
And Trophy couldn’t stop taking pictures.
Giggling, happily, pleasure and pleasant rage and sweetness all swirling in his vision and filling his every limb, he continued snapping pictures.
He poured an entire bottle of pills on top of Tissues just to see his eyes roll back to his head, to see the pills dissolve in pockets of bitterness amongst the blood and bile and vomit and drool, to see him writhe and his throat writhe and the vomit in his mouth bubble, see his his body writhe in fucking agony as his skin grew more pale, writhe like a pinned-up bug, writhe on the vomit he was suffocating in and unable to swallow from his neck wrapped in sinking bruises, and writhe in the blood he lay on, his own fresh blood, his wrists ruined.
The lens was smeared with blood. How cinematic.
Click!
It was an art piece. A destructive abomination he couldn’t ever tear his eyes away from.
Click!
Like the red and purple bruising on Tissues’ shadowed neck reminding him of a moth’s fuzzy abdomen. A moth’s fluttering wings mid-flight like fluttering eyelashes fighting unconsciousness. And he couldn’t stop.
Click!
Not until Tissues’ fingers stopped twitching.
Click!
Not until his chest stopped seizing.
Click!
Not until the watercolor on his throat, nearly identical to the blotted patterns on a torn wing, stopped bobbing, gasping, finally stilling.
Click!
Not until the flow of vomit and blood stopped with the glazing-over of his eyes.
Not until the gurgling stopped.
Not until…
Click!
Click!
Click! Click! Click!
Like a dead moth that would never fly again or—
-
—flutter, fluttering towards that light pathetically in the hopes it was the moon and you could be engulfed by that light and that happiness it wasn’t the moon it was your medication it was a lie it was a gleam of fire from a lighter with blood on his thighs and it was dying on a hospital bed curtains drawn an IV stuck in your scarred arm alone and curtains drawn and a TV remote and some pathetic joke and a circle and it was
—useless to dream.
“What!? Are you sure, Tissues? This is crazy!”
“He has evidence, though.”
“If what you’re saying is true, then…”
It was useless to think he could be anything other than this.
“Oh my god! I can’t believe we missed this!”
“You must’ve been so scared!”
“You’re so brave, Tissues, we can’t thank you enough for telling us this!”
Dying on the floor of this medical room with nothing but the vomit in his throat, and Trophy suffocating him and watching him bleed out, for the final thing he’d see.
“Screw that stupid Trophy, right guys!?”
“Yeah, he was such a mean bully- good thing he’s never coming back.”
“You saved the hotel, Tissues! You’re amazing!”
“Hey, we should hang out sometime…”
He’d always knew he’d die miserably.
“I wanna move in with him! He’s so brave and smart!”
“Wow Tissues, maybe you’re not so bad after all!??”
“No, I wanna be his roommate!”
“You’re a hero! You should be proud of yourself, buddy.”
He never had a family. He never had a single friend, and he was always so lonely… His condishawn was the death of him. It’d always been…
He and Soap could even get along… OJ’s praise… everyone’s happiness and approval… he could finally have friends who wanted him around, and would hang out with him, and care about him… a family…
Nobody would ever love him now. Not Soap, not OJ. Nobody had before, and it was too late, it’d always be too late.
A family…
Hope was useless. He’d always been dying, but here, now, wasn’t how he wanted to go. Like a germ beneath Trophy’s shoe.
Maybe things would be better now.
He never wanted to die. He just wanted this sickness, this disgusting weakness in him to be purged, so maybe he could finally be happy, be wanted. Have friends, for once. It’s why he joined the competition. But instead it would cause his death.
Maybe things…
He wasted his life in rooms, so many rooms.
Hospital rooms, bedrooms, a life wasted in TV screens and bathtubs and a body that killed him. Just day after day in pain and misery.
Would be…
But it didn’t matter what he wanted.
He was incredible now.
He wanted this.
Trophy was doing him a favor.
He was helping Tissues.
He was helping him.
He was—
Was—............
Was it all for nothing?
Did he really waste his life...?
All because of this body- his condishawn, his dirty soul, his dirty body—
…Better now.
He would never be wanted, or happy, or have friends or a family, not ever.
He wasted everything. He would never be happy, ever.
Maybe things will be better now.
He can’t breathe—
-
—Click!
A brief flash of white light filled the room where the air hung thick and acrid. Blobs of delicious color burst in the whites of Trophy’s eyes. There was nothing in Tissues’. They were rolled behind him, and they were bloodshot. And they were empty. And he was dead.
Vomit and blood pooled on the tiled floor all around him, right next to his gaping mouth, and his still body.
God, it was fucking disgusting, that made it all the more satisfying to see this thing gone forever, and what a pitiful, what a perfectly fitting way to go. Smothering him would’ve ended it quickly, a merciful route, like a mother smothering a baby, or drowning a fucking puppy, but that wouldn’t amount to anything comparable to this. This was true revenge, everything Tissues deserved and was and more. Everything that Trophy ever needed.
Papery and mottled. Just like he was always meant to end up. Alone. Alone, because that’s what they made him. Weak, because he was never allowed to be.
All because of Trophy’s golden touch.
And like a bug, a smile crawled up Trophy’s face.
-
Paces away, huddled in a corner with a white-knuckled hand gripping the activation button on her bow, the other braced against the cabinets-
Taco flinched.