[He doesn't say anything else because he doesn't want to let her in on what's going through his head right now. The floor is definitely clean. He's not drunk or crazy enough to hallucinate. But somehow he feels like it's not clean enough -- it won't ever be. There's a weird, raw impulse in his chest telling him to just keep scrubbing, as if trying hard enough for long enough will erase the actual event along with the blood.
He waits for her to go before he does anything like that, though, and by the time she's out of the room he's repressed that bit of hysterics. Still, sitting alone in the room makes him feel the loss more, and he finds himself wringing the rag in his hands so much his hands are hurting.
After a minute or two, he throws the rag across the room and gets to his feet, marching back to the basement door with a speed a purpose opposite his usual sick reluctance to go there. He doesn't bother hiding the sound of the slamming door.
Obviously it's too late to take anything back from the worms. But that's not what he's here for, anyway. It's just that he's remembered -- everything that's truly his is now in this room. Every bit of the tiny happiness he'd managed to carve out for himself against the wasteland of "useless" and "failure" and "trash" has now been devoured, leaving nothing behind but bits of bone. Now, there's just him alone in his worthlessness, and he doesn't think he can handle that. He can claim Makoto and Shirou as his, in a way. Kariya is still here. But it's not the same. They're all outsiders, things that belong to other people that he clings to out of desperation to feel like he's connected to the world.
They're all just borrowed. What's his is gone.
He's too cowardly to do anything like throw himself in. Kariya would notice anything live in there and stop it, anyway. But he can't think of what he should do, so for lack of better option he sits with his back against the door gives into the gaping hole in his heart and the need to break down and cry so hard it leaves him dry heaving.]
no subject
[He doesn't say anything else because he doesn't want to let her in on what's going through his head right now. The floor is definitely clean. He's not drunk or crazy enough to hallucinate. But somehow he feels like it's not clean enough -- it won't ever be. There's a weird, raw impulse in his chest telling him to just keep scrubbing, as if trying hard enough for long enough will erase the actual event along with the blood.
He waits for her to go before he does anything like that, though, and by the time she's out of the room he's repressed that bit of hysterics. Still, sitting alone in the room makes him feel the loss more, and he finds himself wringing the rag in his hands so much his hands are hurting.
After a minute or two, he throws the rag across the room and gets to his feet, marching back to the basement door with a speed a purpose opposite his usual sick reluctance to go there. He doesn't bother hiding the sound of the slamming door.
Obviously it's too late to take anything back from the worms. But that's not what he's here for, anyway. It's just that he's remembered -- everything that's truly his is now in this room. Every bit of the tiny happiness he'd managed to carve out for himself against the wasteland of "useless" and "failure" and "trash" has now been devoured, leaving nothing behind but bits of bone. Now, there's just him alone in his worthlessness, and he doesn't think he can handle that. He can claim Makoto and Shirou as his, in a way. Kariya is still here. But it's not the same. They're all outsiders, things that belong to other people that he clings to out of desperation to feel like he's connected to the world.
They're all just borrowed. What's his is gone.
He's too cowardly to do anything like throw himself in. Kariya would notice anything live in there and stop it, anyway. But he can't think of what he should do, so for lack of better option he sits with his back against the door gives into the gaping hole in his heart and the need to break down and cry so hard it leaves him dry heaving.]