You study your hands, shakingly tracing the outline of congealed blood with your eyes. Your body is so empty.
god fuck kill me kill me please god gore dead fuck just let me die
Everything is empty.
shit I can smell you I can smell you so good fuck me kill me burn me eat me
go get the gun
You choke back a sob, involuntarily inhaling the rancid scent of rotting flesh. You roll over your bed and vomit, coating yourself and your belongings in curdled yellow discharge. It seems fitting. It seems beautiful.
You lay in your own filth. You stare at the ceiling. You start crying again.
GET THE GUN GET THE GUN GET THE GUN YOU’RE USELESS YOU’RE HORRIBLE YOU’RE UGLY YOU’RE SHIT BLOW YOUR FUCKING BRAINS OUT YOU FUCKING STUPID WASTE OF AIR GETT H E GU N
You slam both hands on either side of your head and shriek like a beautiful young girl getting her low intestine pulled out, not too fast now don’t you want to see the look on her face as she chokes on her own bile and dies she dies and the last thing she sees is you isn’t that what you want it is so what are you waiting for go get it go get it get it get it GET THE GUN
You sit up abruptly. Everything is quiet. You are in your room. Your room is a good place. It’s your favorite place. All your favorite things are in here. You release a sigh heavily, feeling a lot better all of a sudden. You think it’s about time you got that gun. You stand and walk towards the bathroom, accidentally stepping in the head. A momentary surge of panic takes you and you scream again.
It’s transformed back already.
You know why this happened don’t you you worthless sack of shit you didn’t do it right again aGAIN YOU FUCKING WORTHLESS
Your heart beats faster. On your floor where a young woman had lain, disemboweled and perfect, each organ laid side by side organized in just the right pattern and her face just the right color and her body just the right shape laid
You feel your head smash of its own accord against a wall, your own fist pummeling your face and you don’t even try to stop it because you know you deserve it and, god, there’s blood everywhere again but it’s the wrong fucking one and
GET THE GUN
You’re in the bathroom. You see your own reflection, bleeding and haunted, gushing everywhere is the proof of your own failure, god how you just want it all to end.
You see yourself smile.
Behind its back is the bringer of your retribution, your savior, your hero.
You watch yourself place it in your mouth and you both grin in unison. You chuckle at yourself from behind the mirror, tipping your hat at the person staring back at you. Everything is going to be okay.
You pull the trigger.
Your name is Karkat Vantas and you are going to get a fucking bagel.
Karkat does not like bagels. He hates them. Bagels are shit. He wants to personally throttle every bagel in existence for having the audacity to be an actual bagel. He also goes out of his way every day to go to the bagel shop eight blocks away from his house.
Karkat is kind enough to acknowledge the greeter at the counter with the bird.
This is a fairly new bagel shop. It’s also a fairly small bagel shop, and small is putting it lightly, as it’s only big enough to have two employees, both of which own the thing. One works cash and one bakes. They alternate every other day. He doesn’t know if they are brothers. He really hopes not.
“You ready for another round of order the first thing you see on the menu only to try and can the shit immediately after Mister Vantas,” the ass at the counter says. He’s working cash today. Fuck.
“Shut the fuck up you for one goddamn second you wretched bile sack of a person. Why’s the other guy in the back today? He was in the back yesterday!”
“Sorry bro. Your eye candy got a bit fucked in the head last night by some jackasses who thought it’d be fun to knock around a guy who makes bagels for a living. His face looks like a hamburger. Honest to god he shouldn’t have even come in today, but part of the Egbert charm is being mind-bogglingly stupid. He ain’t even coming to put up fresh bagels for you to not eat, his face is so wrecked. Looks like it’s you and me, buckaroo.”
Karkat opened his mouth. And then he closed it. And then he opened it again.
“So his name is Egbert?”
The self-satisfied smirk fell off of the cashier’s face like a bag of rocks. “Fuck. Great. Now you’re gonna go off and facebook stalk his ass and make versions of you both in The Sims so you both can kiss aren’t you you sick bagel-trashing fuck oh.”
Karkat had already walked briskly out of the store, and was pulling out his phone. He had facebook stalking to do and a livejournal to update.
Your name is John Egbert and your hands are shaking. You don’t even like bagels.