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Just A Nightmare

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tw: character death, gore, descriptive death, violence

word count: 2.4k

genre: angst and gore


“Ph-Phil, we can get you help. Please d-don’t.” Dan stuttered violently with his hands out in front of him for protection. Phil stood across the room, lip twitching dangerously towards his right eye. His dyed hair was disheveled and dripping wet. The sun shone through the window and fell on his wet hair, the colour suddenly revealed. Red fell onto Phil’s white shirt, staining it a horrifying shade. A glistening knife was held in his hand, ruby droplets falling onto his shoes. “It’s okay, Dan. This all part of my plan. Sure, PJ was supposed to die before Chris, but that’s just a minor change.” Phil took a step towards Dan standing there fearfully, reaching out with his unoccupied hand. Dan jerked back, back slamming against their flat wall. “Phil…” the man closed the gap between him and Dan, raising the knife to drag the tip down Dan’s cheek. A line of red was drawn against the pale skin of the boy in front of Phil. Phil could tell that Dan was quivering, and attempted to comfort the boy by putting a hand on his arm. Dan flinched at the contact and the burning handprint on his forearm, and Phil hummed happily at the resistance. “Dan, Dan, Dan. It’s okay.” Tears fell down Dan’s cheek and Phil leaned close, licking at one with his tongue. The salt taste made Phil breathe deeply, making Dan sob. Air couldn't enter Dan’s lungs, making him feel lightheaded and choked. Phil looked at Dan sadly at the noise. His hands trailed up to Dan’s temples and he rested his blood-soaked head on the taller’s forehead. One hand slid down his cheek onto his shoulder, and the nails scratched Dan, making blood pop to the surface but not spill out. Fingertips caressed Dan’s chest, making him shiver. He felt a sharp pressure against his stomach and he took a deep breath. “I love you.” The knife pressed into the soft flesh of Dan’s stomach, slowly going into his guts. Dan exhaled sharply, eyes squeezing shut. His head fell weakly against his lover’s shoulder. The blade turned in his body, filling his brain and body with white hot pain. Dan’s breathing became laboured and with gasps between each word, he choked, “I love you, too, Phil.” In the fleeting moments of Dan’s last breaths, Phil tried to explain himself. “I'm sorry, Dan. I'm so sorry. But I need the voices gone, I need them out of my head. You're the voices, your voice is the voice torturing the inside of my skull. And with you gone, the voice will go, too, right?” Phil’s eyes were wide and bulgy, drool falling from the corner of his mouth. Dan’s knees gave out beneath him and he and Phil slid slowly to the ground, blood smearing on the wall behind Dan. Blood such a deep red it looked almost black spilled into Phil’s lap. He let out a small chuckle, “Black. Look, Danny, you're soul. I've got your soul pouring into my lap. How ironic.” Dan coughed in horror, blood dribbling down his chin. He could feel the knife twitching in his stomach, and could feel it puncturing things inside of him. The pain flooded his body, dulling his senses. Phil’s hands were shaking, and his right hand holding the knife twitched, jerking far the right. The blade dragged through Dan, making him let out a bloody sob. Phil hugged Dan tight, the handle pressing into Phil’s stomach and further into Dan. “I'm sorry. I love you, Dan.”


It hadn't been long since Dan had realised something was weird with Phil. The man spaced off more, and his hands seemed more twitchy. He jumped when someone would start to talk to him. The right corner of his mouth flicked up and down at every aggravating situation and fists slowly became a part of his everyday look. There was an occasion Dan realised that Phil might be dangerous. Dan had woken up in the dark, with the spot next to him on the bed cold and empty. The clock had read 4:17 am, flashing threateningly at his unadjusted eyes. The man turned on the lamp next to his bed, and crawled off the mattress, taking the duvet with him. He walked out the open door of his bedroom. The hallway lights were on and the kitchen door hung open, with a small giggle flowing into his ear. Dan peered into the kitchen to see Phil gripping one of the cactus that used to sit on the windowsill in his hand, and knife in the other hand. The cactus was cut in half, the top half sitting on the counter. The needles had punctured into the flesh of his hand, but Phil didn’t seem to notice. Dan stared at him in worry, and asked, “Phil? What are you doing?” Phil’s head snapped fast towards Dan, cracking with a painful sound. Dan flinched and Phil started talking. “Well I couldn't sleep and I got curious about the inside of a cactus, so I thought I would come take a look.” He held his hand out for Dan to see. There were little red beads on his palm and fingers, where the spines had pushed in. “It's not really what I was hoping for, so I guess I'm curious about seeing the inside of something else. But that's for another time. At least the inside of a cactus still looked pretty. So… pretty.” Phil breathed out the last words and grinned wide. “Let's go back to bed, Danny.” The nickname shocked him, making his eyes widen and his mouth drop. Phil only used that nickname to taunt him, when he was trying to get a reaction from him, but the name slipped off his tongue so easily this time it was like he wanted Dan to not react, daring him to shrug it off and leave. It unnerved him and he simply said, “Phil, your hand.” Phil glanced down at his hand, the plant falling to the counter. Blood droplets falling onto the surface above the cactus. “Oh, that's okay. Let me just wash my hands, and then I’ll be in bed. Go ahead, Dan.” Dan hesitantly took a step back into the hallway, watching as Phil turned on the sink, leaving red on the handle, and washed his hands. He watched as the water slowly turned pink running into the metal basin, and shivered at how he wasn't bothered by the pinpricks. Dan started to walk back into his bedroom, and stopped at the sound of Phil’s voice. He was obviously talking to himself, saying his own name. “Maybe I'm curious about the inside of a human. What about Dan?” Phil paused, and inhaled sharply. In his exhale, Phil continued, “No, Phil! Not Dan, it has to be someone else. Someone else…” he giggled at the thought, and Dan rushed back to his room, mind swirling with horrifying thoughts. Phil came in behind him, though the younger was already in the bed. Phil stood on Dan’s side of the bed, staring at him, searching his face. His voice was stony and emotionless, making the words “I love you, Dan.” seem fake and meaningless. Dan didn't sleep at all the rest of the night, fearing the man next to him. Everything seemed wrong, Phil seemed wrong. Dan deigned to ignore his psychotic actions the night before, as Phil was acting normal and had no recollection of the horrific events. It was soon that Dan had regrets towards the mindset that it was nothing soon, when he walked into the flat to see PJ and Chris lying on the ground, blood pooling all around them, seeping into Dan’s shoes and puncture wounds obvious on their mutilated bodies. He had let out a small scream, clamping his hand over his mouth to block the sound. Bile rose in his throat, burning his mouth as he stumbled back. His back hit a warm body, and fear flooded his body as he suddenly ran forward into the middle of the room, turning to see the killer. Phil stood there covered in blood. Their blood. It looked as if he had bathed in it, the blood soaking his hair and skin, dripping onto his shirt and shoes.


“I’m sorry. I love you, Dan.” Dan’s eyelids flickered, his eyes looking towards his idol’s. Phil looked sorry, a few tears escaping from the corners of his eyes. He cradled Dan’s body with his, watching the light go out of Dan’s chocolate eyes, his pupils expanding and his mouth slackening. His fringe was disheveled, filled with fringe gaps. Phil’s trembling fingers reached up to straighten his chestnut hair, and he tried to remember his face, happy, excited, sad. But he couldn't think. His brain was running so fast it felt like it was going to explode. The voices never ceased, instead growing louder and more crowded. Phil brought his fingers to Dan’s neck, pressing for his pulse. None was found, no warm or comforting beating. “Wha-? Why… why aren't they gone? Why are there more? What's happened?” His voice shook, and he stared painfully at Dan. “Danny? Dan? Dan, are you still here?” Phil couldn't process what was happening, why the voices never died. Dan’s voice was no longer present, and the one voice was replaced by a million more. The noise was overwhelming, his brain pounding in his skull. He panicked, his entire body shaking. Phil fell back, landing hard on his rear. His hands reached up to his head, squeezing as hard as he could. Scrambling backwards, there was screaming in his head, demons whispering in his ears, clawing at his skull, begging for release. Phil’s realisation was sudden, like a blow to the head. It was Dan, Dan’s voice had tamed the voices in his head, not made it worse. His voice was the calming voice, leading him to good. And he’d gotten rid of it. He had released the chaos he never wanted to release. Phil surged forward to Dan’s dead body, grabbing his head and shaking it. He didn't notice that he was screaming, that his voice box was screaming for Dan, for him back. For the sound of his voice to flow into his ears like it used to, for the soothing words he spoke to come back. He sat, rocking himself and Dan’s limo corpse, crying into his shoulder, begging for him back. Everything was loud, white noise playing in his ears. He couldn't hear anything, couldn't bring memories to the front of his brain anymore, couldn't remember. Phil doesn't remember how long he sat there cradling Dan is his arms, crying and screaming, doesn't remember how long it took for the cops to arrive. He was numb, his body weak, regretful. He doesn't remember the feeling of Dan’s warmth leaving him, doesn't remember being pried off of Dan. Phil doesn't remember how long the court cases took, doesn't remember walking into the mental hospital with his wrists secured. But he does remember the looks, the faces all around him, bearing into his skull, bothering the voices. The voices were constant, constant screams in his head. The looks he got, concern, fear, disappointment, worry, and pain. He hated looking at his mum, her tear streaked face. He hated seeing PJ and Chris’s parents, how they gave him looks of disgust when they used to look at him with love. But the worst of it, was staring at Dan’s mum. Seeing the sadness, the anger, the longing lingering on her face for eternity. The woman had once welcomed him into her home, loved him like she loved Dan. Now both were dead to her, Phil more dead than her son. He regret it, he wished he had never thought that Dan was the problem, when he was the solution. He hated himself, more than anything.


Phil jolted awake, his body shuddering up off the bed. The room was dark, his body soaked in sweat. He was trembling, quivering violently on his bed. He couldn't see, he needed his glasses, or contacts, or something. “Phil?” a familiar voice slammed into his ears, making him jump and turn towards the sound. He searched blindly in the dark for the figure he was looking for, the body he wanted to curl up against and cry for years and never let go of. “Dan?” Phil’s voice was weak from misuse, and suddenly light flooded his vision. He blinked quickly, adjusting to the brightness. A woman's figure stepped into blurry view, leaning down to look at Phil. Her teal blue jumpsuit blurred into her face, distorting her features. He looked around the room, staring at the white walls of the small space. He had a toilet in the corner, and a sink next to it. The lady supplied him with a clear pair of goggles, instructing him to put them on. Phil slipped them on mindlessly, staring at the body in front of him. He could suddenly see, and the woman’s looks came into view. Sympathy was the only thing on her face, in her eyes, it was pouring out of her nostrils and falling from her ears. Sympathy came out of her mouth like paint, thick and disgusting. His room in the mental hospital was too bright. Phil looked towards the woman, trying to moisten his dry mouth. “Phil, are you alright? Would you like water, or me to call Doctor Xander?” Phil was in a daze, a thick fog that had zero viewpoint. He was trapped in an everlasting haze, a horrific storm in his room. He slowly later back down on his stuff bed, heard the sheets crinkling underneath his. “Just a nightmare.” Phil breathed out, and held it, feeling his lungs burn. He repeated this action until he felt like he was suffocating, and he suddenly took deep breaths. “Just a nightmare.” He laid there for hours, eyes wide, and his jaw clenched shut. He couldn't remember Dan’s voice, could hardly remember what he looked like. He seemed to be forgetting more, his memory getting worse everyday. The voices were still there, though they had quieted. They still screamed, and they still begged, but Phil had figured out a way to muffle the sounds. The world had become grey, toned down to muted colours and nothing bright. He missed Dan, more than he wanted to get out of this hospital, out of this world. He wanted to be with Dan again, and he would figure out how to find his face, find his voice, find his soft and loving hands, find the hole pressed into his cheek, find what he was losing, what he couldn't remember more and more everyday. His life was a nightmare, just a nightmare.


I hope you guys enjoyed! I know this a really awful fic but I just had the thought one day of Phil going insane and I have a very twisted mind and I too might be insane but yeah glad you read also I am so sorry I love Phil and Dan like so much idk why I wrote this