Getting Worse
Nicholas's form grows less human as his sanity falters. His comrades see this as a problem. He thinks its the solution.
Author's Notes
I wrote this in 5 minutes during a break during a CoC session. No edits we die like men. Toe tap a flea.
“Nick - Nick you’re getting worse.”
Why did that sound so awful? So cruel?
Nicholas is staring at himself in the mirror. Studying every vein as it trailed down from inky black eyes where it seemed like infinity pooled within. The soft glow of green floating within one eye, the void waiting within the other.
He traces the veins, now with an inky black talon to match. It's sharp - it’ll pierce the skin if he’s not too careful. Maybe he shouldn’t be careful.
Pots and pans shuffle through the wall. Beau’s making dinner - diligent as always. He loves that man, so much. It's the only thing that overrides the guilt.
Daphne’s staying on the couch as she doesn’t want to be alone. Nicholas understands - the last thing he wants is for her to be any more terrified than she already is.
“You’re getting worse.”
Laughter. He hears his own laughter before he registers making the sound. Feels something wet sliding down his face before he feels the pain. Before he notices he’s crying.
Worse? Is this worse? Put aside the Lady of the Veil and what they’ve done, letting that all aside for just a second before it overtakes his consciousness, he feels free. The talons feel like something he always needed, when he was scared, lonely, helpless. Something to slash at those encroaching in, something to defend himself with.
He’s folding in. Arms folded on the porcelain sink, head rested on them. They make the ceramic screech when they scratch at it, but it's more accurate a sound than any he could make with his own voice. The surface screaming for him.
“This is worse. This is worse, I’ll fix it.”
Why is he speaking? Is he trying to convince himself? It should be true. It’s true - apparently.
Why can’t he believe it?
It takes a second. A moment full of tears, an outburst of pure raw emotion he wouldn’t want anyone to see. Not Beau, not Jack, especially not Daphne or Evelyn. The tears run black like oil, his voice hoarse and strained from holding it all in for as long as it took for him to feel like everyone was taken care of.
Damn him and his own heart.
“If this is worse, than damn me to hell,” it was a thought originally, but now it’s out into the world, as his breath evens out, he taps his face dry, places a bandage on the wound - much deeper than he thought it was.
Standing up, centering gravity once more, and walking out.
Getting worse.