[SIDESTORY] Morbit Oneshots

[skinstealer]

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Clutch- 2018

Ringor Mortis, Punch Clock Animal/General Morbit

CW: Torture mentions, grief, abuse implications

Chelsea begins her morning routine. 

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The screams have started up again, a dull but unfortunately familiar ambiance to your morning routine. Whether the sun was actually up was a mystery, but if you woke up, it was morning, and that was that. It was a rule you made for yourself decades back in an attempt to carve out some semblance of a normal, sane existence for yourself, one that didn’t involve hearing the pleas of a doomed man as you scrubbed gristle out of your clothes. Making an arbitrary distinction between “morning” and “night”, it didn’t mean anything to anybody but you- but that was how you preferred it, these days. 

Other people getting involved in your shit never ended well.

You open your crate, rifling through the world’s most sorry looking wardrobe to pull out what little things you have to your name. You check your stash once in the morning, and once before bed, just to ensure Spit hasn’t fucked with it. For decades she’s remained utterly disinterested, but you knew better than to trust the devil herself. 

Today, your inventory is safe: Three outfits (full of holes, permanently stained, absolutely disgusting), a handful of pens (cheap, ballpoint, half empty), the palm-sized box used to carry your scraps (flesh-bound, mediocre at best, distressing to think about), a collapsible staff (somewhat trusty, more useful than anything else you own, good at whacking), and a stack of journals locked with binding scraps, the most current one tucked away at the bottom.

You haven’t journaled in a good month or two, but maybe today’s the day you get off your ass and actually write something, even if it’s trash. Hell, especially if it’s trash. At least it’d get it out of your head, freeing up prime real estate for more torture and death, and maybe, if you’re lucky, something actually worth saving. You shuffle it out with care, trying to ignore the knot in your stomach.

Something falls out from between the pages, and you know what it is without even looking. Every other time you go to write it slips away, and you nearly fall over trying to keep it from hitting the ground. You don’t want to get it any dirtier than it has, lettering already fading around the edges. The note itself held little importance, but the tiny scrap embedded within was your most precious possession, and as with every other time, you can’t keep yourself from looking within.

A laugh, confident and happy even with that gentle, almost invisible undercurrent of unease that you knew all too well. You’re laughing too in this frozen moment, and the feeling of fur, clean and soft against your cheek, makes your breath hitch. You pride yourself on your ability to numb your mind to even the most horrific experiences, and yet, here you are, fighting back tears over the last hug you’d ever received, and probably ever would. 

God, why did they have to be so stupid? So kind, so horribly kind and hopeful, the worst qualities to have in this nightmare job. You cuss them out as you cling onto this scrap, the last good moment in your life, like it’s some kind of tattered life raft that god, you know is going to slip away and you’ll drown, but for now, please, just another moment...

The memory fades and the screaming resumes. You wipe your face before your brain can even properly register you’ve been crying. You were so good at routine, and this had wormed its way in amidst the false day and night, a moment of weakness you despised yourself for, every time.

And like every other time, you tuck the scrap away, careful not to let it fall. You set the journal down in its rightful place, the most delicate part of your day. A few more seconds wasted lingering and you pull yourself together with a sharp, rattling exhale. Today will not be a writing day, and there’s no time to mourn the foolish.

You have work to do.