Work Text:
Killer comes to the realisation alone on his bed.
He comes to this realisation slowly, quietly. It creeps up on him and looms, surrounding him without even realising until he’s buried deep under the silence.
He’s lying in bed wearing still sweaty clothes and damp shoes, tangled in sheets that haven’t been washed in months.
Black sludge tears drip down his face from his wide empty eye sockets.
Wide, so wide, and uncaring as he stares up at his ceiling and the many holes he’s made in it over the years.
He’s tired but he can’t sleep. It feels like decades since he’s been able to.
A knife twirls lazily in his hands, sharp edges glinting off the hallway light.
He lets it fall.
And he watches.
It lands an inch from his soul, barely just nicking his ribs as it falls through his shirt.
He barely feels the sting, the static feeling in his bones nearly covering it up.
And he stares.
He stares and stares and stares and stares and
“Oh,” he says.
“I want to die.”