Predator (DWT x OC)

69

Funny number haha

The hot steam from the shower fogs up the mirror, blurry blooms of grey-white distorting half of my face, hiding the spider leg white scars that crawl up my cheek, the blood smears dribbling away in watery pink lines, tracing down my neck and my arms.

Soap that smells like pear lathers in thin layers of bubbles, swirling up my thigh and stomach, stinging in the grazes on my chest, mixing with the earthy mud and the metallic blood, last nights horrors washing right down the drain along with it. 

The pitter patter of water on the tiles isn't the same as droplets on trees, heavier, denser, not the hollowed out splatters on tough, flat green. The guards screams weren't the same as Fundy's, his were shallow, final gasps in the desperation to cling onto his petty little life. No, Fundy's were guttural, like the very life was leaving him, every howl with every punch, knuckles against bone, fists against face. 

Pretty parallels, woods and showers, horrible men and their well deserved fates, it all blends together in a convoluted mix of bloody violence and brimming satisfaction, of rainfall and haunting final moments. 

I step out behind the hazy class, cold air harsh against the water droplets clinging onto my skin. The worn, ash grey towel is rough against my back, as I wrap it around my chest, squeezing out the rest of the water out of my dripping hair. 

And just like that, the final remains of an unnamed guard scrubbed away, sent down the drain with dirt and sweat and pear-scented soap, gone forever. Like nothing ever happened. 

I walk out of the bathroom and into the bedroom Quackity set up for me, oakwood walls and polished bed frame, cream sheets and a bright yellow quilt, a set of clothes neatly folded on top. There's also a cloth bandage, which I wrap securely around my chest, covering the superficial grazes and cuts from dead tree branches and rocks that I didn't notice last night. It doubles as a bra thank fully, and I slip on underwear I recognise, left behind in the cave, the white cotton T-shirt, and the checkered blue pyjama shorts, that fall to just above my knee, the sleeves of the shirt to my elbow. I use my fingers to untangle the last remaining knots in the ends of my damp hair, brushing it out behind me. 

"I grabbed some stuff from your old house, most of the clothes were ruined though." Quackity explains, looking up from a strewn out stack of papers on the kitchen table, as I walk into the main area of the house, hugging my arms around myself. 

"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Thanks."

Quackity sighs, dropping the paper he had held in his hands, folding them on top of the mess. 

Just what I needed, more emotional, heart to heart bullshit, where people make themselves feel better about situations they will never fucking understand, about things they couldn't possibly know. 

"You killed that guard Rosemary." He says quietly, and I manage to keep the eye rolling internally. 

"That's what you want to talk about?" I almost laugh, I almost fucking laugh, because out of everything that's happened, everything he has done, he wants to talk about some meaningless stupid fucking guard,  who never mattered when he was alive, and certainly does not matter now. "Are you serious?"

"You killed him!"

"Yeah I did Quackity, so fucking what? Who gives a shit?!"

"I do!"

"Get over yourself Quackity." I scoff, sneering nastily. "You lord yourself on this fucking moral high horse, when you have done so much worse than me. I killed a guard, who would have raped me Quackity, did you know that? And yeah, maybe I liked it, maybe it didn't affect me as much as it should, but the fact remains that he didn't fucking matter and he doesn't now. Fundy did worse, but you didn't seem to have an issue teaming up with him, did you? And Schlatt, he's more of a psychopath than me, but you wanted him."