How to Establish Your Gang and Take Care of the Children in It

Rule 17: Let Your Murderer Work Through His Feelings With Support

Killer woke up to see the red and white skeletons standing above him. The red-eyed one was crouched in front of him, shaking him by the shoulder to wake up. Killer's instincts kicked in and he hit the skeleton's arm away, then hissed quietly in pain as he jarred his still-bleeding arm.

The red-eyed skeleton simply leaned back, holding up his hands. "Hey, it's alright! I won't touch you if you don't want me to. We just needed a way to wake you up."

"..." Killer slumped back down with a shrug. The two skeletons looked at him, varying levels of concern showing in their postures.

The white one bent down and pulled him up by his non-injured arm. Killer swayed on his feet slightly, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness and vertigo kicked in. He really hadn't been taking care of himself, had he? There had always just been too much happening in his head for him to think about food or sleeping.

Besides. The pain made him more alert. So long as he had something to hurt himself with, nothing else really mattered.

Wait, no. He was going to be better. He wasn't going to think about how easy it would be to throw himself into a wall or find a knife to use or stick his hand into an oven or-

Shut up.

Or snap his arm in half or find a pill bottle or-

Shut up!

Or attack these skeletons or find a rope or stab his SOUL or-

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Killer started to dig his fingers into his arm before the white one took his hands and separated them.

"Killer," He said softly but firmly. "It'll be alright. Just stop."

Killer's breathing hitched. But he couldn't find the energy to resist. It was pointless to do anything but allow these two to help. It took too much energy to think enough to resist.

He didn't want to be alone with his thoughts right now.

It was for that reason that he let these two skeletons lead him back to the room where Nightmare and Dust were sleeping and sit him down on the end of the couch. The red-eyed one held up his injured hand and started to take off the blood-soaked glove, pausing when he noticed Killer tense up.

"I need to take it off, Killer," He said gently. "I know you don't like it, but I need to if you don't want your arm to get infected."

Killer didn't relax as the red-eyed skeleton took it off, but he didn't resist either. He did, however, close his eyes as the skeleton rolled up his sleeve. He didn't want to see the sight that he knew was the cause of the skeleton's soft gasp.

Scars. Visible signs of his own weakness, making a terrible picture on his arm. There were burns, cuts, cracks, bruises, lines where broken bones had rehealed. Anything he could think of to make his thoughts go away for that much longer. It was disgusting, how many there were. Couldn't he control his thoughts without resorting to self-harm? Was he that weak, that utterly desperate?

His arm was proof that yes, he was. And he hated it.

When he opened his eyes, his arm and hand were both wrapped in neat bandages, and he cocked his head. It... it was strange, to look at his arm and not see more scars than actual bone. He wasn't entirely opposed to the feeling.

But it wasn't a real feeling. As soon as he unwrapped the bandages, it would stop. He wasn't better. He was just hiding it behind fake progress.

He wasn't going to get better. He was never going to get better. All he would end up doing was get worse as his hopes were raised and shattered once more. But this time he was dragging other people along with him, as they cared about him only to watch him get worse and worse.