Sledger: The Sledgening

Chapter 12: Fear of the Unknown

Sorry for the long pause!! This chapter is not my best work ^^; it's p uninteresting

TW:Implied homophobia(brief), implied bad parenting
CW: This one's not that good :'D

–lol–

There's a soft thud(if you could even call it that) as he returns his hand to himself and away from the door. He had just finished depositing his clothing for Medic to take,

“I'll make sure I'll request that you get some extra clothes.”

Medic's voice trails behind him through the door, but he only thinly acknowledges it.

A towel is lazily looped around his hips, swaying with whatever movement he makes. With an exhale he looks around the shower room.

The walls are tiled, off-white in color, probably there to negate possible water damage. The floor is a slate-gray concrete, there's a slight downward decline to the middle of the room where the shower drain is located. There's a shelf built into the wall where two bottles sit on the top shelf, mostly unlabeled aside from the letters ‘S’ and ‘C’. On the lower shelf is a transparent bottle, labeled ‘body’. The original labels had been torn off in favor of the neatly written letters and words.

Above all else, the thing that Sledger takes most notice of in the room is the temperature. It's damn cold. He's almost sure if he were to turn on the shower that he'd be impaled by icecicles.

He'll have to manage, that's all he knows to do.

Damn.

Why is he so moody?

Of course, there's just been too much happening. One day and he's been made very ‘acquainted’ with his co-workers, more acquainted than he wished to be.

Letting his mind skip past this inner monologue, he trudged over to the shower, only to stop in his tracks.

One thing his eye hadn't caught was the mirror in the room, and now to his misfortune, he has and what comes with that is his reflection.

He looks like shit.

The blonde buzzcut he had fought hard to keep shaven has now grown out by at least two inches. Like a neglected garden, it had overgrown into a mess. That's not mentioning how greasy it was.. he really let himself go.

He cranes his neck up, grimacing at the patches of stubble that now freckled his face and neck.

He looks just like dad.

Not that that's a bad thing, of course! He's always looked like his father. No matter what.

Except for one thing.

His eyes.

Mom's sad eye, as pops always called them.

Perhaps he's been looking too far from the bigger picture, because when he looks into his own iris’ he's startled to find that only one of his gloomy, gray eyes remains. The other has taken on a completely foreign color. It's a light, icy blue, his own stare piercing into his soul.

Without meaning to let it leave him, he gasps, clutching at his chest and backing away. His blood is frozen in his veins, his breath caught in his throat.

There's a large, pink scar carved into his face. Like a canyon, it makes jagged canals across his features. The scar's lowest point is  at his jawline, though it creeps up and makes a short stop at the corner of his lip. Then, it crawls over the bridge of his nose. It continues its way up his face like a vine before it escapes into his hairline. The eyelash, brow, and hairs the scar runs over are stained a snowy white.