Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Alone

Waking up was a difficult process.

Then again, it usually was after an episode.

Eyelids fluttering weakly, they closed limply, inky blackness seeping across the edges of his hazy vision. Fading in and out of consciousness, he muttered incoherently under his breath, mouth dry and tasting distinctly of the metallic tang of blood. A gentle throbbing pounded through his skull, echoing through the inches of flesh and muscle to clench painfully tight at his throat.

Forehead pressed tightly against the squelching wet earth, he thumped his face against it, groaning weakly as mud splattered up his features.

Squinting, he glared at the ground, grunting audibly as he attempted to sit on his knees. Every movement shot a sharp bolt of pain up his spine, a familiar ache seeping over his weary form.

"Fuck, fuck- ow." He whined out pathetically- having his spine snap in half and his skeleton drastically change in size was not an easy thing to bounce back from.

He figured he had earned the right to complain about a little bit of joint pain.

Temples pulsating, he grasped the side of his head loosely, slowly messaging at the bruised skin. Spots danced over his vision and he blinked them away furiously, glancing around to notice that his fleshy, suffer puppet of a body had been dumped by the side of a river.

"Wow, thanks."

His other self was just so considerate like that.

Breathing in deeply, he sighed, taking in the fresh countryside air- even if it did have an underlining scent of smoke and gunpowder lingering in the atmosphere.

He must have really fucked some shit up.

He was almost too ashamed to admit that he was proud of that.

What is your body count this time?

Frowning, he stared down at his hands. They seemed to be normal (or whatever constituted as normal for him, in the least)- they didn't have any razor-sharp talons that could tear bodies into shreds, or sore looking black scales. They were covered in a thick layer of dried mud, tiny, hair wire cracks running along the sides that he moved, flaking off in messy clumps.

The blood staining the underside of his nails wasn't worth mentioning.

Spotting his reflection in the dirty, brown coloured river, he took in his exhausted appearance- the dark black bags that clung to the underside of his sockets, the mixture of blood, dirt and nightmarish ooze framing his face garishly.

His horns had seemingly disappeared- which was a relief; they always hurt like a bitch when they popped out.

Tom wasn't entirely sure where they came from- but at this point, he was too afraid to ask.

"You look like shit." He muttered at his pitiful mirror image- reaching out to slap at the surface of the water, distorting his view.

The bastard deserved it.

Tom wished someone would do that to him.

Shaking his head, he squeezed his eyes shut, nausea coiling unpleasantly in his gut.

This was all new to him- he had never half transformed before. Usually, it was a straightforward change- a shift from his human body to his new, large demonic frame. In the lab, it had been different- an amalgamation of the two beings, two separate entities morphing into one consciousness.

Two souls becoming one.

The urge to vomit became too great, and he doubled over, acid bubbling up from his throat to pour out of his gaping mouth. Bile sloshed onto the dirt, along with the remains of the tar-like substance he had cried before. Shoulders shaking, he heaved dryly, spitting out a rather large blob of barely congealed blood that had been stuck in his windpipe.