Crack Of Dawn (Dream x GeorgeNotFound)

Determination

Some days, reasoning with himself felt like a battle. He was split - a part of him wanted to stubbornly push forward and persist, just to defy the odds that were stacked against him.

And then... there was the question of why. Was there really a point? Had he sunk too far into his delirium to adjust back to the life outside the damp concrete walls, in the off chance he managed to make it out alive?

There was an easy way out. An escape method that didn't need to involve walking out the door.

There was a vast array of various weapons lining the shelves. Everything he'd need to execute his plan. Anything from a blade sharp enough to deliver a deep gash across his own throat and bleed out - just like the man whose life he'd taken, or substances to sedate himself into a permanent slumber.

Hell, he'd even take a scalpel to the guts and scoop every last bit of his own insides out at this point, if it meant salvation.

The two opposing sides were eating at him, clawing their way inside his brain as a constant reminder of his situation. And yet, neither of them moved forward nor back, poised on a ledge and stubbornly hanging on, in hopes that the other one would teeter off and fall.

As much as he wanted to take the latter route, he wasn't willing to turn a blind eye to one main flaw that kept him from delving deep into his half-baked plan.

His mind flashed with images of a human-sized bundle of scrap fabric in the corner of the room, then his best friend, bleeding out on a surgical table under a psycopath.

It was funny, how he'd thought a year back that the biggest regret of his life would be dropping out of college to pursue the goal of 'finding himself', only to discover the time wasted chasing after the cliché could've been better spent on literally anything else.

Although that dreamer side of him had kept thinking of what could've been. Of what the future had in store for him.

This. This was what fate had deemed appropriate to bestow upon him. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips and faded into the complete nothingness that was the basement.

And now, he was quite literally staring at his biggest regret. Oh, how he wished he could've gone back in time and just turned a deaf ear to Nick's words.

He kept his eyes focused on the opposite wall until blank blots started to fill his vision. He wasn't sure what he was straining to see.

At first, just an hour after the incident, when his tears had just dried up and the trembles running down his body had finally eased up, he'd taken to fiddling with his leg binds and sitting on the floor with his back against one of the walls, eyes bleary and too tired to focus.

Then, a couple hours later, he'd made his first move with a cautious hand next to him to push him up to stand on shaky legs.

He'd been more determined than ever before in his life. As confidence poured into his movements over the paralyzing shock, he'd walked over to the headset and gone through every single memory he could stomach until he sunk to his knees again, quivering like a brown, decaying leaf against a harsh breeze.

There hadn't been anything "of value", technically speaking. Nothing that could serve as the key that would turn the lock of the front door and let him escape. Just meaningless little tidbits of Clay's everyday life. Even if the memories weren't his, they still took a heavy toll on his state.

That would've been the end of it, if every single one of his thoughts hadn't been tainted with the images of the body. And as soon as the image of Nick's bloodied, tattered skin plagued his subconscious, the memories would twist and turn into the grizzly murder scene, forcing him to replay the events over and over.

And then, after tossing the headset towards the far end of the room and promising himself never to go through the memory archives again, he'd slump back onto the floor and wrap his arms tight around his knees as the seconds ticked by, again and again.

Excruciatingly slowly.

But they passed, and blended into minutes, eventually hours. Those hours turned to days, and although not that much, it was incredibly painful to just... sit through nothingness for that long.

He'd become even more aware of his isolation when days went without a trace of the outside world - no sound, no light, nothing. If he'd resented Clay's presence before, now he was craving even the slightest form of human contact.

He had tried to pass the time in sleep. In fact, that was one of the first things that had come to mind.

But it was as if he was stuck in some sick limbo. A wink of sleep seemed as distant and unreachable as nothing else, and as much as he yearned for rest, closing his eyes did nothing.

He had to wonder whether what Clay said about setting up his 'display' was the truth or not. He'd thought it would only be a day until he'd have to bear the imposing presence again, but that wasn't the case.

Fatigue hadn't even set in after the third day. And by then, acceptance had taken its place.

Acceptance and... determination.

He'd do everything in his power. Everything it took to bring The Daybreak Killer down, as impossible as it sounded. He was up against something inhumane, but the adrenaline in his veins blurred out the insecurity.

He'd do it for his future, and all the futures the murderer had selfishly taken for his own entertainment.

A familiar headset peeked at him from a box he'd hidden it behind out of spite. Even thinking about traversing that unholy amalgamation of dark memories sent a shiver down his spine.

But he had to do it, didn't he? He was in a prime spot to investigate the psychopath's past to secure his life, and he was letting fear get in the way.

A little encouragement was needed. Maybe there wasn't a person around willing to give that to him - after all, the only person around was his captor and George doubted he'd be too ecstatic to assist in his own downfall.

Maybe a little powder would do the trick. Just a pinch of whatever it was that had filled Clay with enough confidence to babble on for their first few days together, and whatever had convinced Nick to trade in a human life for a small box of it.

No one would notice if a little of it was gone, right? He was only taking a pinch, after all.

He walked over to the shelves, popping lids up and back down to peek at their contents. Locks of clumsily chopped dark hair, tubs of paint, random pharmaceutical drugs, pins, needles...

And finally, powder. He slowly dipped his fingers in only to have the substance cling to his fingers as he pulled it up. It seemed this was the only way to scrape together enough courage to go through the memories, and the logical part of him was trying to convince him not to go through with it.

Really, would it be worth the side effects? He'd seen it first-hand - the drug was specially made to be highly addictive. But one try wouldn't hurt.

He brought his fingers up to his face, unsure how to ingest it. After a few moments of awkwardly turning it side to side, he placed the light blue dust on his tongue.

And waited.

A few side effects had been instant - his insecurity had slipped away, only to be replaced with nothing short of euphoria. The racing beat of his heart pounded in his ears, under his fingertips, sending warmth throughout his body.

He rushed through the steps in a hurry in fear that the symptoms wouldn't last long - the liquid, the headset, the blood - and sat down in his usual corner of the room.

He'd spent way too long jumping back and forth between memories before this. It was scarring, and fruitlessly so. He hadn't gotten any more answers than questions.

If he were to find out what was really happening... he had to start from the beginning. The day he was captured.

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1405 words. New chapter will be up tomorrow. It's written, I just have to edit it. It's the usual size, around 3000 words, maybe more. :)