Overwritten

?? : Sickness

MUST-READ BEFORE PROCEEDING

DISCLAIMER: This is a hidden chapter that will not be in the final version. Please keep in mind that this is not from Rebecca's point of view, nor any of the main cast. It contains some things which may intrigue you. It is a glimpse of what is to come. Much like the fleeting moments, this chapter may help those crack the mystery I've hidden in these chapters. Although it is not in the POV of our cast, it is CANON and a part of the lore and the world. However, you do not need to read this to fully enjoy Overwritten, and Rebecca shall continue on the next chapter. If you have any further questions, do not hesitate to ask. Just to restate: This is not Rebecca, she will continue the next chapter.

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Strands of black knotted hair draped over his face, dripping from dirty water that reeked of sewage. Staring up to the broken mirror, whose seven years of bad luck had long since taken their course, he felt utterly disgusted. Not from the water, although the icy liquid dripping from his hair now soaking the back of his shirt was irritating, it was what he saw. That reflection. He couldn't look for more than a second before the nostalgic taste of bile swamped his mouth as he shut his eyes.

He always blamed the smell for the sickness he felt in this bathroom, the stench that still clung days after turning your tap and rinsing your hands, disturbing the layer of grime drenched on the handles. It must have been something he ate, if not, then why else did he feel intense nausea rattling his bones. It was always something, something other than what stared him down that was the route of all his troubles. It was never that reflection.

When he opened his eyes, still dripping from lukewarm water, he stared down at the moldy porcelain sink. By the rusted drain which perhaps was once silver, a spider crawled along the brim. He watched, transfixed, as the legs occasionally slipped on the grimy surface. Legs so tiny and fragile that every time he let out an uneven breath, the anthropoid would sway slightly. It was so tiny, so delicate, so unaffected by its surroundings it didn't even seem to pay him any attention.

He reached in, scarred and tattooed fingers with broken nails gently offering the spider a ride. He didn't even feel its tiny legs move onto his finger. Lifting his shaking hand, the spider continued to crawl to the edge of his index finger, the animal for which he was named after inked into his skin right where the spider lay.

There it was again. That sickness. Staring at the tattoo which the spider crawled across so effortlessly. Perhaps to the spider, it was nothing more than aging ink, or perhaps not even that. As gently as he had lifted it, he lowered his hand, releasing the creature back into the cracked sink. As he let go, he moved to grab the faucet.

His hand rested on the left tap with an obscured yet still intricate letter H inscribed in the center, knowing it had not produced water for years. He turned the water on, slowly at first. The spider didn't sense the incoming tsunami and was quickly dragged to the bottom of the basin, clinging to the edges to escape the black abyss. Even with eight legs, it could barely hold its weight. He turned the tap further clockwise, the gush of water bouncing off the edges and sending small droplets once more onto his face. He didn't seem to notice, still so transfixed on the spider.

He knew it would happen, and it seemed the spider did too. It simply couldn't keep itself up and as a large droplet collided with its body, it fell, with a blink it sunk into the void of the drain with the waves of dirty water. With a squeak, he turned off the tap, staring blankly down at where the spider had been. He couldn't help but envy it. 

"What the fuck are you doing in there?" the rapid knocking followed by the voice of what could only be the voice of pretentious Theodoric Apollo broke him from his trance. He straightened up, carefully avoiding his gaze in the mirror, glancing over his shoulder. That voice was so grating, it made him wish he could join the spide even more

"Whatever I want," he sneered, his shirt still damp from the murky water, a rush of adrenaline from the incident with the spider still coursing through his veins. He knew saying that would set him off, he could see even through the closed door the pursed lips and furrowed brow that covered the face of that traitor.

'They're all connected,' a boy in his unit had once said, 'The pipes- I hear they go to the cities, and if you follow 'em- it leads to the outskirts-'

A few members of other units had been from the cities. Not many, but enough that descriptions and stories of the place spread like a spider's web. It was in every corner of every place, hidden, but there if you stared close enough. But whoever told the story, they always told the same story. They had all been Lowers after all, and so the typical experience hardly ranged other than how many times they had been shot and the clearly false stories of defying the government.

All of them, except for one.

Damien had been a citizen. Not a Lower from the outskirts or an unwritten, but one of them. He had been not a pawn in the system, but a player. A law enforcement officer. Although, according to Damien, 'there's no control in being a player when you're still confined to the rules of chess' - but he had been different. He had seen the game he was playing. He had escaped. He had managed to get overwritten.

Maybe that's why he couldn't get enough of him. 

"Get a move on!" Theodoric's voice reminded him of that sickness he felt when he looked at that mirror. The sickness when the spider swirled down into the dark abyss of the basin. He wanted to drown him, choke him, stab him in any way he could. But he would never get rid of him, even then, even if he tried.

He could never escape the sickness that was his father. Theodoric Apollo.