Work Text:
After Cater entered his room and locked the door behind him, he slumped onto the floor. It had been such a long day. He hadn’t even had a moment in the bathroom to let his mask drop.
He massaged his temples and imagined himself slicing his thighs into shredded cheese, blood dripping down his legs from each cut. Unfortunately for him, he had done that last night. His skin was still raw and speckled with dried blood. He wouldn’t get the effect he wanted if he repeated it tonight.
He needed an outlet. He needed pain.
The clone was then standing there, waiting. Cater stood up and stared “himself” in the eye. Cater punched the stupid thing. Again and again.
He felt a slight ache—nothing more than a whisper—of pain being connected back to him by the clone. He wished he could feel its pain in full.
Cater straddled the clone as he continued to pummel his fists into the figure. Blood stuck to his fists every time he pulled back to hit again. The clone just lied there and received the violent attack without a word or movement. Cater was making it behave this way. Defiance would only be annoying.
After a particularly hard punch, the clone seemed to go unconscious. Cater felt a sharp pain throughout his whole body. His ability was informing him of his clone’s lack of consciousness. That was helpful anytime but now. He sat back and panted out the last of his air.
Blood was all over his knuckles, most of it from the horribly broken nose of the clone. Some blood had sprayed onto the wood floors. The clone quickly disappeared as Cater scrambled to wipe the blood up before it dried.
After cleaning up all the blood,—including the stuff on his fists—Cater lie down in his bed. He luckily had no duties to attend to for Heartslabyul this afternoon. He slipped his phone out of his pocket and opened Magicam.
He let his brain disappear for a bit as he fell into the routine of scroll, read, like, repeat. This state of his made everything else quiet; like feeding a barking dog to make it shut up for just a moment.
Cater was aware of his horrid addiction to the internet. He didn’t care as much as he should. It wasn’t the worst of his issues. It made him feel a bit better without needing blood; how could it be so concerning as adults make it out to be?
He was fine. As long as he had dripping blood and his phone, he was fine.