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((The first of three prompts Gryff sent me. I understand if you want to brutally murder me after reading this.
Come at me bro.))
It felt kind of like he had a hangover.
His head was throbbing and the room was spinning. There was a sharp, tangy taste in his mouth that he couldn't seem to get rid of; It was coating his teeth and tongue. His face was stuck to the ground, hair drenched in a puddle of drying liquid that he could already tell was going to be a pain in the rear to wash out later. Letting out a groan, he gathered up the courage to crack one eye open, snapping it shut with a tiny shriek moments later.
Everything was bright. Too bright. But also so very wrong at the same time.
There was too much red.
Letting out a gasp, Cyanide sat straight up, the liquid on the floor tugging at his unruly hair painfully. He paid it no heed, twisting his head around to get a good look at his surroundings. There was blood. Blood everywhere. It was almost impossible to recognize the tattered remnants of his shack-like home beneath the thick coating of crimson liquid. The walls were so thoroughly splashed with red that it appeared as if someone attempted a lazy paint job and got bored halfway through.
Gulping, the male slowly got to his feet. He was used to waking up covered in blood; it happened whenever he had one of his episodes. He would usually either tear his surroundings to shreds, breaking his belongings and ruining any fabrics, or, on the off chance he could somehow get out, he would inevitably kill something and drag the carcass home. Usually it ended up being one of the forest's inhabitants, or a house pet, but on one occasion he had awoken to the broken corpse of a young girl, no older than ten, splayed across his couch with her innards open for the world to see.
That was a horrible memory. It had taken him days to clean up the blood, and even longer to forgive himself. For weeks he had stayed locked away in his home, starving himself and clawing at any exposed skin in a daze of self-loathing. It was amazing he didn't die.
But this was worse than that. There was much more blood than he had ever seen before. Too much for an animal, to be sure.
Cyanide squeezed his eyes shut. What happened before he blacked out?
He had been talking to Image earlier. But that had been hours before, during the morning. He had been bemoaning the lack of apple juice in his house, and then Gryff offered to go get him some, because he couldn't go into town, and...
His eyes snapped open. “G-gryff?” Cyanide called, feeling himself start to tremble. He looked around again, studying the blood splatters in an attempt to figure out where they were coming from. The walls were covered, and there was a large puddle near where his head had been laying. Roughly a foot in front of that, there seemed to be a trail of some sort, as if something bloody had been dragging itself along.
Oh no. He could feel the tears well up in his eyes, and had to bite down on his bottom lip in order to stay focused.
The blood trail didn't go very far. It still felt like it took Cyanide an eternity to follow it, however. With each step he took, his trembling seemed to increase until it seemed as though he was rattling down at his very core. Every time his foot hit the ground, he let out another silent plea in the back of his mind.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Not Gryff.
Please no.
Oh God, don't do this to me.
I'm finally happy, please don't do this to me.
No, no, no please-!
“Gryff?” He rasped, his voice strained. His eyes were filled with tears by that point, his vision blurred to the point where he could only make out vague shapes. Despite that, he could see well enough to make out the form of something- or someone- laying in a blood soaked heap.
Cyanide dropped to his knees, covering his mouth with one clawed hand, before quickly pulling it away in disgust. It tasted like blood. Gryff's blood.
He let out a sob that seemed to make his entire chest shudder. “G-gryff, wake up.” He reached out, tentatively putting a hand on what he assumed to be the younger male's shoulder. He was cold. Too cold. Gryff was supposed to be warm. He was alive. Cyanide was supposed to be the unnaturally cold one. He was already dead, after all.
“I'm sorry.” He whispered, his voice so shaky and unstable that barely and sound came out. “Gryff, I'm s-sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
It still wasn't enough. It still didn't change the fact that he had killed one of the only people who had ever thought to show a miserable creature such as himself genuine love and affection. And he had to go and screw it up.
“I'm... I'm sorry...” Cyanide muttered one last time, feeling his head go numb from the stress. He wasn't even aware of the impact as he hit the ground. Just that his tears were now flowing freely, and all he could focus on was the blank, soulless look on Gryff's face.
