He didn’t think anything through. 

The trial was long, went in circles, and then reached its final conclusion. Squids should be happy that he isn’t dead, right? No. In fact, he was beyond two things. One of them was guilt and the other one was pure anger, which was manifesting itself at the moment.

Slash! Splatter!

Squids was...painting on one of the blank canvases in the Art Room, and roughly at that. He had practically gotten paint all over himself but he didn’t care. The lines were rough and wild from brushes being beaten against the canvas--rarely during the entire process was delicacy being used. Every stroke--or in this case, strike, meant something. One was for Marta’s betrayal (he felt like it should’ve been him, at least now) another for Cole, who he now would potentially never know about. A third, fourth and fifth for Apollo, Matthias and Sousuke. He was not an idiot, he did not appreciate being voted for yet he also did not want to be defended.

Of course, the remainder of the strokes were for Leroy. Squids already didn’t care for him all that much, but he just dug himself deeper into the hole--not like the asshole cared, anyway. Honestly, he wanted to take this canvas and--

Needless to say, he was all over the place. When someone else walked in on him, they could hear him say...

“S-Stupids...stupids...stupids!! I’ms sos stupids! stupids!! I...i’ms....I....AUUUGH!”

When he could feel someone behind him, he said bitterly from behind his back,

It was a  shame, everything had been going so well too. A tie game, neck to neck, back to back...and various other body-touching sayings. Either way, that game was close! And then, darkness. 

Now Squids wasn’t afraid of the dark or what was in it, especially since it was only his friends. What made this predicament interesting is what happened when the lights came back on--everyone looked...terrible. Banged up, screaming, bleeding. It was  a living hell as some could call it. His voice had definitely joined with the cries of pain but soon everything felt alright when his friends were hugging him, and another was tending to a broken arm while several offered to scratch his back. It was very surreal but soon there was nothing more to bare and he was out of there quickly.

He couldn’t handle seeing others in pain--it made him feel queasy. If not for his own issues he would’ve thrown up in the room. Every scream, every visualization...he felt like he could feel it, and too many at once was hair-raising, so he had to go. There weren’t too many options on where to go from there, so he decided to start digging through the prep rooms, beginning with winter. Maybe he could at least find some kind of scratching utility in here--because he sure was tickly-itchy right about now.