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The city was bustling and crowded, streets filled with the sounds of chatter and addisons calling out their wares excitedly to a mostly unresponsive crowd.
It was an odd day, to say the least, for the staff of the palace—though, they supposed, it was more of an odd year.
They had worked for the city’s queen for a long, long time now, and most thought themselves at least somewhat familiar with her. They’d worn through her ramblings and went through with ideas that seemed ridiculous to anyone but her in her name. They’d seen her enraged, plotting for months on end and making the endless hallways seem dark and tight even as the light poured in from open windows. They’d seen her excited, dealt with her drunk on battery acid—some had even seen her infected with a virus snuck in from the dark web. Mostly, they saw her indifferent—seated high above the people below, a smile plastered onto her face, idly swirling the drink in her glass.
But in all their time in the mansion, nobody could claim to have ever seen her afraid. Nervous, maybe, perhaps a little insecure, but never afraid.
Not like she got when the new resident walked in.
It was almost like watching a tasque stare into an empty space, with so much intensity that a part of you wonders if it sees something you do not. She would watch his movements carefully, her grip on her seat growing stiff and tight, her lips pressed into a thin line. She had never been a good liar, and her fear went undisguised, plain for the watching staff to see. And yet, when they followed her gaze, all they saw was a small, scrawny young addison with thick glasses, over-excitedly chattering with the guests.
He didn’t seem malevolent. Barely 17. Seemed a little dull, if they were being honest—too dull to be plotting anything. And too busy rambling about cars and something called a ‘pipis’ and painting in his room to ever collect any meaningful information if he was. At first glance, he didn’t seem to be anything but a particularly talented, particularly anxious child. Annoying, maybe, but not dangerous.
But the queen’s behavior only grew stranger. She gave him clearance to continue when they found him wandering through the halls well past midnight. There were almost never any consequences for rule-breaking of any kind, and he was given complete control over his scheduling, requiring the other schedules to work around his own instead of the Tasque Manager working them out together (though, he didn’t seem to be aware of that consequence, or that his schedule should have been in someone else’s hands in the first place). The queen gave him permission to clean his own room instead of letting the housekeepers work, and recently, had forbidden them to enter at all.
It didn’t make any sense.
He was a child, barely old enough to qualify for a room here, anxious enough about the rules to have asked them at least five times on the first day to clarify what he was and wasn’t allowed to do in his room when he only planned to put in a few houseplants and paintings, almost small enough to hold in one hand, and yet, the queen was afraid of him enough to force every rule to bend around him.
But, they supposed, this was the Mansion. This was how working for the queen was; you were given nonsensical, erratic plans, hyper-specific yet still unhelpful instructions, and an entire manion’s worth of people to care for, and you did what you could. The queen had always been eccentric and odd, and the kid didn’t seem to be hurt, or to be hurting anybody with his freedoms, so…for now, they would deal with whatever the queen was thinking. They kept their heads down, continued in their work, and whispered in hushed tones about the child who made the queen herself squirm in her seat.
The addison in question lay sprawled out on a messy bed, taking in heavy, labored breaths, staring foggy-eyed into the ceiling and letting the blood that dripped from his ear stain his pillow. The phone was lying next to his head, letting out a Sound that pierced through the holes of his mind and stretched itself through his body, filling up every crevice it could find.
Spamton let his eyes slip closed, wincing slightly at the pain. There wasn’t enough room inside him. Not enough…it couldn’t fit…
Spamton stiffened as he felt the Sound warble and stretch and distort. Why was he still full of everything else? Why was there no room? Why hadn’t he gotten empty yet?
The Sound wailed, and Spamton felt his muscles twitch and spasm. I need to be empty. I need to be empty. I need to be empty. I need to be empty.
Spamton choked, rolling over as something thick rose in his throat. It spilled from his lips, staining the sheets a deep, crimson red as he coughed and hacked. More rose to block his air, and he desperately choked and coughed until it finally fell. More blood, and…meat?
Spamton stared down, feeling his stiff limbs start to shake.
Thoughts threatened to break the surface of his mind, bubbling up through his feeble defenses. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing them not to take shape, not to corrupt him any further. He wasn’t supposed to think ill of Mike. Not meant to be afraid when everything was going how it should. Not meant to…
He whimpered, pressing his hands against his eyes. Take it away. Please. Please…
Graciously, the Sound rose up to cover the threatening thoughts, buried the fear under thick, warm layers of dark, and Spamton took another breath, feeling his body lay itself down again as the shadows spread themselves over him.
Spamton felt stiff.
His mind drifted upward again, letting him be conscious of the ache that covered his body, the movement he felt wriggling underneath his skin. He moaned pitifully, letting his arms wrap around his stomach. The Sound blared in his ears.
Fog ate up his thoughts. His hands felt numb. He lifted one, feeling at the cold, hard skin. It was getting hard to move his fingers. If he looked close, he could see the idents forming in lines around each joint, growing deeper and deeper as the days passed.
He felt something, but the Sound covered it before he could understand it. It pressed up against the walls, desperate, trying to force itself into the forefront of his mind, to warn him, but he simply stared blankly at his hands, blinking slowly. There was an empty space where it was supposed to be. What was it? He…any other person would be afraid, now. Maybe he should be afraid?
No. No, everything was as it should be. He should be grateful that Mike was willing to help him. To calm him. To…
This is…wrong. I don’t…what is he doing? I need to—
Stop it. You’re not supposed to think like that. You’re not supposed to think like that. You’re not supposed to think like that.
This is wrong.
You’re getting better, aren’t you? It’s working. Look at where it’s gotten you. Will you leave it and go back to crawling through the mud, begging people to love you? Will you let yourself slip back into the pathetic, sniveling monster you were just because it’s easier? It didn’t work the last time you tried. You only just made it back here.
Improvement requires pain.
Betterment requires pain.
Devotion requires sacrifice.
Keep going.
Spamton let his hands fall, let himself spread out like a patient on an operating table, let the Sound burrow further and the shadows twitch under his skin. He shut his eyes, forcing himself to stay as still as he was able—not very, considering the way his muscles still convulsed and spasmed, but he did what he could—and silenced the whimpers and screams in his throat.
When he was complete, when he was better, when he was good, then he could stop hurting. Then he could stop being so tired.
It was more than blood and meat this time.
Spamton shakily lifted himself, moving to step onto the floor, but he was weak enough now that he felt himself fall instead. His arms managed to feel too stiff and too loose at the same time, hanging limply from his shoulders, forearms likewise from his elbows. Looking at his fingers, he could see the indents almost forming slits, the skin unnaturally smooth around them. He took a breath, forcing his limbs to move and to push him onto his knees again.
Spamton shook the…pile off of the blanket, letting it fall onto the floor instead. Was he…supposed to be able to survive without that…? It didn’t matter. He had Mike. He–he was going to be fine. Everything was going according to Mike’s plan. All Spamton had to do was keep going, keep moving forward, keep following.
But this—this was…
He needed to hide this.
He took a shaking breath, before reaching underneath the pile to shove it under the bed. It took a minute to get the whole thing underneath, and the texture had been anything but pleasant to touch, but it was done. It was over. Spamton shook his hands rapidly, getting the feeling off.
He felt his hands again, the hardness of his skin. There was still some give, but it wasn’t…it didn’t stretch and move like skin should.
…Spamton lifted himself back onto the bed, laying down next to the still-sounding phone.