Chapter Text
Ink lies on the floor.
He could get up, but what’s the point?
He needs to refill his vials.
Why does he need to refill them again?
Ink is lying on the floor. Where’s Broomie?
Oh, now he remembers. It got broken. He’ll have to apologize to them later. He knows how much Broomie hates being broken.
White. Did he not paint the ceiling of this room?
He did. It was the sky. He doesn’t see the sky often.
He moved his head. The room was white. Why is it white.
Where is he? He should leave. He has a job.
—
Ink is laying on the floor.
Everything is still white. He can’t leave. There’s no point in getting up.
He’s a protector. Why did he give himself that role again? No one seems happy when he’s there.
He should let them die instead. No. No. No. No. No. No.
…
What was he thinking about again? Right. He needs to go to work.
He should get up. Is anyone coming over today?
Why would anyone come over? Who’s coming over?
He should stop asking stupid questions.
The room is white, and Ink can’t breathe.
He doesn’t need to breathe. Just like he doesn’t need to eat.
He may look like a skeleton, but he isn’t one. He’s just a puppet. Like the rest of them.
Them? Who’s them?
He should go to work. He’s a protector. A protector of…
A protector of something. He doesn’t know. He can’t remember.
He’s broken. He’s broken and the only one who knows is dead.
Who’s dead? He needs to get up.
The room is white. The room is white. The room is white. The room is white. The room is white.
But, it fits. He’s just a forgotten stain on an otherwise perfect paper. He has free will.
Ink is laying on the ground.
It doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters.