Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mob feels nothing.

Sitting at the dinner table, his mind wanders. Plates are set out, and although he helps, the bugging emotion of wrong doesn’t waver. Lost, confused, weirded out — his hands feel odd, laid out in front of him as he picks his food. It's like someone has carved a hole in them and made him the illusion of a full, working hand. It makes him queasy. 

He flexes it around his spoon. It feels wrong, somehow, and he can’t place why. It feels like the way his fingers grip the utensil is wrong and not how he usually does it, but Mob doesn’t care for much of that. It’s uncomfortable, and a bit bothersome, but as long as he doesn’t think about it for too long, it fades into the background of his mind.

Dinner passes in a weird way. 

His mum and dad (his? Are these his parents, his family?) eat and talk, and his brother makes conversation about his latest activity and everything goes fine. But Mob is not fine. Everyone else is, but he’s not.

Mob feels blank, out of place, like the thing happening in front of him is something that he shouldn’t bear witness to; like it's some sort of privacy thing among the spare bits of the family he doesn’t share a bloodline with. 

Hm. “Share a bloodline”. He has a bloodline, his family is proof of that. Why did he even think like that? 

The thoughts nag, though. Spit back at him, but what if not? 

He chews his food. He doesn’t want to reply to that. The more he thinks on it, the more the dinner table stretches further out in his vision and the more his parents seem like a video tape rather than living humans. The more his mind ponders the question, the more the boy's hands begin to feel like artificial limbs; attached to the bare minimum of his nervous system.

He coughs into the palm of his hand, and hears it distorted. His coughing is wrong. Too.. deep, he’s not sure — but the rise of distaste for this whole thing is coming at him as he thinks about that cough.

Its small, small, very small, but Mob still frets over it like its of any importance to him. And it is. It is, because Mob doesn’t cough like that, never like that, because—

You don’t exist. 

No. He does. His cough is just feeling weird, and his hands are just not here today. He’s real. Of course he is. He’s not so sure on why he’s so persistent on it, but he supposed that's what you get when you're invalidated of your own existence.

He wonders if this is how Shigeo feels, all those years ago. His heart aches. He should've been better to him, more understanding. 

He has feelings, though, and a name. Shigeo didn't really have all those, not for the last four years at least. Mob, however, has all the things that make him human, that make him real. Mob is in reality. Of course he's real. 

But this place might not be. The thought says, even though Mob’s pretty sure thoughts can’t talk. It might be a dream. A simulator to the real world. Maybe this whole thing isn’t real.

Then what could it be? He asks, careful to keep chewing his food in order to appear normal. His family doesn’t sense anything amiss. He’s gotten good at making his appearance seem normal (when has he ever done that before this point?). 

A dream, The thought says, and Mob listens. A land. I don’t know. But maybe nothing is real. Maybe this is just a made up place where you have family and people that care about you. Maybe your delusional.

No? You’re dissociating, Mob, stop this. Another thought chimes in, and Mob wonders how he can tell the difference between the two if both share his voice. 

Your voice? Another one (Thought Number Three, Mob dubs this one) snaps, almost sounding angry. I don’t have your voice.

None of us have your voice.

That’s because none of anything is ever real, and if we aren’t real, then how can we be different at all? Thought Number One says, trying to prove a point.

You're making my head hurt. Thought Number Three whines. 

Thought Number One doesn’t let it off that easy, though, as it continues in an even more angrier tangent than before. 

What head? You’re simply an idea that has formed a human appearance, and even then it's simply a voice which you cannot speak out of. Don’t tell me you have a head when you have not even a name to own. Don’t speak like me and you are not the same.

It’s been fueled by Thought Number Three’s words, Mob can tell. Still, it's unnerving to listen to it. 

Mob bites his food slowly. He tries to pay attention to the conversation happening around him, with his family ( and with real people ), but his head is filled with static and nothingness. The war of whether this was real or whether he was real had turned into a discussion about the legitimacy of his own thoughts talking, and that wasn’t really something Mob could simply pry his attention away from.

The more the thoughts talked and bickered, the more Mob felt his hands detach themselves from him. The more he listened into the thoughts, the more he felt the table sink into a picture. The more he chewed his food slowly and silently, the more Mob’s senses became warped.

Nothing of anything is ever real, so it means you're not real, either. Thought Number One says.

Shut up Jason. Another thought snaps.

Jason? Are we giving names to each other now? 

No. It just said that for some reason.

It? Your not real–

Neither are you, asshole! 

Hey! Language!

Fuck you!

Mob didn’t smile, but he felt light warmth flush up in his chest: this whole situation was funny. In a morbid, weird kind of way, he found this whole thing funny — he, looking at this world and these people, eating these people’s food and entertaining the idea of this being real and alive.. wasn’t that comedy in and of itself? 

Sure, the jokes this dad (his dad?) made were never funny, and the conversations that flew over his head was never making him smile — but the voices, the thoughts, those were funny. Funny in a way that Mob felt sick thinking about.

You're insane, something spat, as he was chewing the very few bites of his dinner down. He had taken a long time to swallow. He wonders why. Insane. It's back to then. A post traumatic attack where only your body knows it and your brain stays above the water. 

“A post traumatic attack”? What are you talking about? Another one — the one who Mob had dubbed Fourth Thought — snapped, making the other one flare up in annoyance.

Trauma, right? When you had—

No. Nope. No. Stop thinking. A different one this time, a thought that felt a bit too much like a voice, pried the other thoughts off of Mob's brain. It spoke, clear, into his ear: Mob, shut off your thoughts and eat your dinner. 

And Mob did. Well, he couldn’t really shut off his thoughts like this thing wanted him to — that would cause him to die, and he didn’t really want to perish right now, even if he couldn’t in this reality — but he did notice his mind become nothing but quietness after ignoring their jabs of conversation. Now, it was simply just him and this world. His family.

His family? Their not—

Mob shut off that thought as soon as he saw it. This was his family, truely. He had a dad and a mum and a little brother and he loved them very, very much. He was eating dinner with them — his mum’s cooking — and it was very, very good. Everything was fine, even if the table seemed hollow and even if his hands felt weird and wrong.

God, why was his hands so wrong? No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the metal spoon didn’t seem that keen on letting the point slide on how wrong it felt — the spoon itself didn’t feel wrong, it was just his fingers that felt wrong. Like he could feel everything in them, and like they weren’t really his fingers. 

But then what else could it be? A thought asked. 

Another one was quick to reply. Maybe its the atoms in your hands. They don’t feel real. Maybe thats whats making your hands feel weird, and—

I hate your hands. One said, abruptly, and multiple others hummed in agreement.

Why does everyone always hate my hands? A thought came. It sounded kind of annoyed, and Mob wanted to chuckle at it, but his heart was empty, so he didn’t. Instead, he shoved his mouth full with food and devoted his attention onto the conversation at hand. That was better than listing off ways the dinner table seemed fake.

Wait, is Shigeo here at all? One unnamed thought asked, and for a second Mob had the idea of asking who that was, but quickly thought against it.

Uh.. No. Why?

Hey, why’s Mob like that? Wait, is it Mob? It is Mob, right? 

Why wouldn't it be Mob? Definitely isn't anyone else, I tell you that.

You sure? Because-

Shush, you’ll overwhelm him.

He looks pretty out of it.

No he doesn’t.

Well, you know what I mean. Like, in his mind he looks pretty spaced. Out of body though? Probably looking as fine as ever, with that blank face and all.

Mob flinches at the comment. He grabs for his glass of water, swallowing down the liquid as well as that flush of fear that's suddenly sprung up on him. 

("Blank face," Minori snickered, the class joining in as Mob sat there, paralysed. He didn't–)

No. Stop. A thought snapped, washing those memories away. 

He shouldn't be thinking this. His face – this face – it's fine. Normal, even. He's not sure why that comment bothers him so much, but the other thoughts are quick to come to his defence.

Hey, don't say that. One says, seeming angry. Mob can feel the others glaring at the one who made that comment. 

Look what you did! One cries. You hurt him! Monster! 

Mob feels his shoulders slump at the ongoing barrage of insults and outrages. His vision slowly pulls at the edges, and he glances at his mother. She's saying something. Her lips are moving and her eyes crinkle with that look, and suddenly Mob feels like an alien at the dinner table. 

"--geo?" His mother says. "Shigeo, are you listening to me?"

Mobs ears flush with red. "O-Oh. Um. Yeah." He says, cringing internally at how off his voice sounds. 

His mother seems content with that answer, though. "Do you want some potatoes?" She asked, gesturing to the pot she held out.

Mob shook his head gently. "No thank you." 

That doesn't sound like Mob.

No shit. Who are you, Not-Mob?

Just call this guy Anon. It's easier. 

Nah. I can make up my own names for people, thank you very much.

Mob sighed internally. He ate his food, moving it around with his spoon once he was done. His vision still painted the table as fake, and even his family was slowly being taken over by it too. These thoughts – the more they talked, the worst it seemed to get. 

Bullshit. One voice sneered. We're helping you, Anon. We're trying to help you.

No we're not?

Shut up.

What? It's true. We're not trying to help him. We're trying to distract him. There's a difference. 

Distract from what?

Are you blind? From.. this , I guess. Mob could feel the thought stretch out its hand, as if it could gesture to the state Mob was in right now. It made him wonder if they were real.

We're not. One thought said. We're.. internal monologue. Or is it internal dialogue? I don't know. Either way – we are Not Real.

Stop being a Tumblr nerd.

What the hell? Tumblr nerd? How–?

"I've finished." Mob said abruptly, silencing the thoughts as he stood up from his seat. "Thank you for the meal."

His mother nodded. "No problem, Shige. Clean up your plate." 

"Okay." Mob wasn't going to not clean up his plate. It was a chore. 

I hate chores. One voice commented.

No one asked. Another voice sneered.

Chapter Text

Mob tried to ignore them as he washed off his plate. He had eaten everything on it - his tongue tasted none of it, so Mob didn't really care if some food didn't taste good or bad, because his tongue wasn't real. He wasn't real. That didn’t seem to bother him as much as before, because, well—

Like everything, nothing was real. The tap water slowly washing off the grease of food from his plate wasn't real. None of anything was real.

They put a lot of thought into designing this game, huh? A thought said, as Mob was wiping the plate dry with a towel that wasn't real. So realistic. I like it.

I thought it was a dream? One voice piped in, making Mob's perception of the world suddenly shift from game to dream. It made his hand fuzzy for a second, his brain buzzing with the sudden shift of it.

No. The perception of dream turned into game, as if the thought saying it had some power to reroute his mind. It's not a dream. Do you think they could put this much detail in dreams?

I mean, have you seen my dreams? It's possible. The world was rerouted again: it was a realistic dream now. Besides, it feels like a dream. I don't think–

It's real. One thought grumbled out, snapping Mob's sense of self into shards. The perception between dream and game snapped in half until the environment around him was simply not real. Stop this insanity. Get your head out of the clouds. This is real, Mob.

He isn't Mob–

Shut up.

Everything swims in his mind, like his brain is in some sort of existential crisis soup. Putting his plate away, Mob turns back to this his? family, who’s still eating dinner peacefully.

“I’m going to have a shower now.” Mob says, already leaving the area.

“Okay, Shigeo.” His? mother replies.

Departing from the kitchen, Mob slowly makes his way upstairs. His socked feet hit the floorboards and he tries not to let the feeling of not real get to him. The walls seem a bit too close in, like their a few meters different from their usual spot, and Mob hurries to get into the bathroom so that the suffocating feeling leaves him.

Opening the door, the handle feels oddly.. weird, and it makes Mob cringe away from how the texture feels. Yet, the walls seem to close in more, and the floorboards are sinking downwards too quickly, so Mob says “fuck it” and swings open the door, shutting it almost immediately after.

He flinches at the loud noise it makes. He isn’t sure if the people (his family?) will be mad at him, but seeing that there’s no shouts after he shuts it, he supposes he’s fine. Turning his attention away from the outside to just focus on the bathroom itself, Mob quickly slips off his clothes and gets the water running.

A shower will help , he thinks, testing to see how hot the water is before climbing in. A shower will help.

A shower won’t help. Something whispers, making Mob’s sense of self ripple as his hands become detached once more.

He shakes his head. A shower will help. He repeats. A shower will help. A shower will help. A shower will help.

A shower won’t—

Mob ignores it. Tries to focus on the water, and the temperature of it, and the way it's so very clear against everything else instead of the thoughts. He brings his knees up to his chest and sits there, floating slightly. The water is warm.

He can see the used washcloth in the centre of the bathtub, floating slightly. The bathtub feels weird beneath his skin. He tries not to think about it too much.

Heat the water up more. A stray thought says, as Mob mixes in the cold water with the hot. His skin is already getting flushed from the heat. No. Stop that. Heat up the water more. Until it's burning. Heat it up, heat it up, heat it up—

Stop. Don’t. Why would you do that?

Heat it up until it burns. Until it burns! Heat it up! Heat! Heat heat heat—

Stop saying that. You're annoying me.

I don’t care! Hey, hey heat it up. Do it. Do it! Quickly! Turn it up until it burns! It shrieks, and Mob tries his hardest to not cave in to its shrieks.

Even if his chest is hollow and gaping doesn’t mean a surge of panic stretches out within him while he listens to the thought. It’s like it’s infecting his own emotions, like its panic is setting into him. It makes him uneasy.

Still, Mob doesn’t do as it asks. He’s not about to risk his skin getting red from it, even if the void in his stomach is more than obvious now.

Instead of listening to it, he slides down the bathtub until he’s laying on his back, his legs spread out until his toes touch the bathtub's rear. It's so nice, so peaceful. The lights from the bathroom's ceiling cast everything in a yellow glow, the kind of colour only an artificial light can produce. It makes the whole place seem unreal. Mob finds it doesn’t bother him as much as it used to.

It's not hot enough! The thought screams, loud and shrill like, making Mob flinch. It's not hot enough! It’s not hot enough!

He grumbles out, Why does it need to be hot?

To be free!

You’re insane.

And, yet, he still adds more hot water to his shower, just like the thought asked. It seemed like his thoughts were half-consumed by this thing, which wouldn’t be unreasonable to guess, and yet Mob still had trouble giving in fully.

Yes! It screams. Yes, yes yes yes—

Mob adds more hot water, making sure not to burn himself. The thought seems to be yelling its demands into his ear, and he might as well lessen it to a degree. After a while of letting the tap run, Mob turns it off and lets himself relax back into the bath. The thought's satisfaction seems to drain at the sight.

..it’s not hot enough. It says disappointment clearly in its voice (even if it has no voice). It’s not— n-no, you, you can’t, no—!

What? One other thought spluttered out, as Mob was stopping the hot water from flowing. It’s hot enough, man! Leave it! You—

It needs to be hot so we can be free. It needs to. It can’t— I can’t— we— The thought screamed, high pitch and agonising to listen to. We can’t be free of this agony, of this— this whole thing! We can’t! We can’t, we won’t be able to, please, please, please God—

Free? We are free, stop, stop—

No we're not! You— You liar! The thing screams, before forcing Mobs hand to stay on the knob. Even after a minute, even after Mob's skin begins to burn, it doesn't let go. Make it hotter! Do it! Come on! Not hot enough, not— it’s— it needs to be hot! It can’t— it’s not hot enough!

Mob's skin begins to turn red.

S-Stop–

IT'S NOT HOT ENOUGH! IF IT ISN'T HOT ENOUGH THEN WE WILL GO AWAY AND WE WILL TURN INTO NOTHING BUT STARDUST AND ASHES AND MOLECULES AND NOTHING AND NOTHING AND WE CAN'T GO BACK, WE CAN’t, NOT BACK TO THAT! HOT, HOT MAKE IT HOT SO HOT IT BURNS HOT PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE—

Chill.

NO! I WILL NEVER AND YOU CANNOT MAKE ME, SO SHUT UP, SHUT UP SHUT UP—

God, Mob has a headache, pounding and drumming. Maybe it's because of the temperature of the water getting to him. It is hot, after all. His skin is red, and the water makes his skin feel like it's being trapped in some deathly, sickly heat.

It’s not hot enough, it’s not hot enough, the thought mutters, its energy seeming to sink back at that outburst; now, it’s simply a plea. Please, please, please, please, I can’t.. Not again.. p-please—

Stop. Stop doing that. You— Just— Fuck. Fuck! Cool the water down, Mob! Come on! My skin— your— our skin is burning!

Cool the water down, Mob! One thought repeats, and Mob complies almost instantly, feeling relieved when the water finally cools down to a manageable level.

No! What are you doing?! The thought — Insane Guy, Mob dubs them — cuts in. Stop! No! Don’t! I don’t- Stop! You're going to make yourself go away again! Stop! No! No no no no—

Mob sighs, ignoring them in favour of washing himself. He feels the thought being pushed back as he does so, feeling their energy of panic drown out under the heat and pressure of his bath. His hand that's holding the soap feels weird, but it's distracting, so he focuses his attention on that instead of the thoughts swarming his mind. It feels like soap, of course, but.. its just.. weird. He’s not sure how to describe it.

That’s because it's not real. A thought chimes in.

God PLEASE do not do this again, One thought complains, groaning.

Why? Can't we backtrack on topics we already did? And this is one that actually has an impact on us, too. I don't see why we can’t discuss this again.

Can we just stop with this whole ‘am I real or not’ conversation because personally, I don't want to think I’m a hallucination again.

Well, even if we are hallucinations, at least we have enough self awareness to realise it. One thought said, seeming to take a bit of humour from this. Mob couldn’t blame it. This was turning out to be a sort of interesting discussion, and Mob was never the one to enjoy silence, anyway.

Chapter Text

Reaching for the washcloth, Mob began the act of.. showering, or whatever.

It’s because we aren't real.

I mean, we are—

Try and talk over me then, I dare you.

A few seconds of silence passed. Mob scrubbed his cheek, listening in.

..You know what? Fuck you. The thought grumbled, seeming annoyed. I hope everyone kills themselves.

Again? Seriously? Get more insults god.

Okay so we are real, because we’re thoughts.

Internal monologue, right?

Nope.

Nah, that doesn't really.. feel like that, does it?

Not really.

If I had to describe it, would it be more like voices? Like we’re talking, but we’re not.

It’s— Do you guys even know the definition of internal monologue is?

Uhhhh… No?

Hm... Voices twist and turn themselves into my brain matter until it's all I can hear. Annoying. So annoying. I want to rip their tongues out and make them scream worthless words until their throat renders useless from all the shrieks into open air. I will make my head quiet again.

Okay..? Weirdo.

Okay, damn. Maybe it was a bit fun at first, to see them bicker and comment and argue, but the more they pressed on the more Mob’s head began to pound. His temples began to ache.

Can you guys stop talking? He asked, placing the washcloth back down onto the bathtub's rim. I have a headache.

We aren't the ones doing that.

Oh.

Great, now Mob felt kind of stupid. Well, you know, as stupid as he normally is. Was? He’s not sure. He guesses that's normal. He always felt sort of stupid. Unless that's not normal? Relaxing into the bath water, Mob lets his mind wander and warp, not feeling the edge of distortion cease over him.

What's normal and what isn’t normal for this body that he’s in?

..“This body”? Is this Mob's body? Is this someone else’s body?

Is he even Mob at all? Is he even a person at all?

Fuck. He doesn’t know.

The bathtub stretches further from him, and his sense of identity fractions and splinters until he no longer knows who he is. His mind twists, warps in all kinds of colours — blue, red, black, white — they all collide and mush and weep into one another. He felt his face twist and spin out of the simple husk of his skull, felt his eyes turn upside and inside out—not painfully, of course, but the feeling was still there; as real and as unsettling as possible.

He felt like his body wasn’t his. Like he was outside of it, if only slightly. Mob has the features of Shigeo, and Shigeo has the features of Mob. Both seem to be pushing and shoving and crowding their head, but they (they? he? she?) can’t feel any of them. None of them feel like them, and they don’t feel like them. Who are they? If neither are here right now, then who’s left?

What’s left is a hollowed out corpse — rotting and rotting, burning under the ever-lasting curse of existential hell. The boy sits in lukewarm water, too hot to burn his skin but too cold to freeze it over. He can’t think. His bones turn hollow and empty. His skin doesn’t match his own perception of what it's supposed to look like.

Who is he?

You’re Mob. One thought says.

No. Another retorts. Obviously, this guy is new.

New? What do you mean new? There is no new guy! No one new! It is simply just Shigeo and Mob, and that is all, okay? This— This thing? Not a new guy. They're just really spacey right now.

Hm. Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, buddy.

Dissociation, right?

No. If it was dissociation we wouldn’t be here. Its depersonalisation.

So.. this guy is not new?

Yep. This.. uh.. fuck. Fuck!

Huh?

Fuck you’ve infected me too! I– Who are you?!

Oh. Their being of existence and identity confusion had finally warped their own thoughts. Not really an odd thing, considering the fact that the whole “not my mind/body” experience had to twist its weeds into their mind at some point, but he was a little surprised these thoughts held out for so long.

So long? One snapped. We lasted like, not even a second!

Haha. Cum.

Kill yourself.

Okay, huh, these voices were weird. Really, really weird. And cruel. Were they always cruel? They had no idea. They didn’t really have their own thoughts on the matter, since they didn’t really exist, but if they did they’d be slightly weirded out from all this. Maybe anyone would be weirded out by this. It was hard to tell.

At least the bathtub was nice. And the water. The water was nice, too. Except for the nagging need for knowing who they were. That.. that was annoying.

Then bring yourself down from this, Mob. One thought suggested. How would you usually bring yourself down from this?

I don’t know. They answered, plainly. They hadn’t done this before, haven't experienced this before. This was all so new. Everything was new, really.

Breathing and living and blinking — it was all so new, yet it felt practically normal, as if they’d been doing this their whole lives. Considering the fact that they weren’t really a person, it was probably true that they had been doing this for their lives; at least the one who owned this body had, anyway.

Wait, where did Mob go? One thought asked, seeming to realise that the person “Mob” (them? this body's owner?) had seemingly vanished.

I don’t know. Can’t feel him anywhere, and this — it gestured with its nonexistent hand towards the person sitting in the bathtub — definitely isn’t him, so.. I don’t know.

We already heard you say that before. We know that.

What?

Hey, guys. Maybe he’s dead. Ever thought of that before?

Wha—? What the fuck? No? Why would you even—?

Maybe we’re dead.

What? No?

Think about it, though. The thoughts around it seemed to quieten down, as if they could listen in to what it had to say. Mob has.. gone, right? Shigeo isn’t here. This— this thing? In Mob’s body? Not.. not anyone. No one. Its— Their— why wouldn’t we be dead? This isn’t our body, this isn’t our house, this isn’t our family. I don’t even think we existed in the first place. We aren’t real. You know that. I know that. If this person isn’t real, then we aren’t real. Simple as that, right?

What? No! That’s— You—

Hey, stop that. Your going to dig yourself into a hole.

Who cares anymore?

I do.

You can’t. You don’t exist. None of us do. We’re not real, we’re dead, we’re littered lonely corpses trying to be and sound human. This world is real, but we are simply creatures invading this space this thing calls a home.

Stop.

Why?

Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t.. Don’t. Please.

No. Who cares if I’m digging myself into a hole when everything already seems suffocating?

Poetic.

Not the time.

Arms.. these things, these.. these legs and skin, they twist into me until it creates my mortal soul, but if those arms and legs and skin aren't mine then my mortal soul isn't mine, and then who am I but air and nothing? Who am I but simple belief? Who am I but simple imagination?

Are you okay?

Are any of us?

A few beats of silence. No. I guess not.

Chapter Text

Leaning back, the person watched as the water splashed slightly up the sides of the bathtub. It gave a slight ache of something, hollowed deep into their chest, but it was unnameable. Everything was unnamable, now that they thought about it. The feelings that were swirling in their heart and the sinking feeling in their gut was anonymous to them.

They were anonymous to themselves, really. The voices—thoughts—those things even said so themselves. If they weren’t real, then what were they?

It was like they were new and unknowing, yet everything was seemingly already known about themselves. Yet, they didn’t have an identity to begin with. They didn’t have anything to label or to attach themselves to. They were simply nothing.

It’s because you're dead, the thought from earlier said. You, me, and everyone else — they're not real. We’re dead. Corpses, rotting away. This is all just.. just one big hallucination, or something.

No? Stop saying that. We’re not dead, we’re alive, and I promise you that this isn’t a hallucination. Get your head out of your ass. Wake up. This is real.

How do you know that? It shot back, angry. How do you know that, hm? You can’t say I’m wrong without evidence. This isn’t real. It doesn’t feel real, nothing does, and I’m sure whoever this person is would agree with me.

I don’t think they would.

Bullshit. I’m right, you're wrong, the end. We’re not real, and we’re dead, and none of this is fucking real, none of it is. That’s final. So—

No, this is real, you—

Shut up. Shut up. Stop arguing with me. I’m right, and I’m—I—

What? Argue? I’m trying to show you the truth! This is real. This is as real as anything else before us. Even if we don’t exist—we’re still here, aren’t we?

That doesn’t matter. None of this feels real. That bath water? Fake. That skin? Fake. That hair? Fake. That tile and floor and ceilings? All fake. Everything’s fake. Everything’s—all of this—all of it is so fucking fake. I hate it. I hate this. I hate you, I hate myself, I hate everyone here—I hate this! I hate this!

God, shut up!

Hey! This isn’t fake! One cries out. This is real, this is reality, you are real—

I’m not, I’m nothing, your nothing, we’re just thoughts and this person isn’t real so we can’t be thoughts, we’re nothing—

Then—then what are we?

Nothing! We’re fake! Everything’s so fucking fake! It cried out, words getting increasingly more upset as time passed on. The person could feel their own emotions rise, and back of their hair standing on end.

H-Hey, calm down, calm—

No! No, I-I hate this, I hate this! It cried out, its words increasing into mere chants and babbles the more it went on. None of anything is real, your not real, I-I hate this, I hate this, I hate this, I hate this I hate this I hate this—

S-Shut up— Stop, stop, stop—

No! No, no no no—

The person’s throat began to get a tight, choking feeling to it. The bathwater rippled, even if they hadn’t moved from their position. The emotions of this one thought was seeping into them, making their eyes dampen with unrealised tears that weren’t real.

We’re fake! Fake! Fake! Fake! Fake! Fake!

No we’re not.

You're insane.

There is no “you”, there is no “me”, there is no anyone! We’re all fake! This world is fake! You can’t deny me because I’m right! I’m right! Nothing feels real! This bathtub, this water, this everything feels not real! It’s noT FUCKING REAL!

STOP—

Okay. Shit. This was actually getting kind of intense. They needed to.. get out of here. Did they? They had to. There was no other way. The water wasn’t doing anything, and they were getting so fucking loud.

What would they do?

FAKEFAKEFAKEFAKE—

You know what’s not fake? A knife. One thought cut the other off, calm. Maybe go and do that or something, I don’t know.

Isn’t pain supposed to help? Another thought cut in. You know, ground people? Try that? I don’t know?

You don’t know a lot of stuff, huh?

It’s because your fAKE—

Eh. Yeah. Thinking over it, it was right. Knives and pain would have to do, then. There was no other option ( there is ).

Turning the tap off, the person – Mob? – got out of the tub, careful not to slip on the wet tile beneath them.

They tugged and drained the bathroom’s bath water before getting dressed into a loose shirt and pants. Trying not to stare at the body for too long, the person made their way out of the bathroom. Swinging the bathroom door open with a bang as their body’s feet instinctively moved to the body’s bedroom.

Don’t do this. Don’t. Please. One thought pleaded.

Do what? One asked.

Don't hurt yourself. The other clarified. Don't. Please.

The person ignored them.

Pushing open the door with trembling hands, Not-Mob—person—nobody? staggered into the room, throwing open a drawer and scrounging around it. Pushing books and loose parts of other objects, Not-Mob went for the hunt. They needed something sharp, or something with an edge to it, or something that would just bring pain.

Anything. They need anything. They just wanted this to stop. The ground spread out beneath them, and it felt like someone was watching them.

Stop.

They don’t—

Their hands began detaching. Their fingers floaty, their hands empty. Skin became nothing but an artificial colour. The room buzzed with static. Their eyes—ears—mouth—nose—fingers, they all burned bright and red and nothing was fucking real.

No! They yelled. No— Stop thinking. Stop. No. That’s not— that’s—

Their searches became nothing but throwing out clothes and other objects they found. Their breathing quickened. They could feel their chest begin to flush in a heat.

No. No no no—

They need— they need—

Empty. There wasn’t anything in that drawer. Nothing of use. They slammed it shut once it proved useless. It was so useless. Would there be something in the other drawers? Maybe. There had to be. They couldn’t—

Opening one draw after another, the person cursed under their breath as their fingers became floating limbs. Panic gnawed at their gut, eating away. No, no no no— They couldn’t lose the bit of tethering they had to this world. They couldn’t become once more with the abyss and distasteful air. No. It was already failing. It couldn’t fail. They refused to give in. It would destroy them.

But there was nothing here. Absolutely nothing . No matter how much they looked and looked and dug through, even with piles of the scattered clothes everywhere, the drawers proved to be completely useless. That couldn't be done. That couldn’t be acceptable.

The person whipped their head towards the other direction of the room, to where the closet was. Was that a safe bet? Surely, this person—or whoever was in this body, was in this house and this bedroom—would have at least stored something sharp, right? The hangers, the clothes.. they wouldn’t mind if they dug through them a bit, would they? No. They wouldn’t. The closet would be a good way to..

They need to test it out. They had to.

But. No. Wait. No. No, the closest—no one stored anything in there. It was just clothes. No knives, no sharp things, no nothing. They knew that. They always knew that. How could they forget? It was stupid. So stupid. Stupid of them to think anything else.

So fucking stupid.

SHUT UP!

Okay, so, now what?

Scanning the room once more, they landed on the desk, positioned just a bit away from the window. Books and lamps and other typical middle schooler stuff was sprawled out on top of it, and there, shiny and sharp, was scissors.

Scissors.

Sharp.

An edge.

A way to—

GO FOR IT. And so they did.

Chapter Text

Rushing over to the desk and grabbing it, Mob— the person sat on Mob’s (their’s?) chair, wincing as it groaned under their weight. They held the scissors in one hand, testing the weight of the object. It was shiny, with the handles a darkish green in colour—the scissors were fairly old, but there seemed to be no rust or anything that could get their arm infected.

It was sharp. It was sharp, and sharp meant pain, and they needed that. They did. They really, really did. Because without pain, without that sharp reminder of being alive, they would float and float and never come back down. They couldn’t do that. Not again.

Steady, careful, they opened the scissors up, grabbing one of the blades with one steady hand. They needed this. They did. They had to.

Don’t you fucking dare, one thought sneered. Don’t. God, please, no—

Do it! Do it! Do it! Another one, this one much closer to the person's mind, shouted. Do it! Do it, Anon! Bring yourself down! Pain helps! Pain will help!

No, it will fucking not! A jerk of the person's hand, and the scissors in their grip slipped closed. Stop! Mob—Anon—Whoever the fuck you are, do not do this! It won’t help! Stop!

They don't listen. They ignore, dragging back control of their hand. Shakily, abliet firm, they swipe the metal on their skin. Contact meets.

It doesn't hurt as much as they thought it was. It stings, yes, like pineneedles and spikey hairs - but it doesn't draw blood.

Stop! It screams, the rational one, terrified. Stop, stop stop stop stop–

They don't. They position the scissors again to their forearm, this time going horizontally. They brace themselves for the impact.

A swipe. It doesn't draw blood. All it does is create a soft, red mark. Their skin is still wet, so the cut sort of shines in the overhead light. The person stares at it for a while.

Two marks. Two swipes. Two cuts. Yet no blood. Yet it doesn't hurt. It hasn't brought them down like they thought it would. It hasn't done anything but that small spike of uncomfortable pain.

Is that it? Did they do it for nothing? No results are being shown yet, but maybe they haven't done it enough…

AGAIN! And so they continue.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe . Swipe—

Nothing. All this has done is create red, itchy lines. The pale skin of this body hasn’t become more real. It hasn't fixed anything, but it hasn't worsened anything, either.

There's no blood on the scissors, but they still feel like there should be. The person puts down the scissors back on the desk, ignoring the way the sound of it falling makes them flinch.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! The thoughts scream, furious. They can feel the rage flowing off of them. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!

Shit. What had they done? Not too bad, hopefully, but their skin is beginning to sting. Holding out their arms, they look at what they've inflicted on this skin. They're jagged, all cutting in different spots; some horizontal, some vertical, some cutting off and some a long line curling around their arm. They're all gathered in one spot on their skin, some raised and bright red even if no blood is flowing down.

There's fifteen strikes. Fifteen marks. Fifteen cuts. Fifteen red lines that look more puffy and red the more they stare at it. Dread begins to churn in their stomach.

A wave of exhaustion crashes over them, and the small tingles of pain begin to throb into harsh aches. They looked at their arm, then the scissors sprawled out on the desk. They weren’t bloody, but they could still feel them on their arm — cutting and cutting and digging into skin — and it made them sick.

Oh woah, the marks are raised! One thought commented, as the person stared at the marks.

Indeed, they were a bit raised — also a tad bit red, but that could be from the amount of hot water on their skin — and the person wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. The thoughts didn’t help calm their nerves, either.

The scissors were probably dirty, Another one muttered, staring at the scissors and the marks on their arm.

So… we’re gonna get an infection?

God, I hope not.

Are we going to have to go to the hospital?

No. We didn’t even draw any blood. Maybe just put some bandages on them, like, to be safe, I guess.

Okay, then, sure. They can do that. Stretching out, the person got off the chair they were slumped against and began searching around for some bandages. Vaguely they remember the owner of this body putting some box of them in his room sometime ago, but the idea of it still being there was a gamble.

Searching around, they look through the drawers of the body’s desk, finding nothing but empty notebooks and work out manuals. They flipped through some books they found, mostly just math books, frowning when most of — if not all — the answers were wrong.

For some reason, something in the back of their mind told them that it was to be expected. For some reason, they denied it.

Chapter Text

After some digging and searching and looking, finally, finally they found some bandages. Or, well, it was really just one bandage — and one that’s tiny, and probably won’t cover any marks very well — but the person still takes it with careful hands.

You’re gonna need a bigger bandaid, One thought says, oh-so-helpful. Hm.. maybe try the bathroom or something. I think Mob's parents store bandages there.

Good idea, the others agree, and the person — Not-Mob? Mob? — slowly makes their way to the bathroom.

Quickly making their way, they quickly duck inside once pushing open the door. The bathroom’s lights make everything drag in a yellow-ish colour, making their eyes sting a bit. Crouching in front of the cabinets, they open them. Digging through them, they search for the bandages amongst containers and soap. Obviously, these people have an organised life — everything was neatly put away, even if some bars of soap were strewn about the place.

I don’t know why we’re looking for bandages, a thought complained, after a few seconds of rummaging around. We didn’t even draw any blood. What use is there for bandages?

It just feels nice. More secure. Less risk for infections.

That’s stupid. We didn’t even cut our skin. All we did was scratch it, and even that didn’t do very much damage. Hell, we didn’t even bring ourselves down like we wanted to. We did that for nothing.

No, we didn’t.

We did.

Shut up, you two, one thought grumbled out, just as the person pulled out a box of bandages. We're doing this because.. well, why not?

‘Why not’ is a pretty dumb reason for wasting bandages, The other one said, before giving up on the argument and falling silent.

Sighing, the person – who still didn't have a name – returned to the body's bedroom and sat down on the body's bed, which was just a futon layed out on the floor.

Sitting criss crossed, the person opened up the box of bandages and began pulling some out. Getting them off the sticky part was a bit of a trouble, and they didn't miss the fact that their fingers felt transparent and out of place the whole time, but once they began plastering them on their "wounds" it seemed like they began to relax back into their body. No longer was everything feeling like it was five centimetres off the ground anymore.

Patching up the last few scratches, the person raised their arm to their face. A small flush of happiness warmed up their chest as they looked over their work.

Even if it was a bit messy — bandaids slapped on over one another and some not even covering a full scratch — they still somewhat felt proud of their work. Them, injured, and instead of telling anyone, patching themselves up all by themselves? That was nice. It was like a personal achievement was fulfilled, or something.

Flopping back onto the bed, and making sure their arm isn’t too visible, the person feels the bed under their fingers. It's soft, nice to the touch, and it feels fluffy — a bit itchy, sure, but that’s probably from the dust collecting on it. Overall, its a pretty nice bed. The sheets on it are white, and the blanket is a plain, soft grey — it’s crumpled up a bit at the ends, but that goes unnoticed to the person.

“Person”.. why was he a “person” again? That didn’t make any sense.

Oh. A thought popped up. Mob? It asked, soft.

Uhh.. a rethink. A backtrack. Was he—?

They were on their bed. It was a nice bed. Very soft. He liked it, especially considering that his mum had washed it a few days before, making it extra fluffy. Even if his sleeping in it had made it a bit flatter, it was still very soft to the touch. Maybe even softer than usual.

But, wait.. he didn’t have a bed. They didn’t have a family. This was all just a stranger's house and a stranger's things. How would they know that? Where did that information come from? They were empty, a husk. They weren’t this body’s owner, or.. or whoever lived in this body. This body’s owner wasn’t them. They weren’t their body. They were nothing.

But they weren’t just nothing, because Mob wasn’t just nothing. Mob was something. Mob was human. Mob was a boy born with too much power. Mob was a boy who joined the Body Improvement Club almost half a year ago. Mob was a boy who liked milk and stray cats. Mob was a boy who had friends and family and a wonderful little brother. Mob was someone; he wasn’t nothing. Nothing couldn’t have everything he had. Nothing couldn’t have the things he had. He couldn’t be anything else but himself. It would be impossible otherwise.

But, a thought sneaked in. What about Shigeo?

Shigeo..

A vast wind of power. The slightest touch; vanish. An echo of words: “If you disappear, I’ll get to do whatever I want.” A struggle. A battle. Internal conflict, one right and one wrong. What did I do wrong to get this? He asked, screaming out as pieces of him fell away. Where did the line draw, between me and you? Where did I become fucked up in the head like this, a devived boy?

When did you start existing, and when did I start to rot?

..Shigeo was a different story entirely.

Mob. This was about Mob. This person — this being, this thing — it couldn’t be him. No, that wasn’t possible. Where Mob and Shigeo met was where this guy seemed to cease the line entirely. This guy, they didn’t seem to draw a line anywhere. It wasn’t simply, “ one a closed off desire and the other a harmless merciless ”: no, there was just no firm line.

It was either be nothing or be Mob — and this guy seemed to be stepping all over the faint mark. One moment, they would be no one, and then the next they would be Mob. Their personalities and sense of self curved and melted into one another at random. It was tiring.

But they were always Mob, because Mob was always just.. Mob. A child. A boy. A person with too much free time and too much power under his palm. A child who longed for peace and empathy. A child who struggled and withdrew and persisted, even through life and death.

But— But that wasn’t him. That couldn’t be. They were nothing, a being with no purpose and no identity. A thing that couldn’t die. A thing with no struggle. A blank canvas with no use.

But, he seemed to say. No. That’s not true. I’m me. I’m Mob. Stop this.

But , they seemed to argue. You're not. No one is. I’m me. I’m no one. How can I be you if you're not real? How can I be someone if this is all just a mass hallucination? How can this be real if I’m not real? How the hell am I even talking right now?

But—

Fuck.

Identity shifted, slipped and weaved and twisted through lungs and each passing blink of an eyelid. Their hands felt detached and floaty. Their whole body did. It felt like they weren’t even in the room right now, like the space around them was some sort of projection.

Dissociation rizz, something whispered, trying to be funny. Mob didn’t need to laugh right now. He was having an existential crisis. Who has time to Live Laugh Love in these conditions? Not him, that’s for sure.

..was he even a “him” to begin with? That.. that didn’t feel right. Neither did she/her, but they/them wasn’t doing the trick, either. What the fuck? Why—?

Wait. No. A he/him. That’s what Mob was. And they.. they weren’t anything. It didn’t matter. None of it did. They weren’t real. But, still—

They felt him — Mob, the body’s owner — slip next to them. It felt like they were both colours — one a dull, lifeless white, and the other a colourful, wonderful blue — that were mixing and warping into each other. They felt like both of them, yet neither. It was giving them a headache.

Why were they like this? Why did they slip back again? It was so good. So good. Why didn’t they stay grounded? What did they do wrong?

It was such a simple question, too. One they knew the answer to. Simple. So simple, yet they couldn’t answer. He tried to. He tried, and tried, but, still, yet—

Were they Mob?

He wasn’t sure anymore. But..

Who else could he be if he wasn’t Mob? He wasn’t Shigeo, he knew that. But if he wasn’t Mob, then who was he?

Fuck. This was so confusing. He hated it. Their sense of self was losing its tether, the bit of grounding slipping away from them, if they even had any to begin with. They were losing themselves again. Wander, endlessly. They had no purpose. They did. They didn’t.

A flip. A switch. Back and fourth and back and fourth and—

WHO AM I? They screamed out, into the untrue void and untrue world. WHO AM I BUT NOTHING? WHO AM I BUT SOMEONE, BECAUSE I AM SOMEONE, I AM, I AM, BUT I’M NOT, BECAUSE I’M NOTHING AND IF NOTHING HAS A BEING THEN IS IT TRULY “NOTHING” ANYMORE?

Silence. Not even the thoughts seemed to want to comment on this now.

I’m.. I’m guessing you're not doing too well? A thought — no, a voice asked, echoing throughout Mob's mind, with mild concern flushing throughout their voice. The boy almost jumped out of his skin at the sound.

Who–?

It's me, Shigeo. You know, the one who you share a head with? He joked. Mob didn’t get it. When Mob didn't reply immediately, Shigeo begrudgingly added: You do at least remember that, don't you?

I.. Shigeo? Mob called out, his sense of self seeping back into itself. He was Mob, now, and the unnamed thing remained settled in the sidelines of his consciousness.

Yeah. The guy, Shigeo, said, confirming his suspensions. Hi.

Uh. What was he supposed to say? Hi, Shigeo.

The two fell silent, neither of them able to come up with anything to say. The thoughts slithered away, leaving the two alone for the first time in.. whenever this started.

Chapter Text

The bandages wrapped tightly around his arm were causing warmth to seep into it, making Mob’s arm feel uncomfortably warm. He could feel the blood rush in his ears. He could feel the itch of his wounds. He could feel his sins crawling on his back like ants.

His sense of self was still weaving, still teething on the edge of being nothing again, but this time Mob felt more solid in his identity.

That couldn’t be said for the world, though.

Colours shifted and creaked, some becoming grayscale while others atoned a bright colour pallet. Mob's eyes stung. The floorboards seemed a way lighter shade of brown then before, and his bedding seemed way more grayer than he remembered. Hell, even his skin felt a bit more oddly coloured then before.

Mob could feel Shigeo’s eyes on him, pressing onto his back, judging. He could feel him thinking and mulling and twisting words together, could feel the clogs of his brain working. The anticipation for him to say something was getting a bit nerve wracking.

Dammit. He knew he fucked up. He knew he fucked up really, really badly. The wounds on his arm and the opened bandage container was proof of that, as well as whatever the hell that was before.

Hell, what even was that? Some sort of mindfuck? A dissociation episode on steroids? Jesus Christ, that felt like hell. With thoughts and existential dread, that—none of that helped at all with it. None of it. It only seemed to add onto it, really, but Mob’s mind was still too floaty to think much of it.

Instead, Shigeo’s voice ran out inside his head, bringing him away from his thoughts, if that was even.. possible.

Probably not. What?

..I think you know what I’m going to say, Shigeo says, making Mob flinch in the glare stabbed into his back. Oh God, this guy was pissed. I don't want you to ever, ever do that again, you understand me?

Mob hunched his shoulders in, curling into himself. I.. I'm sorry—

No. No, it's too late for that now. Shigeo snapped. You can't undo what you've already done. Just, god, please, Mob, don't— don't do it again, okay? Don't. I mean it.

..I won't.

Liar.

I-I mean it. Promise. I won't. I won't do it again, I swear.

You better mean it, or—

Yeah. Mob stares at the floorboard, a sense of guilt digging deep into his gut until it feels impossibly cold. I know. I do mean it. I do. I’m.. I'm sorry.

It's silent, for a while, until Shigeo grumbles out, soft: Just.. just go to bed, Mob.

It feels like an iron fist is inside of his gut, clenching and unclenching until his stomach is twisted in a knot. The words are like a shot to the back. Shigeo is pissed, and angry, and he has the right to be, of course, but, still. His head hurts, but he feels the pressure of Shigeo steadily getting further and further away, until he’s no longer breathing down his neck. He’s not sure how that’s supposed to make him feel.

He feels the covers of his bed under his fingernails. He wonders how he could ever lose touch of himself like that, like all those minutes ago. He wonders how he’ll be able to sleep, how such a peaceful thing like that could ever be grasped by him.

Monster, something whispers, not a thought and not a voice. Mob doesn’t pay attention to it, too busy praying the guilt of desperation will fade away over the night. He places the empty band-aid container on his desk, locking his door and slipping quickly into bed.

He tries to ignore how the bandaids rub against his skin.

Chapter Text

It healed up faster then Mob remembered anything healing in his life.

One day, it was there, and then the next — gone. Faded, his wounds were.

Reopened, now.

Holding scissors, again. A chorus of voices, again. But no spin of the wheel. No knock off. No reason for grounding — simply, it was guilt. Guilt and shame and a reason. The reason is, “if I do this, if I make your mistakes really punishable, will you stop?”

And.. well. Mob didn’t know anymore. Everything was warping, and his skin felt too hot for him. His bones felt achey. His chest felt tight, uneven. His arm burned. Three gashes — small, only a small slit of blood visbale, and yet Mob felt the wounds burn.

It was uncomfortable. His hair stuck to the back of his neck, unshaven.

His ears buzzed with static.

It wasn’t even like he meant to, anyway — there was no cause for alarm this time. No voice urging him. No simple eposide for him to pull himself out of.

Mob had simply thought of it.

He had been in the shower, running his hair through the waves of water. He was glancing at his arm. He was showing. Washing. Minding his own business, and—

”You know you did wrong,” it said, the thought sending Mob to Before. The esper shivered at the memory.

“I know,” he replied.

“You know what you need to do, right?”

Mob hesitated. “I’m.. I said I’m sorry.”

“Sorry won’t cut it this time, Mob. You're guilty. Snakes have wormed into your gut again. How can you pry them out now with just an apology alone?”

Mob thought on that for a moment, twisting and warping it in his head. He glanced at his arm again, thinking back to that night. It was a few months ago, now — since then, he had only done it two other times, and those were for far less serious reasons — and Mob had been.. clean.

Well. It wasn’t like he an addiction, anyway. Sure, his search history was full of it, loaded with the evidence, but he..

He didn’t want to call it that.

He didn’t have an addiction. He was just—hormonal. That's right.

He knew he was lying to himself. He didn’t care. This—it was stupid to cut himself over this. Something as simple and controllable as this. Something he had done to himself. Something he had tried to control, and still failed at. Over and over and over and over.

And, well, it wasn’t like he could blame it on grounding, either.

The episodes didn’t come up as often anymore. His friends and family weren’t eating dinner with a spaced and warped version of himself. He didn’t think peeling back the masks of those monsters was the answer anymore. He no longer felt alone in the world that was just as untrue as the occupiers.

But—

Guilty, his mind rasped, bringing him back. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

“You know you did wrong,” the thought says, again, anger in its voice as it spat out its words. “You aren’t getting better. You’re falling back. You’re becoming addicted again.”

“It was only—only for a few minutes,” Mob said, face burning with shame as the memories twisted themselves into view, the feel of disgust coating his body.

“An hour, Mob,” the voice hissed. “More than that. From five to six thirty. Disgusting.”

“I know,” Mob says. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry won’t cut it. Not ever again.”

“I know.”

“Then why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

Mob didn’t answer. The reminder stung. It made bile rise in his throat, the feeling of warmth becoming uncomfortable to sit in.

It was right there, after all.

Shiny.

Scissors.

How stupid of Mum to leave it next to the bath. How foolish he was to think he could change himself.

He looked at the marks again, after getting out and rushing to his bedroom to find something to wear. They were nasty. Or, well, not really nasty — nasty as in a way to describe something that might’ve been a bit icky to someone else, but nasty as in “ew”. Mob was sure that didn’t make sense.

He didn’t care.

Well. Maybe he did now, of course, because—

“It’s almost summer soon, Mob!” A voice squeaked, panic clear in their tone. “You—we’re fucked, Mob! Fucked!”

“I know,” Mob replied, slipping on his shirt and staring at the marks. “I’m stupid.”

“You are! You so, so are! Fuck! Why?!”

Mob isn’t sure of it himself. He doesn’t answer. The warmth from his bath makes the cuts red, and for a moment, a thought suggests that its infected. It’s irrational, though, already proven false — so it quickly gets shoved back.

What doesn’t get shoved back, though, is the thought. The thought, if you will.

Sneering, it is, and it spits, “Didn’t you like it?”

“W-What?” Mob splutters, drifting his gaze upwards a tad as he lowers his arm back down to his sides.

“Didn’t you like it?” It asks, again. ”It felt nice, didn’t it? Cutting, I mean.”

“I didn’t cut,” Mob barks back, maybe a bit too feisty then he meant it. He grips the bottom of his shirt, balling his fists into a tight grip. “I just—I just..”

“You cut,” it said, stating the obvious as if Mob didn’t already know that. “You cut your arm.”

“Four times!” Another thought says, sounding more shocked then angry, though Mob shrinks at the words nonetheless. It directs its gaze to Mob's arm, inspecting it through the lens it holds. ”God. Those look bad. Why did you do that?”

”He was guilty,” one thought replies for him, and Mob can’t say that he denies it.

“Of what?”

”Are you blind?” Another thought, this one angry, snaps. ”Do we really have to spell it out for you? Come on, now. You know what he did. We all know what he did.”

”We did it, too, technically.”

”Technicality doesn’t mean everything, so I’d rather rid myself of this guilt, because it's not mine,” The thought snarls, glaring at Mob, even though Mob knows thoughts can’t see.

He shrinks into himself, feeling his throat tighten. He focuses on his fists instead of his arm. ”I’m sorry,” he apologies.

”You know what you did,” it says. ”Disgusting. Disgusting!”

”I know. I’ll change.”

”You won’t. You never will.”

Mob goes silent. He knows that its true. He looks at his arm again and curses to himself. He shouldn’t have done that. Guilt eats at him alive, and he can do nothing but make sure he doesn’t suffocate.

”It was for a good cause,” the thought says, still hovering around Mob, even when all the others have long since disappeared. ”You know I had to do it.”

”It hurt.”

”I know, but that's the beauty of it, isn’t it? I mean, how else are you going to realise that doing things like those aren’t very enjoyable?”

Mob doesn’t say anything.

He feels blood trickle down, and wonders how he’ll cover it up. Maybe he’ll say that he tripped, or fell, or did something that wasn’t that — because he can never, ever tell anyone about that — maybe he’ll say that he accidentally cut himself while doing homework. It's stupid. Irrational, as soon as he thinks of it.

Mob feels the tightness of his throat grow. Tears threaten, building under his eyes. His head hurts.

Fuck. He knows that.

He looks at the wounds again. Curses. Spits. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.

Vile, he is. Vile and cruel and cold and disgusting.

He’ll just cover them up with a long sleeved shirt. That’ll do the trick, he thinks. That’ll do the trick. They’ll fade soon enough, anyway.

He won’t change. He knows that.

It makes that guilt twist into something worse. A sense of despair, maybe, twirling inside his gut like some sort of withering, seething snake.

He should really stop ruining his good days with unthinkable hands.

Chapter Text

Mob wakes to a void, unsurprisingly.

He sits up. Scans the area around himself. He glances down to his arm. The wounds still ache. Their nasty, now — more nastier than Mob remembers them being. Their red, and sting with every movement the boy makes, especially when he gets to his feet.

I thought you said you would stop, Shigeo snarls, a few meters away from where Mob is standing. He’s angry. I thought you promised me you would stop.

Mob flinches, looking towards his arm. I didn’t mean to, he says. I’m sorry.

Sorry won’t do anything now. You know that. A pause. Shigeo comes closer, and he seems a bit sad when he asks. Why, Mob?

Mob can’t answer. He fishes for the words to reply, but none come up. He doesn’t even know why. Guilt, probably, but it wasn’t like Mob really wanted to reach for the scissors in the first place.

The guilt was awful, yes — seething snakes in his stomach — but he could ignore them until they settled down. It was the spur of the moment, a choice that even had the perpetrator guilty. He didn’t know how to explain it.

I’m sorry, he says, instead, unable to find anything else to explain himself with.

Shigeo barks out a laugh, though it's not joyful. I doubt that.

Really, Mob looks towards him. I’m sorry. I really am.

..if you were sorry, you wouldn’t have done that.

It wasn’t like you helped at all. Mob bites, and recoils as the words leave his lips. He curls into himself, sensing the tension he just placed in the air. Sorry.

You— Shigeo hesitates, cutting himself off, thinking over his words. After a moment, he sighs, his tone laced with care as he speaks. You know I can’t control that. I would’ve been there for you if I did.

You weren’t there. I bet you wouldn’t even be there if you had the choice.

Shigeo remains silent. He creeps closer to Mob again, glancing at the boy's arm, looking at the boy's face. You're guilty.

Isn’t that obvious? Mob replies, touching his arm with his other hand and grimacing at the pain. He pulls away, only to touch it again. And again, and again.

Stop doing that, Shigeo hisses, closing in closer to Mob. The boy doesn’t stop. Hey. I said stop that.

What are you gonna do? Mob mumbles, intending for a bark to go along with it, but he sounds too tired for any malice to reach his words. He traces the outline of the wounds with his fingers, hissing as pain blooms along with it.

Mob. Shigeo is right next to him, now, his shoes visible in Mob's sight. Mob, stop that.

Why?

Because its—its hurting you.

Mob pauses. Why does that bother you so much? He asks. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t stop. Shigeo grows irritated.

Why wouldn’t it bother me? Shigeo snaps, grabbing Mobs hand and preventing him from picking at the wounds. Mob glares up at him, but doesn’t do anything about it. Shigeo huffs. We.. We share the same body.

Not here, Mob snaps. I’m not hurting the body.

You are.

I’m not. He pauses, looking away from Shigeo. Why would you care, anyway? You can move in it even if it's broken. I can’t. If anyone is worried about it, it should be me—

Cutting yourself still is an issue, isn’t it? Shigeo cuts him off, his grip tightening on his arm. Mob winces. He loses his grip. And you—you did that. You hurt the body. You hurt yourself.

I—I didn’t mean to.

Then why did you do it?

I just— Mob is at a loss for words. He shakes off Shigeo’s grip on his arm, letting it fall to his side now. I just felt guilty.

Shigeo is silent for a moment. He processes the words, remembers what happened before and sighs. You should tell someone, he suggests, voice carrying a gentle tone that makes Mob snap his head towards him.

No! No, I can’t, Mob says, suddenly plagued with anxiety, glancing back down to his arm. They’ll—what would I even say? Their not that bad, either, the cuts, so they’ll fade away and—

I’m not talking about that, Mob, Shigeo cuts him off. His eyes show a mix of regret, and Mob instantly knows.

No. He states, sharp. No. No, I won’t.

You can’t keep doing this to yourself.

I know. But I— Mob cuts himself off to swallow the lump thats formed in his throat, his hands balled into fists at his side. I dealt with it. Before. I just.. need to do it again.

You won’t get better that way. You're still going to give in. You're going to become addicted.

Don’t say that, Mob snaps. It's not an addiction. It's just—

Hormones? Shigeo suggests, sounding more agitated, as if he’s heard this sentence a thousand times over. He crosses his arms. Come on, Mob. We both know its goes deeper than that. Kids your age—

A-At least I know it’s wrong.

Everyone knows it's wrong. The type you read.. how could it not be?

Mob flinches. He turns his gaze downward, looking at the floor. He feels his chest cramp up, a pressure that builds, and he feels his eyes ache with the pressure that seeps from his gut.

I’m disgusting, he mutters, more so to himself than to Shigeo.

Shigeo sighs. Mob. You just.. you just need to tell someone.

Who? Mob says, sounding more upset than before. Who, Shigeo? Reigen-Shishou? Mum? Dad? Ritsu? Hanazawa-kun? They’ll all look at me in disgust. They’ll hate me. I can’t tell anyone. I have no one.

You have Tome-chan, Shigeo suggests. Or the Body Improvement Club guys. Maybe try them.

They won’t understand.

No one will if you never speak up about it.

I can’t. Its— Mob swallows back vomit, the creeping of worms in his gut increasing. It's too awful to tell anyone. They’ll all hate me. I can’t, Shigeo. I just.. I just can’t.

You need to get it out somehow, Shigeo says. I’m tired of dealing with this all the time. Your coping mechanisms aren’t working, and you don’t seem to be realising that.

I have realised that, Shigeo! Mob yells, his tone more strained than actually angry. He feels his throat tighten, and feels sick. I have—Fuck! If I didn’t realise that, then I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t—

Shigeo stays silent. Mob continues to try and choke the words out, but he falls silent. He's too upset to put his frustration into words. He's too upset for anything, really. His breathing stutters, hiccuping, and Mob can feel shame build up as he feels Shigeo’s eyes on him.

Shigeo comes closer towards him, until he’s holding Mob's shoulders. Mob doesn’t look up from the ground. Shigeo grips Mob's shoulders tighter.

Talk to someone, Mob, Shigeo pleads, voice no longer carrying that hostility known so well. It makes Mob flinch under his touch. Please. Please, just—just anyone.

I—I can’t. I can’t. It's too disgusting, and—

People have done a lot worse than you. People have seen a lot worse stuff than you, and they’ve still enjoyed it without shame or guilt. People have read worse, seen worse, done worse, and they still have not felt guilty over it.

I’m a monster.

You are not a monster. You are a kid.

Mob doesn’t say anything to that. He can’t, not really. He lets out a small whimper, and as Shigeo brings him closer, wrapping his arms around him, Mob can’t help but sob. His face scrunches up, and his throat tightens, and his eyes water and he breaks. A war has been lost and a river has escaped.

Scum, he is.

Only a child, he is.

I’ll talk to someone, he says, promising Shigeo as he hugs him tighter. I’ll talk to someone.

Thank you. Shigeo says in return, patting Mobs back as the boy continues to hiccup and sob.

Chapter Text

Fuck. Mob knew he should’ve put bandaids on those cuts.

Okay, so, maybe he didn’t tell anyone about it — but he was sure going to do that. Just. Maybe not now. Maybe not today. He hadn’t been given a date for such a task, and Shigeo seemed content with the mere fact that he would tell someone soon, so Mob..

Well. He thought he would be okay today. Apparently, he’s proven wrong. A bad night is just going to lead into a bad day, which is.. fine, he guesses. Still. Its annoying. Sitting in class was annoying. Or, really, agonising.

All the colours swirled and shifted around him, and Mob felt his bones become hot in a dreading, seething way. A choked feeling made itself known in the boys throat, and Mob felt his gut swirl with cold snakes.

Too loud. Too loud.

He could hear every single movement, every conversation, every murmur of his classmates around him. The rustle and turn of paper seemed so loud to him, and the girls tapping their pens on their desks was deafening.

Agonising.

Mob felt like throwing up. His head buzzed with static, an ache to his temple that made everything seem foolishly unimportant. Even the teacher's voice was drowned out by increasing pain in Mob's senses.

His arm throbbed, a harsh reminder. Everything stuck to his skin like some sort of glue. He feels the warmth of his chin as he holds his head in his hands. He tries to block out the colours, but all that seems to do is make his eyes pang.

Retracting his hand back, Mob can see how oblivious it is now. Can feel it, really. Even with his hand away from his face, Mob can still feel the uncomfortable stickiness of it. He moved to cover his eyes again, and became pointingly aware of the fact that he was—

He was stupid.

His cuts ached and burned and hummed under his skin, a constant reminder of just what he did last night. He felt like rubbing them from his body. He hated it.

Stop hurting, he felt like saying it. Stop hurting, stop hurting, stop—

Mob's ears burned. Hot. Melting. His face flushed with warmth, his skin clammy and moist. He felt sick. Shit. He knew he should’ve used disinfectant on his wounds, or at least make sure they weren’t just simply under his shirt. But he didn’t, and now his body was melting off of its molded, skeleton tructure.

His chest ached, like some sort of warmth was pressing its whole weight onto it, and Mob tried desperately not to let it bother him.

His nose burned. He felt pressure creep into his eye, the feeling seeping until both of his eyes panged with pain. It hurt. Stung. The nerves of his eyes throbbed at the back of his eyelids, and it made everything even more painful to listen to.

He felt sick. Sick. Sick!

Maybe a nurse? Someone suggested, perking up from behind his shoulder. Mob thinks it over, twists and rolls and ponders it. He has class. It's the first lesson. Should he really go home right now..? He could tough it out for a few more hours.

Just do it, it commanded. Please. You don’t want to suffer like this, and I doubt English class will be any better for you.

Mob.. agrees. Yeah. Okay. That.. makes sense, he guesses.

He’ll go home. He’ll go home, and rest, and it’ll all stop hurting. Hopefully.