He had no bandages.
He couldn't do it; there were no bandages.
He panicked, his breath coming in strained gasps, spots dancing in the corners of his eyes, mocking him.
The blood would stain the sheets, if he couldn't bandage himself up. it would flow, and flow, and maybe -
-Of course.
The solution.
The only way to solve this problem once and for all.
No more bandages.
They weren't necessary.
The cuts hurt. God they hurt, and the pain was necessary, cathartic. The boiling pressure within him eased, faded, released with the odd sensation of popping a pimple or draining a blister. It eased in a sharp, painful way that felt so inordinately good he had to do it again.
And again.
And again.
He sighed, shuddered with agonized pleasure. The tension, the restlessness, the vibrating energy radiating from the black hole within him left flooded out in a red tide.
Gone.
Sorry about not working on Wormhole or Vulcan Justice right now. My aunt just died and I've been having other issues...if I'd tried to work on them, they would have ended with everyone being killed in horrible, heartbreaking ways that would've left you all hating me.
Just bear with me while I work through my own personal lack-of-bandages, okay?
