The knife [which he had struggled for so long to get a hold of, trying countless times to get something, anything past the ever-watchful eyes of his captors] lay forgotten on the pristine, white tiled floor.
...Well. It used to be pristine, up until recently.
Crimson stains stand out against the white [garish and unsettling and far too much of it], a beautiful and ironic contrast to the hospital-like sterilized décor. The others will be angry, will likely stare in wide-eyed shock at the mess he's made, but... whatever they think won't be all that important in the end, will it?
There is no going back now, anyway. [They were running out of time‒]
He is almost finished, kneeling on the floor and writing out a few more letters, just a few. It's terrible, trying to remember what comes next and sometimes he even forgets what language, what script, but that's fine, as long as he remembers the purpose, the message.
He has to warn them. They will see it, they will know.
They will be able to do what he could not.
His knees have grown sore from the hard, unforgiving tile, but he doesn't register the ache. He'd stopped feeling pain some time ago, after the first few deep cuts; it should worry him, but it doesn't. [If anything, it was a blessing, wasn't it? Just a step closer to knowing nothing but sweet oblivion.]
He writes with his left hand, right lifted to the side of his head [oh how it hurt], fingers tangling in his matted dark curls as he completes another block of secrets, codes, little clues that only the right eyes will recognize, hidden as nonsensical insane ramblings to anyone else.
...Is there anything left to write? Did he forget something? He blinks, frowns in thought, leans back and rests his weight on his palm [or tried to, anyway] but the ground is too slippery, too wet, and he lands on his elbow with a hard crack instead. Unbidden, he begins to laugh, a low [hysterical and desperate] chuckle falling past his chapped lips as he scrambles for purchase, trying to push himself up, a futile effort.
The laughter stopping just as abruptly as it began, he gives up and falls back against the floor with something like a wistful sigh. If he looks to his right, he can see Lucy, laying where he'd left her, crumpled and small in the shadow of the Animus.
He didn't want to hurt Lucy [perhaps not that much; perhaps a lot more], honestly, he didn't, but there just... just wasn't enough for him to write everything. He needed to write it, she would understand, always kind and forgiving. He needed to‒
His eyesight is going blurry, so he lifts a hand to irritably rub the tears from his eyes, but no, that just makes it worse. Brow knit in confusion, eyes narrowed, he holds his hand in front of his face.
Blood, too much of it, smeared over his fingers, coating his palm, thick and red, so very red.
[whathaveIdone‒]