There's a time in every life, where one feels truly and utterly broken. Some are lucky and these days only come every so often, but there are others, such as Danny, who suffer constantly. Their minds are plagued by awful, throat-clenching thoughts. They lie awake past the witching hour; reliving their past mistakes and seeing the many different ways they could have corrected the disastrous outcome.
It's four on a Sunday when Danny yawns and stumbles to his feet. The past night had been a long one and the young boy had battled constantly with his sub-conscious. His hair is a mess of black curls and knots from constantly tossing and turning; his blue eyes are dull and listless.
It takes him a moment to realize he's in new surroundings. He's forgotten that he's no longer in his twin bed in his old room with the blue wallpaper and white rocket ships. He'd been here about a week, but he still wakes surprised in the larger than king bed, with it's surrounding bleak walls, and plush carpet which he now stands on in naked toes. He hears footsteps behind the bedroom door, smells the breakfast his host probably his a silver platter, and at once the memories over the past seven days come flooding back in a title wave that drowns him instantly. He hears again the hiss of the boiler, the ear-shattering bang, and see's once more the grey mushroom-shaped cloud rising high in his mind's eye. There's the ghost of his friend's and love ones' screams echoing in his head again, louder this time than the last. Save us Danny! Help us, Danny!
The word comes suddenly and it tumbles from his pursed, nervous lips without any consent, "Dead." Before him the door to the bedroom slowly squeaks open, casting a dim light around the lanky figure that holds the doorknob. Danny's eyes are faraway now as he whispers, "They're dead. All of them, Sam, Tucker, Mom, Da-" His words dissolve into unintelligible sobs. The figure in his doorway closes the distance between them in three strides. His thin arms wrap around Danny's shoulders without a second thought and Danny doesn't fight as he's pulled into a tight embrace. "Hush Daniel," the other replies, his voice soft and comforting. A hand goes to Danny's hair and slowly Vlad works his fingers through the black tangles.
His motions are gentle and slow. Danny doesn't know why he lets the man whose main goal in life was to break his family in half, touch him in such a way, but he does. He's never felt so lost, so alone and so guilty in his life. At that point, any familiar face, even one as sickening and dangerous as Vlad's, was a comfort.
"It hurts. So much." Danny places a hand to his heart, his fingers numbly picking at the skin, as if he could reach into his body and pull the organ and it's pain from his being with one tug, "Hurts right here."
"I know." There's Vlad's hand again and now he's taking Danny's fingers and moving them away from the skin. There's small red punctures on the skin from his fingernails and Danny's surprised to see that he was the cause. He hadn't realized he'd broken skin. He brings the fingers to his face and stares at the blood splotches on his fingertips. He's taken enough health course, to know he shouldn't act this way, but it's feel so good to release the pain. He tries to pulls his finger from Vlad and when he succeeds, he reaches back to the spot on his chest and begin scratching again, harder this time, hoping it will bleed.
"Daniel," Vlad sighs, and makes a move for his hands again.
"Why isn't the blood green?"
Vlad stares at the boy, or more specifically the empty shell of the boy who had once been his mortal enemy. The loss of the younger's family and friends in the freak accident within what had once been Danny's favorite eatery, had taken a toll on both of the half ghosts, though they expressed their pain in different ways. Vlad, who had once relished the idea of Danny in such a weak and fragile state, could no longer think of hurting the broken boy. The very thought disgusted him. Vlad wasn't sure why it had taken such a loss to bring this realization but it was here and the thought of harming this poor, tormented little boy when he wasn't even stable enough to protect himself, made him feel sick to his stomach. Vlad played dirty, but even he couldn't rationalize such a low.
"Daniel, stop. You're going to badly harm yourself."
Danny knows he should stop, he could bring in infection or wose, but the action just makes him feel so good. This is his punishment to himself; this is what he gets for not saving Sam, for not helping Tucker, for losing his family. The blood is thicker and the wound is larger now, but Danny doesn't see it as enough. He deserves to die, fully this time. And painfully. He deserves so much worse for his failure. But where was his punishment? Why wasn't he in the hell he should be?
"Daniel. Daniel. DANNY!" Vlad's hands are on his shoulders and he's shaking him hard. "Daniel, respond to me."
"I didn't save them."
"We've been over this, you couldn't save them. There was no possible way…" Vlad trails off as Danny raises his head and looks to him. The boy's mouth moves, but no words come out of him. Finally, after a number of minutes that pass like hours, he chokes out, "D-does it ever get better?"
How does one answer a question like that? Does it get better? The elder halfa tries to think back to a time when he, Vladimir Masters, had truly ever felt happy since the accident (the first one that is, the one which gave him his powers and turned his life into a living hell) but he's empty handed. His world had spiraled downward after that day and not once had he risen back up.
"No, Daniel. I'm sorry, but I don't think it does."
Danny, as though he was expecting such a blunt answer, nods with understanding. Tears are slipping down his cheeks now and Vlad holds tighter as the young boy before him dissolve into nothing less than hysterics.