There were times when simply physically sealing himself away physically did little to help. And so his mind was quick to go on the defensive instead. Switching itself off and leaving the teen to stare blankly at the wall opposite his desk.
It didn't stop the voices, though. The incessant voices so set on proving themselves right. Constantly whispering. Reminding him of all the wrongs he'd done, the blood on his hands, the bodies piling up beneath his 'throne'. His fault. All his fault. His parents were probably happy to be dead at this point. Who could want a son like him?
He doubted his father had ever burned down a manor full of children.
Those children. Little more than living dolls by that point. Going through the motions natural to their bodies. No sense of self preservation left in them.
They were dead before I even looked at them.
Of course such arguments went ignored by the voices.
Smoke inhalation is a better way to go than falling from a great height. Or by knife wounds. Or by a mauling from a lion. Such a death was a blessing.
Still didn't matter.
They'd suffer no matter what I did. I saved them.
Shut up. Stop lying to yourself. We all know the truth. Why should the demon not lie to you if you so readily lie to yourself? How are you going to tell the difference?
At some point he'd picked up the letter opener, started fiddling with it. Sebastian really should stop keeping them so sharp. Keeping every knife in this manor so sharp. It was too easy to simply start splitting his skin with it, too easy for it to become a mindless action he barely noticed. He'd experienced worse pain.
I saved them.
You're no saviour.
Yes I am. I saved Bardroy, Finnian, Mey-rin, and Snake.
You're the reason that scaled freak needed saving in the first place.
Don't insult my servants.
You do.
I don't mean it.
You'd throw them all to the dogs if it benefitted you.
I'd throw my own flesh and blood to the dogs if it benefitted me. I've thrown my own soul to a demon to benefit myself. Your point is null and void.
You wish it was. Why bother with such useless trash?
I told you to stop.
Doesn't answer the question.
You're in my head you know all your answers.
They're lies.
Then I'll just be telling you lies, won't I?
His hand had begun to curl closed around the slim blade, the other fingers still slowly turning the handle. More and more pressure required to continue the motion as flesh provided more resistance, but it still continued. Or tried to. It was getting to the point where he wasn't putting enough force to keep the blade turning.
You're just dragging them into the darkness with you.
I dragged them out of it. They'd be dead by now if it wasn't for me.
Keep lying to yourself. It worked real well when those bastards had us, didn't it?
Why was he arguing with a voice in his head?
This was getting bad.
He didn't want to end up in that institution again. He couldn't survive that again. He wouldn't let himself be put through that again. He'd have Sebastian slaughter anyone who tried.
You're a loon, everyone will wake up and realise that at some point.
And for once he was saved by the explosion that managed to rattle the study windows. The noise managed to break Ciel's stupor, finally blinking – and attention quickly drawn to the spreading red on the sheet of paper he'd been working on, the pain that pricked in his hand.
By this point he was simply pressing the letter opener into a wound on his palm, digging it in, and the recognition of the pain it was causing had his hand snapping open, the letter opener being left to drop to the desk.
A scowl, glaring at the blood that had stained his work, which he'd now have to start all over again – brilliant – and the boy used his uninjured hand to fish out his pocket handkerchief, bundling it up and pressing it against his other hand, curling it into a first despite the sting. He kept his grip on the bit of cloth tight, pushing himself up out of the plush chair to turn to the window. He fumbled with the latch for a moment – he wasn't particularly good at using one hand for these things – before swinging one of the panes open – and flinching slightly at the complaining hiss of the snake that had perched on the outside sill to sun itself and nearly been dislodged – to glare down into the garden.
By the time he'd counted to three he caught sight of his servants fleeing into the fresh air, followed by a short rush of smoke. There were no prizes for guessing that he'd have to have some portion of his manor rebuilt. Again.
"What the bloody Hell did you do this time?!"
You couldn't save Aunt Ann, you can't keep saving them.