Norman dug through beige putty, knuckles white, hand sore and cramping – still, he gripped the handle of the knife, gritting his teeth. He was in a cheap motel, somewhere in downtown Philadelphia. The case of the Origami Killer was taking its toll on him, the little blue vials he depended so much on where dwindling. Though the ones he had left, he couldn't simply carry around with him, and he didn't trust to just leave them in a bag underneath the bed of the hotel. That was far too obvious.
Instead he found himself sitting on the floor of the bathroom, destroying property. Digging through one of the floor tiles, attempting to open up a safety compartment, some place where he could temporarily stash his supply. He was a drug addict – his lifeline was a little blue vial of chemicals, chemicals that were severely damaging his sanity, driving him further and further to the point of cracking.
"Fuck fuck fuck!"
A loud hiss, followed by a clatter, the sound of steel hitting linoleum. Norman brought his hand up to his chest, falling back against the side of the bathtub, his head hanging in defeat. Maybe he wouldn't have to worry about the Triptocaine killing him, after all. His hand slipped, somewhere between withdrawing backwards and lunging towards the stubborn tile, he had stabbed himself…right in the wrist.
The world was fading fast, his consciousness slipping quickly. Not even realizing he had toppled over and was currently cheek-first in a pool of his own blood. He stared up at the flush-mounted light – attracted to the inevitable. He hardly noticed the pain at this point, having lost all feeling of his body what seemed like hours ago now.
There were police sirens in the distance, perhaps his imagination playing tricks on him. The scent of copper and salt burning his already sore nose – that was another downside of the Triptocaine. If there were any upsides at all. Maybe not his mind playing tricks on him after all. He could hear his cell phone ringing, somewhere in the next room, but he couldn't move.
"In'ere…"
Norman was slurring now, vision blurry, hands shaking. He was cold, oddly cold. More so than he usually was in this blasted rainy weather. If he could've have felt frightened, he would have. Someone was pounding on the door, he couldn't do anything but to yell again, this time an incoherent jumble of God knows what.
He reached for the knife, grabbing air a few times before finally managing to wrap unsteady fingers around the blade, bringing it up to his line of sight to study. The blood was all over his hand now – the sharp edge of the blade digging into his fingers, causing even more of a mess.
"Jesus Christ, Jayden…what the fuck did you do this time?"
A familiar voice…possibly Blake? But…what?
"We need an ambulance! He's hanging on by a fuckin' thread!"
The lieutenant knelt down beside him, and Norman could very faintly feel pressure applied to his wounded wrist. Was Carter Blake attempting to save his life? He glanced up at him, feeling liquid roll from his eyes. He feared the worst – he wasn't quite sure if it was tears or blood. It didn't matter, though, he couldn't keep them open anymore.
A/N — May continue this at some point. For now it's just a drabble to get back in the swing of updating this thing.