A Dark Mirror
A Word: Thursday prompt, from Kaitouhime1412 who wanted Tim in Silent Hill. I don't think there's enough darkness in the world to cover what would come out if Timmy ever went to that place.
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Tim tries to turn around the second he steps through the door and sees the puddle of blood on the floor. Sees the faded and destroyed foyer that's no less familiar for all that it looks like the walls have been torn away to reveal the living innards of the building. Bleeding flesh beating to the distinct beat that's chased him through this town. Some dark music that brings Gotham to mind despite the miles between her and this town.
Tim slams up against the door that's already closed. Fingers clawing at the handle like the icy fingers of panic tearing up his throat. The handle rattles but won't turn and the door shudders under the weight of his kicks but remains stubbornly solid. "No, no, no, no, please no-"
Pure terror dulls his mind allowing instinct, that base animal thing, to take over. He growls and scratches at the rotting wood. Ignoring the way the splinters dig into his flesh through the rips and tears of his gauntlets. Tim freezes at the first creaky whine. His heart beating loud enough he thinks he couldn't possibly hear anything over it until it comes again.
Slowly Tim turns, hand still twisting the knob. His eyes flinch over the blood pool. Dark and congealed around something he doesn't allow himself to focus on. Over the decayed remains of shoes and scratched pictures of people Tim could recognize if he let himself. The noise comes again. Deep in the living room, behind the broken frame of a couch.
Tim's instinct screams at him to run away. To batter his body against the door until either it or his body give out. His mind clamps down hard on that though. Logic taking back the reigns and reminding him that whatever this place was, whatever the game being played, running was the quickest way to die. It was all one big mind game after all. Everything he's seen a twisted reflection of his own life. Chasing and guiding him along a convoluted path, leading Tim to something. Some act or realization. Closer to the mind behind everything.
And investigating the strange noise is the only way to move things along.
Tim steps into the living room. Ignoring the way his boots slip slightly, not looking down until he's out of the foyer. His bo is solid and reassuring in his hands as he goes wide and slowly edges around couch. A millimeter at a time. Hyper alert for any trick or monster that might be waiting for him to lock eyes on it.
His breath locks up in his throat when he sees the wheelchair. On it's side, the upright wheel spinning slowly. Squeaking when it reaches one warped edge.
It's not a chair Tim's seen before. Not the sturdy yet elegant one Dad had used for a while, and it's not the sleek lightweight design Babs favors. It's not either of their chairs but for a minute -then two and three- it is, and Tim's shaking as he turns away sharply.
Stepping onto something soft that shifts under his heels and grabs him.
Tim kicks out blindly. Hearing a sickening crunch even as he falls forward. The hands release his foot and start to claw up his leg. Pulling him back towards something that gurgles and moans. Tim looks down for one terrifying second and screams. Logic fleeing once again in the face of something shaped like his father.
Blood escapes its mouth as it opens wide, blackened and broken teeth snapping closed against Tim's leg with enough force to bruise him but not break the armor. Yet. Tim goes wild at the thought, looking away and kicking back as hard as he can. Hands scrambling for the staff that had skittered out of his hands as high keens of sound escape his own mouth.
His index finger catches on it and the bo rolls into his hands. The creature's face caves in almost completely under the first hit. The second gives Tim room to stumble to his feet. The third makes the creature twitch spastically. The fourth, fifth, eighth, and twentieth are not needed, but Tim keeps hitting the creature until there's nothing recognizable left. Until he's a panting wreck bent over it. Barely able to see through the tears trapped behind the mask.
Tim stumbles down the hall blindly. Feet taking him automatically to a small dark room. The staff clatters to the broken tile and Tim has the presence of mind to make sure the door is closed before bending over the cracked tub and throwing up.
He fumbles the mask off with shaking fingers when his stomach empties. Feeling the sting of adhesive pulling off the top layer of his skin and the warm spill of tears stings down his face. The vomit stinks and blends in with the sticky stains that blacken the tub. Tim backs away trying to wipe the inside lens of the mask clean. A task made worse by not having anything clean to do it with. A flickering bulb swings above him as he turns to where a sink should be. Now just a series of jutting pipes and a cracked mirror with words written on it.
Tim goes utterly still. Catching the words he's seen before, but still manage to gut him each time. They're spaced perfectly apart so that he can see his face in them. Tear stained and hollow looking in a frame of words asking, "Why do you get to live?"
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