A/N: This is one of my entries for Resbang 2016. This fic was so hard for me to write since it focuses on Wes and Soul's relationship more than romance like I normally write, but it was also fun for me to explore the brothers. I also couldn't have gotten through it without the support and patience of my artist partner therealflurrin whose art can be found on tumblr. She was such a joy to work with and the ideas she brought to this fic were all wonderful. I love the art she created for it; she did such a marvelous job on it so definitely check it out. I also want to thank tenbrisael for betaing the first half of this fic before life happened. I appreciate your input a ton.
Warnings for this fic: depression, suicidal thoughts
Also, the title of this fic is from the song of the same name by Twenty One Pilots, and the chapter titles are titles from Miles Davis' Bitches Brew album that I listened to while writing this fic.
I hope y'all enjoy it :)
It starts out like every past downward spiral he's had: with a nightmare.
Except this one's different.
Instead of sitting, staring at the ivory keys of a piano in front of an audience, he's standing in a checkered room with curtains cascading over the walls around him. There's a piano, which is unsurprising. He supposes the instrument is part of his own internal fears and he is doomed to have it looming over his head for the rest of his life, even if he's chosen a different path than the one his parents want for him. The piano stays because it's more than just a symbol of his stage fright; it's a reminder of his childhood and the anxiety induced nightmares that come now.
There's also a small stand with a record player on top of it. The music that plays from it scratches and repeats itself on an endless loop that grates his nerves and confuses him even more. It doesn't make sense, which he supposes is the point of dreams. But if that were the case, he should be having the dream he's familiar with, the one he's had for as long as he can remember. Not this new one.
He glances around the room, searching for any other sign of life other than him.
For another ever present thing in his dreams like the piano.
When he comes up short, Soul moves over to the record player to stop the music. It's smooth jazz, similar to what should be playing in a cafe rather than... rather than whatever this room is meant to represent. Not the particular jazz he's a fan of. He prefers the cool style of jazz like Miles Davis produces, the kind that sets his soul at ease and calms his ever working brain.
The moment he touches the record, however, a voice sounds and halts him.
"Now, now, Soul. Is that any way to act when you're in my domain?"
Soul knows the voice. He's become far too familiar with it over the last ten years to not know it, and the way his skin crawls is enough for him to beg himself to wake up.
But somehow he manages to keep his cool when he speaks.
"Almost thought you weren't gonna show up," he says, digging his hands in his pockets.
Has he been wearing a suit this whole time?
"I'm hurt you'd think I'd leave you like that, my boy."
Without bothering to look at the demon, Soul asks, "What do you mean this is your domain?"
"Ah, Soul, my boy. Ever the questioning one, aren't you?" A pause. "I mean exactly what I said: this is my home I've built in that little head of yours. Don't you like it?"
Snorting, he says, "Could use with a different color scheme. Though, I guess red and black does suit you." Soul turns around to face the demon and sees the imp swinging his hips and snapping his fingers out of tune with the music. "God, you're an awful dancer."
The demon only smiles as it makes its way over to him; it moves slowly but with a menacing glint in its pure white eyes. "You're not gonna ask me why you're here? Why I've come after five years?"
"No," he says, taking a step back.
"Course not, 'cause you already know." The imp's grin widens to expose a full set of sharp teeth. "Poor little Soul boy's gone off his meds and stopped going to therapy. What would your brother think of you?"
"Wes doesn't need to know."
"Little Soul boy's going down a different path now 'cause he's scared of being the family fuck up again. Can't handle all the stress of money and student loans and being jobless. Been a hard year for ya, hasn't it? Getting rejection email after rejection email, no interviews, nothing. Moving in with your brother lasting longer than you expected. It was only a matter of time before you gave in and let yourself go."
"What are you-"
Soul's words are cut short as the demon raises a long red finger at him, standing in front of him now. A pointed claw emerges from its finger, and the demon presses it right above Soul's breastbone. His heart hammers in his chest, the air around him suffocating and warmer than it had been moments before. He grips the stand behind him and tries to lean away from the imp, but finds himself rooted on the spot.
All he can do is scream as the demon's claw slices through his outfit and scorches his skin as it tears down. Down over the oblique scar permanently embedded over his chest. He screams and screams and screams because it's all he can do; none of his limbs are moving no matter how much he begs them to.
Except, even though he's screaming and his throat aches, there's no sound.
No sound save for the shitty jazz music and the imp's maniacal laughter.
Wes barges into the room without knocking, without making any announcement he's coming in, and jumps toward the bed in a frenzied mess. His actions are swift as he pins Soul to the bed and pinches the bridge of his nose. He ignores the hot, blood-boiling scream coming from his brother. Fear and worry are the only two emotions fueling his sleep-deprived brain, and his focus is solely on waking the boy up.
"Soul, wake up," he calmly says, voice hoarse.
Clearing his throat, he repeats himself.
"Soul, wake up. It's just a dream. You're safe, I promise. It can't get you."
It takes a second, but Soul's eyes snap open and he gasps for air. Wes removes his fingers from Soul's nose, keeps his forearm pinned over Soul's chest, and cautiously watches his brother, judging his movements as he does so.
Soul's gaze is fuzzy and unclear. The fear is evident on his face, though; his cheeks are flushed and his mouth stark white like his hair. Blank, crimson eyes dart around the room as Soul tries to catch his breath, and Wes can feel Soul's pulse pounding against his arm. He wonders what kind of nightmare his brother had endured this time around, how long it had been before Wes woke up, and how long it would have gone on had he not come barging in.
Slowly moving away from his brother after a minute has passed, Wes leans over and turns on the lamp sitting on his nightstand and waits.
Another minute passes before Soul fully calms down.
"Wes?" Soul asks, his voice dry like he had cotton balls stuck in his mouth.
"I'm here." Wes sets his hand over his brother's wrist and squeezes to reassure him. "You're safe now. You want some hot chocolate?"
Bringing up the old childhood drink seems to bring Soul's focus back and he warily shakes his head.
"N-no. The demon, he'll... He won't... Never was a fan... Too dangerous..."
The choppiness of his sentences sets another wave of worry to cascade over his heart, and his mouth somberly smiles at his brother. He hates seeing him in this state, has always hated the nightmares and terrors he's endured since he was thirteen, but there isn't much he can do about them except comfort Soul, to remind him he still has a fan in Wes even if others have strayed from his support system.
"Come." Wes tugs on Soul's shirt to take it off. "Let's take this off and go back to bed, yeah?"
His brother doesn't fight him as he slips the shirt over his head and tosses it on the ground. He still doesn't fight when Wes gently pushes him back on the mattress. Grabbing the old stuffed shark that's God knows how old by now, he hands it to Soul who doesn't hesitate to hug it to him. The image of his brother cuddling an old stuffed animal is both amusing and endearing, but given the circumstances, it still manages to crack his heart.
"Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning," Wes soothingly tells him.
"Sleep... Morning... Good," Soul mumbles before dozing off again.
Wes stays there for another minute or two, watching his brother fall into a peaceful slumber, before slinking back to his own bed. As he climbs into bed, he counts the years since Soul last woke him up because of a nightmare, and calculates five years have gone by. Five years since Wes convinced his brother to seek help, five years since Soul started taking antidepressants, and five years since they both moved out of their parents' home.
It doesn't explain why they've come back, though.
The last thought in his head is one he chooses to ignore and refuse to acknowledge, because his brother isn't that much of an idiot.
He's stopped taking his medication.
The next morning, sitting at the dining table, Soul spoons cereal into his mouth while cradling his head. He has the worst headache in the history of headaches, and on top of that his head feels like it's stuffed with cotton balls. His nightmare from the night before left him tired and exhausted and fear-ridden. When he closes his eyes, all he sees is white eyes surrounded by black and red, along with a villainous grin marked with sharp teeth. His skin still crawls even thinking about the nightmare; goosebumps prickle the nape of his neck each time he remembers it.
It doesn't surprise him, though, the nightmare.
With his meds gone and his aversion of going back to therapy, it was a matter of time before the imp and the dreams came back. They're like a fifth limb to him, something that's always been a part of him that he's learned to deal with in the past. Yes, he went through the last five years being a productive member of society without going to bed worrying they'll show up and remind him he's still a worthless human being, but maybe it's what he needs right now.
Not praise or a rainbow.
Maybe he needs a few rainy and dark days right now.
"Good morning," Wes chirps as he enters the kitchen. Soul's headache worsens like a hangover, except it's in response to how loud and obnoxious his brother's peppiness is. "Sleep well?"
Soul glares at Wes' back. He damn well knows Soul didn't sleep well.
Even though he had been out of it when Wes interrupted his dream, he still is aware Wes had woken him up. He would be more surprised if he hadn't. Ever the loyal brother to come help rescue Soul from a horrible nightmare; that was the type of brother he was and still is to this day. Yet another shining example of everything Soul isn't.
"I have a fucking massive headache. What do you think?" he grumbles.
"Well, you were never much of a morning person anyways," Wes says, pouring himself a bowl of cereal.
"That doesn't mean jack shit when it comes to the headache, and you know it."
"I'm trying to lighten the mood, Soul. You should try it sometime. Maybe it'll do you some good."
"Don't try to lighten anything, Wes. I'm really not feeling it today."
"Understood," Wes says. He sets his bowl across the table from Soul and sits down, digging into it right away.
They both eat their breakfast in silence. Soul scrolls through the Tumblr app on his phone, liking posts to reblog later when he's on his laptop and nose laughing when necessary. Across from him, Wes fiddles with his own phone, no doubt checking his calendar and emails for the day.
As a skilled psychologist, it's Wes' duty to attend to patients and double check which ones he's seeing that day. Soul doesn't know much about them, but being as he's seen his fair share of therapists (more sporadically during his youth compared to his adult life), he knows each case is different and can't be attended to the same way. He knows his brother is good at what he does because he's been doing it since they were kids. A large part of why Wes entered the profession, Soul feels, has to do with him and the struggles he experienced as a kid.
Back then, there weren't many therapists his parents trusted to keep their youngest son's issue under the rug, no matter how often they promised they couldn't relay any information to anyone other than those Soul said gave their authorization to. But this led him to have more troubled nights than necessary, which meant more nightmares and night terrors, and since Wes' bedroom had been next door to his, it was always him who came running to help wake him. Him who stayed up an hour until Soul safely went back to sleep. It had also been Wes who convinced their parents to settle on a therapist because Soul needed help.
So, it came to no surprise to Soul when Wes informed them all he was going to get his doctorate degree and become a clinical psychologist.
It does surprise Soul, however, that his brother hasn't connected the dots that he's stopped seeking help.
Rinsing his bowl out and setting it in the sink to be cleaned later, Soul stretches and stifles a yawn. He doesn't have much to do for the day except search for more jobs, apply for more positions, and pray someone calls him back. Maybe he can sneak in a long nap before doing so.
"Got any big plans for the day?" Wes asks, not bothering to look up from his phone.
"Nothing 'sides the usual."
"Welp, I wish you luck." He scoots his chair back and does the same to his bowl that Soul did. When he finishes, he places his hand on Soul's shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure something'll come your way. Just gotta keep applying."
"Yeah, thanks."
Soul would never admit it - not in private, not to Wes, not to anyone - but his brother's words have an effect on him and warm his cold, dark, pessimistic heart, because deep down, he doesn't believe them. He still believes himself to be a family failure, the loser. A nobody. He thinks his father was right all along, that Soul would never amount to anything in his chosen profession and he'd be doomed to go crawling back to the Evans name just to make a quick buck.
And that's a thought that leaves a sour taste in his mouth, because fuck him if he's ever going back to that house, to that lifestyle. He'd sooner be dead than go back there.
When the door to their apartment closes, Soul sulks back to his room for a nap.
On his way to work, Wes replays his morning conversation with Soul over and over in his head like a broken record. He tries to digest every bit of information his brother gave him and determine what's wrong with him because he knows the nightmares shouldn't be back. If Soul is doing everything right, he shouldn't be having the dreams and night terrors again. That's what the medication is for, that's what antidepressants are meant to do. They're there to vanquish the demon that resides in Soul and help him be a functional human being.
Unless, he's off the medication, a small voice reminds him.
But as quickly as it came, Wes shakes it out of his head because he refuses to acknowledge even the possibility.
He knows his brother, and he knows Soul isn't an idiot. Not completely, at least.
Sure, he's done some pretty idiotic things in the past, but that was when they were children. Soul's an adult now, and he knows better. He knows the risks of going off the antidepressants and not seeing his therapist; Wes had helped him see the light when he was going through his own courses and guided him in that aspect of his mental health.
Depression mixed with anxiety is detrimental to his brother's health. They had both seen the affects it put on him with the added stress of being an Evans and the tireless expectations of their father. It ate Soul from the inside out, made him miserable, and stole away his youth. He had the same memories Wes did, only his were a hundred times worse than what Wes can ever imagine because Soul had been gifted with the short end of the stick and suffered more than Wes.
So he of course he knows better than to quit his anti-depressants cold turkey.
However, as the day wears on, he still has a bad taste in his mouth things aren't alright to the point that he contemplates calling Soul's therapist even though he knows it'll put him at a dead end. Therapists have a strict patient confidentiality they live by. Releasing anyone's information - even to a family member and fellow psychologist - is grounds for removal of their license practice, and no sane person wants that.
Which leaves Wes empty-handed and still questioning what can possibly be wrong even though he knows. He just refuses to acknowledge it.
It isn't until he's locking the door to his practice he accepts it.
He digests the thought on his way home and tries to come up with a practical solution to help his brother to get back on the train, but comes up short. Soul isn't the type of person who willingly opens up to someone. Hell, it probably took the kid years before he told his therapist anything personal, if even that. His brother is a man of few words and little trust; he's a hard kid to figure out and an even harder one to crack open.
Being direct and vocal about his fall from the wagon is hopeless unless Wes wants Soul to shut him out and toss the key in molten lava, which he doesn't. There has to be another tactic he can use to get Soul to talk to him about the issue and maybe help him out. He just needs to figure out what it is first.
That night, over dinner, Wes keeps casual conversation with his brother - asking him the usual questions about his day and trying to keep it as civil as humanly possible - while also observing him. He uses the same techniques he does when he's seeing a patient. Judges his position, his behaviors, if anything seems off compared to normal, but finds nothing out of the ordinary. It almost seems as if Soul knows what he's doing and refusing to give him any more information than he needs, but that isn't the case.
Wes knows this because like his brother, he's good at pulling the veil over his own facial expressions.
When they go to bed that night, Wes tells Soul goodbye like normal, but leaves the bathroom light on so enough of it illuminates his bedroom connecting to it. Soul won't turn the lamp on by his bed because if he knows his brother (which he does), he refuses to address he has a problem with the dark. Especially if he is off his medication and struggling with the demons of his nightmares. Wes also leaves his door open a crack just in case there's another bout of screaming tonight.
He takes all the proper precautions to help his brother because that's what he does. It's how he's always been since they were little. Big brother looking out for his younger brother; it's an innate behavior in him he can't shake off no matter how much Soul wishes he could.
Something his undergraduate career didn't prepare him for is how fucking hard applying for jobs is when it isn't at McDonalds or Toys R Us.
After careful consideration of your skills and qualifications, the department has selected another applicant whose skills and qualifications more closely match their needs, reads his latest rejection email.
He scoffs at the word choice behind it - a generic sentence he's read about a thousand times and has seen smeared black in his dreams about a dozen. It's a bunch of bullshit. The position he applied for was an entry level job where the requirement was to have at least a high school degree. A job he should have at least received an interview for.
"Fuck," he sighs, running a hand through his hair.
Soul stares at the email, the words blending together until his vision is a swirl of black and white. He wonders what Wes will think of this when he tells him - if he ever tells him because honestly, he isn't sure he wants to gripe more about another rejection. His brother's heard enough of his complaining and self-pity for the last that Soul's more than positive he's tired of hearing it by now. Isn't that what everyone thinks when he goes through one of his bouts like this? They all eventually get tired of him and dump him for someone who's more fun and interesting to be around.
It's only a matter of time before Wes deserts him too, right?
His phone buzzes where it sits on his desk. He glances over to see a text from Liz, his best friend and Wes' on-again-off-again girlfriend.
[[ you free to get some lunch? my treat ]]
[[ depends. where at? ]]
[[ I could go for Chipotle? ]]
[[ sure. what time? ]]
[[ I go to lunch in half an hour. can you make it before then? ]]
[[ duh, Liz ]]
[[ see you there :) and leave the sarcasm at home please! ]]
Locking his phone, he sets it down and closes his laptop before going to shower real quick and get dressed. His hands feel dirty and grimy like he's been touching paper all day, and his hair is a whole other story. He doesn't need to touch it to know it's greasy and smells like dog shit considering it's been two days since he last took a bath. If even that. Honestly, it might be longer considering he can't remember the last time he even had to take a shower.
The last he remembers touching water was before his nightmares started, before he dumped the last of his medication in the trash, which has been a few days. Usually his hygiene isn't that bad, though. Even Liz knows he showers like a maniac and enjoys being clean, and she doesn't even live with him. Realizing how long it's been leaves him feeling dirtier than before along with even more disgusted with himself. Not only is he a useless member of society who can't find a job, he's a useless member who can't even shower on a daily basis.
But what's even the point of cleaning himself up?
No one's called him for a job interview. He has no real reason to leave the apartment unless it's to get food which is code for fast food which means he can go to the drive through for that; no need letting others smell his funk. There aren't many people he sees on a daily basis since he stays there most of the days. When was the last time he saw the sun and it wasn't through the cracks of his blinds?
He makes a mental note he needs to shower more often again.
And maybe add in getting out of the apartment at least once a week. Sun will do him good, right? It's there to raise his spirits.
Unsurprisingly, he has his doubts about that when he steps outside and the damn sunlight burns his eyes and blinds him temporarily. His heart and soul right away craves the darkness of his room with its artificial lighting to help him see. But, even so, he trudges down the sidewalk and heads over to the Chipotle that's conveniently between where Liz works and where he lives. The brisk autumn air nips at his face, the sunlight doing nothing to warm him.
A typical fall for their side of the continent.
It hasn't always been his home, though. The outskirts of New York City are different compared to living there and living in his hometown in Connecticut. Out here, it's much quieter and less nosey neighbors who have to be in your business every second of every day. He has more room to think and breathe; more space for him to lose himself at without the hustle and bustle to set his nerves on edge. A nice setting for someone in his situation.
Or someone who isn't so weighed down by self-pity and loathing.
Soul finds Liz sitting at a table, her taco bowl still whole telling him it hasn't been long.
"Sorry," she says when he walks up to her. "I'm really hungry and couldn't wait for you."
"I'm late by five minutes."
"And my stomach was hurting from hunger." She waves her hand in the direction of the counter. "Hurry up and order your burrito. I'll wait for you."
"Sure you will," he says under his breath.
She won't wait for him because Liz isn't the type of girl who's that considerate. There is only one thing she'll put before her own needs which is her sister; everything and everyone else could go to hell as far as she's concerned. That's why her and Wes get along so well. They both put their younger siblings first and foremost even though deep down they're as selfish and self-centered as an only child.
Though, that thought isn't completely accurate. Liz, like Wes, expresses she cares through other, more subtle ways only a trained person can catch.
So when he goes back to the table to find her entree barely touched save for the chip she dips in the guacamole.
"Thanks for waiting," he says, setting down his bag with the burrito in it.
"Nice bag. Should've gotten the tray instead," Liz says, jutting her chin to the object in question.
"The girl didn't hear me say it was for here and not to go, and I didn't want to correct her."
"It's what I would've done."
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not you."
"Yeah. I know." Liz piles the contents in her bowl into her tortilla before speaking again. "So how're things going? Any luck finding a job yet?"
He snorts in response.
"Take that as a no?"
"I've applied to probably over a hundred places in the last year and haven't had a single interview," he says between chewing. "Wes keeps saying it'll happen one day, but I still haven't seen that happen so, you know…"
Soul leaves the implication open for interpretation and shrugs.
"Well, you know there's always one place you can apply to you. I'm sure I can talk Kid into hiring you. Our music teacher is retiring at the end of the school year, so-"
"I don't want your charity, Liz."
"It's not charity. It's helping you get your foot in the door, and news flash, buddy, you kinda need that right now seeing as nothing else is working for you."
Soul regrets ever leaving the house. Tough love was not on the menu when he woke up that morning, and it still isn't now. Liz must see it because she lays her hand on top of his and squeezes it reassuringly.
"I know that's not what you wanna hear, but it had to be said. Either by me or your brother, and knowing Wes, he hasn't done that yet." She leans back in her chair, hand sliding across the table and picking up her fork to stab at her meat. "Knowing him, he'll do it a little more gently and subtle."
A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he spots his opportunity to draw away from the subject of jobs.
"Do you miss him?" he asks, taking a bite out of his burrito.
"Wes?" She nods. "Ha, yeah, as far as a good fuck goes. Your brother always did know how to use his-"
"We're not talking about my brother's genitals over lunch, please."
"Right. Sorry." She rolls her eyes and gives him a sincere smile. "But your brother was always better at fucking than relationships. Too hung up on caring for his little brother. Which is something I can respect given Patti, but at some point it just gets too much."
"How is Patti?"
"She's good. Sends me a postcard from London once a month and Skype calls me every Saturday." Liz's tone grows solemn as she says, "I miss her like hell and worry for her every day, but she's happy over there."
"She still doing the art thing?"
"Like you wouldn't believe it. But you should really see her more current stuff," her eyes light up at that, and Soul is thankful he brought her sister into the conversation. "Text me a reminder later, and I'll send you some pictures of her pieces. I swear she's gonna end up in an art museum one day. She's gotten that good at it."
"I don't doubt that at all," Soul says, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth because of his friends enthusiasm.
He always did enjoy when she ranted about Patti. There's an aura of being proud and happy for her sister Soul finds endearing and sweet. It reminds him of when Wes talks about him and his music to complete strangers, though, he'll never admit it out loud.
They finish their lunch date about thirty minutes later. Liz asks him for his paper bag to put her leftovers in, but he crumpled it up and tells her to get her own damn bag. She punches him between the shoulder blades for it before going to the counter. He rubs the spot and pouts at her when she gets back, claiming one of these days he'll kick her ass for being so abusive which she responds with an as if. Soul doesn't even counter it because they both know he won't; he never was much of a fighter.
Before they part, Liz steals his phone and adds in a number she tells him is Kid's and he should call about the music teacher position. He tells her he'll think about it with no intention of doing so.
That night, he has another nightmare.
This one, like the one before it, is different as well.
He's standing in the middle of a church, moonlight shines in through the stained glass window, and shadows dance around him. Save for the moonlight, the inside of the church is dark and tinted in a purple hue that makes his skin crawl. What bugs him the most, though, is how eerily quiet it is. There's no scratchy jazz music, no sinister whispers in the darkness.
Nothing.
Nothing except silence.
Soul makes to move toward the lectern, but his feet firmly remain on the ground. Staring down at them, he tries again with no success. Fear bubbles in his stomach, claustrophobia clutching his lungs and squeezing and twisting them causing his breathing to come out in rapid bursts. He searches around him for any sign of life besides himself; he'll take anyone right now to help him make sense of this dream. Hell, he'll even take the stupid demon.
Calling out proves to be worthless as well. He screams and screams until his throat feels sore, but no sound has left him.
Bending over, Soul attempts to yank his feet from the ground as if it's a logical solution. It probably is if this were real life, except this a dream. A nightmare. Where nothing is real and nothing makes sense and no one is there to help him.
The silence of the church is broken.
Wood struggling against something echoes in the nave before it breathes out and shatters. Soul's gaze darts around in search of a source only to find it when the walls of a side room by the chancel burst open. A dark figure wearing a long dark cloak walks in, its face hidden behind a curtain of fuschia hair. It drags a long black and silver sword on the floor with sparks trailing behind it as it does. He doesn't understand why there are sparks - the floor is wood - but he doesn't question it.
Anything's possible in dreams.
Nightmares.
"Wh-who are you?" Soul asks, his voice coming back.
His question is ignored, though, as the figure continues its journey to the altar. It seems to almost glide across the front of the church, the shadows of the stained glass window dancing around their cloak. The length of its shadow stretches and stretches over the pews and aisles until it touches Soul's feet and pauses. Soul glances down at it, unsure of what's going on as if he knew before hand. His attention is drawn back to figure when it speaks.
"My blood is black," it says in a haunting, quiet voice.
"What?"
"My blood is black," it repeats.
"That's cool, but I don't know-"
Soul's throat closes around the sentence, growing stuffy and thick like cotton balls have been shoved down his esophagus. Soul's attention is drawn up to where black goo slowly bleeds through the walls before sliding down them to touch the floor. It should stop there, but it keeps going. The goo, or whatever it is, moves across the wood floor toward Soul, following the trail of the person's shadows, and touches his foot.
For a brief moment, Soul thinks it stops for good like the shade had done. He thinks he's in the clear.
How wrong he is.
It engulfs his shoes, slithers up his legs, waist, and stomach, and clamps around his arms to keep them in place. Soul's rapid breathing returns and his heart pounds against his chest. He throws his head back and screams and screams and screams for help. Unlike before, his voice bounces off the church's interior, a maniacal laugh joining it. The goo - which has the same texture and smell as blood - continues ascending up his body until it closes around his face and quiets his calls for help.
The last thing he hears is, "Embrace the madness."
