It was disgusting.
His hands felt hot and burning under the liquid, each drop steadily dribbling down his fingers, the warmth and the burn and the hot spreading like a disease down his palms; the tips were embed with it, staining each cell of flesh and fingernail.
It was revolting.
And, god, the smell… he felt like he would vomit. That was, if he was still alive, if he still had a gag reflex. But then again, if he was still alive, this would not have happened in the first place.
He knew how this went - it was like a horror story. In horror stories, the protagonist keeps asking, "why, why me?" And what makes it so frightening, so threatening and perturbing was the fact that beyond that question lay no answer; every 'if' they ever suggest could not change anything - that's what makes it stay in your head for so long until the point where you lay down in the dark at night and feel your stomach roll over in fear. He knew it was pointless to ask, though he would still continue to do so even when he felt his eyes begin to burn as well and his stomach start to roar in protest and the liquid - god, the burn - nestle in the crook of his hands, in the corner of his mouth.
He looked at both of his hands, red and burning and hot and so good…god, his head was spinning with vertigo and hunger. His throat hiccupped violently, clenching tight and his eyes threatened him, his fingers curled in, the red, that putrid color everywhere, god, everywhere- he let loud restrained hiccup and his hands trembled in his blurred vision, the colors growing fuzzy and distorted in the light and the darkness of this place. His head is so fuzzy, so distorted, he cannot remember where he is.
He fell to his knees and his pants immediately soaked up the liquid that has spilled from his hands, by his hands, by something inside him he felt was not him, the gore making his pants cling his legs and - god help him - staining his skin more and more. He shivered, his hands making their way to his eyes, wiping the sting there, only to replace them with a different smear that shone out against his fair skin.
He didn't want this - he didn't want this. It wasn't his fault. He was hungry, and that phony doctor Worth was just such an asswipe, making him do this and that and everything in order to get a meal, and, god, if that damn sassy bat never roosted in his apartment, if he never went to Hanna to get help to get her out - he should have just moved to a new apartment, then this wouldn't have happened and he wouldn't have to have… his hands shook and clenched as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and he realizes subconsciously that his glasses are so far gone, yet he could still see, but then again, all that he could see is now the red-stained flesh on the heel of his hands, all he could smell is the scent of that wonderful, putrid liquid, so red and elegant and, god, he wanted it so badly. He hissed a silent sob past sharp, stained teeth.
What had he done?