He watched her form wobble on the tightrope, the way her muscles contracted in a desperate effort to redistribute her strength and weight so that she could walk, if not stand, on the thin wire she had been forced onto, the dark figure behind her watching with a savage gleam in his red eyes. The shouts of his master only encouraged his thirst, that need to see the wire break.

So he swung the scythe down.

He sat up so sharply that his back and neck cracked loudly in protest as ragged breaths filled the air with fog, chest heaving as he fought desperately to get himself under control, shivering as the cold sweat drenched him mercilessly as he shivered, pulling himself up further so that he was sitting back against his pillow, pushing it back into the frame of his bed as he drew his knees up to his chin and hugged them closer with his arms, head dropping between his legs as he continued to gasp out each breath.

Thinking about the nightmare- no, the memory- brought a new sense of panic, and he could feel the sweat beginning to collect on his brow once more as he clenched his eyes shit tightly and grit his jaw, fingers digging harshly into his kneecaps as a shuddering sigh ended up as a broken sob, which he choked back with a tight swallow as he squeezed his eyes tighter against the burning that he felt pooling beneath his eyelids.

I can't do this.

He dragged himself out of his bed slowly, testing his legs to see if they would hold his weight despite the tremors, and once he deemed himself steady enough to continue, he made his way into the bathroom he and Jazz shared, not bothering to turn on the light, nor close the door as he gripped the edges of the sink, knuckles white from the force of his grip as he raised his head to meet his own gaze in the mirror, a broken, laugh of a sob escaping him as he realized that his eyes were not, in fact, an aching, swirling red, but instead a broken baby blue, which comforted him somewhat.

He made sure to tread lightly as he made his way back to his room, breath baited as he prayed that he hadn't awoken anyone. The last thing he needed was Jazz hounding him to open up to her and explain what happened for the whole 'healing' process. He just... He couldn't. Not so soon. As he returned to his bed, he sat with one leg crossed, the other hanging off the side of his bed, phone in hand. The screen sprung to life, making him wince against the sudden onslaught of light, though it faded as he scrolled through his contacts, his breath hitching as his thumb hovered over one of them.

Samantha Manson.

Sparing a brief glance at his clock, he bit his lip harshly when he noted the time - she surely wouldn't appreciate him calling her at 1:12 in the morning over a nightmare. But at the same time, he had to know if she was okay, that he hadn't done anything beyond what they had told him - he remembered it all, but there was no telling what Freakshow could have done with that fucking staff. He wouldn't put it past the man to control him and erase his memories of it later just to add to the pain.

Danny shook his head, a shuddering, sharp inhale making him tilt his head back as tears collected in his eyes, holding his breath as he tried to stall them, grip tightening on his phone. When he was no longer in threat of flat out sobbing, his shoulders sagged and his back slouched, staring at the wall for a long moment.

This is all my fault.

He thumbed the power button on his phone, watching the screen die before he rested it back on his nightstand, holding back the panic he felt pooling so prominently in his chest as he lay back against his pillow once more, staring at the ceiling and tracing the patterns of the plaster with his eyes. Was it even worth it to try and fall back asleep? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that blinding, swirling crimson... He later decided that, no, it wasn't worth it, and that he would much rather deal with baggy and bloodshot eyes than experience what happened a third time.

Inspired by the song 'Woke The Fuck Up' by Jon Bellion.