Doppio woke up screaming. He could feel the sound of a repeating shrill that echoed throughout his soul.
He stumbled through the darkness looking for a phone, but he couldn't find one. He picked up something vaguely phone-shaped. The person he was looking for didn't answer so he kept searching. He tripped on something and landed hard.
His breathing was fast and he realized a phone wasn't even ringing.
And it never would.
At least not who he wanted it from. The boss, Diavolo, was gone.
And he was never coming back.
Doppio curled up in a ball and cried. It felt like he couldn't breathe and ragged sobs wracked his body. His eyes hurt. His throat hurt. His chest hurt. He couldn't stop crying. He curled as small as he could go hoping to leave existence. Eventually he was just gasping, snot running down his face and tears everywhere.
After what felt like an eternity, his breath slowed and returned to normal. And he was laying there numb.
Two voices whispered to him.
Kill Giorno. He took the boss away. This is his fault.
Kill yourself. Be with the boss. He will understand.
He'd had these thoughts before, like claws that sunk into his mind. They weren't his thoughts, but they weren't necessarily someone else's. They came from him, but he wasn't explicitly thinking them.
He shook his head, confused. He needed… he needed to clean himself up. If he were to proceed with either option, he needed to be clean.
He got up off the hotel floor and stumbled to the bathroom. He flicked the lights on and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked awful. He shivered, wipes his face with tissues, and stripped.
Black tattoos wound their way around his arms. On closer inspection, he noticed thin white lines under the tattoos. He traced them and had the dull instinct to replicate them. But what were they? Scars… he… he could make new scars. But he refocused. With the intricate designs weaved around them, he couldn't make more scars without damaging the beautiful tattoos. He frowned. What was he thinking? What would the boss say? What would Giorno say?
He shook off the thought and turned on the shower, as hot as it would go. He stepped in. The spray grazed his skin. Burning. Burning.
…
Fire.
Didn't he… did he burn down a church? An image flashed in his head. A church set ablaze.
He frowned and pushed at the thought. It felt like he was walking through a fog, pushing through only to have more obscured.
A woman. She had such a beautiful face, like Trish… Donatella? Yes. That was her name.
And… another woman. Maybe her face was also beautiful once. Her mouth sewn shut but eyes viciously alive.
Doppio's head fell against the shower wall.
What… were these? He didn't remember any of them from before. But it was like someone had tugged the curtain aside and a light shined in.
He didn't know what to do with this information. He had no idea what to do or who to talk to.
"I should… clean myself." He said with uncertainty.
He straightened. He washed himself. It was automatic like a machine.
He stepped out of the shower and starred in the mirror. Really looked. Who was that? Who was that in the mirror? It moved like him. It looked like him. He just… didn't recognize it. He looked at himself. Bright pink hair, yellow eyes, and skinny. He was himself. But… he wasn't.
He looked away from the mirror. He put his hands down on the sink and tried to breathe. What was he doing? He couldn't kill Giorno! He only had Epitaph, it was good for defense but Giorno could make life… he defeated the boss! If Diavolo couldn't defeat Giorno, surely Doppio couldn't.
He sighed and dried himself off. Wait… more thin white lines on the inside of his thighs. His hand traced over them gently. In his head, he knew this was bad. There's no way a fight could have given his body these clean white lines, uniformly placed. But, it was beautiful. He followed the lines, gently entranced with their artful display.
He collapsed on the floor. What was he doing? He couldn't kill Giorno and he couldn't kill himself. He was all that was left of the boss. The boss may have lied to him, but he still protected him. What should he do? What should he do?!
He was exhausted from the memories, from soul searching, from crying. He was so very tired. I need sleep, he told himself numbly. In the morning, I can kill Giorno or myself. But only when I'm less tired.
A cheerful claw sank into his mind. Or you could kill both. Scratching and clawing, urging him to hurt others or himself.
Go away, he thought fruitlessly. He curled into the towel and fell asleep on the bathroom floor as the voices lurked at the edge of his subconscious.