Author's Notes: mwahahaha! Today I come with morbidity part 2. *evil grin. I pulled out all the stops with this, so I really hope it had some kind of effect.
Warnings: Scary imagery (as scary as I could muster, so we'll see how much of a wuss I am at the end of this) containing gore, nudity and child abuse. Rorschach's head is a barrel of laughs.
36. Filthy
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They are waving at him through the mirror.
It is a huge mirror across from his bed and he wants to move it or (even better) break it down, but if he does, mommy will come and chop him up and feed him to dogs and he wants to be a good boy but they're waving at him through the mirror and they won't go away.
Their little pale faces are pressed up against the glass so tight their noses bunch up and they wave and tap the glass with their little starfish hands and he would like to be friends with them except that they don't have any eyes.
They stare back at him and their smiles are cold as blood and maggots drip from their empty eye sockets onto their lips and he didn't realize eyes were so big because the dark gouges in their sea-bleached faces are so wide, he wonders how their heads don't fall in half. They lick the gore from their lips and beckon to him but he doesn't move, doesn't want to go, he just wants them to go away and leave him alone.
They begin to look angry and they begin to shriek, their mouths opening far too wide to be possible, showing far too many teeth to be possible. The mirror is falling. If it breaks, they'll get out and then—
The mirror falls, Walter closes his eyes.
His mother is dragging him by the hair across the hall. She is naked and it bothers him because she is bleeding everywhere. It's not even normal blood, but white and sticky and translucent and it's getting everywhere and it's on him and it's in his mouth and suddenly, it's not his mother staring down at him as he's choking on the bitter white fluid. Even if the eyes are cold and hateful and look exactly the same.
The mirror breaks and it makes a sound like the ringing of bells.
He doesn't pay attention to it though because he is running, running and his feet slap the pavement with each step as the streetways and alleys coil around him, unfolding for him even as they constrict, dipping and twisting and spiraling into the darkness and there are eyes pinned to the brick, stuck on like a butterfly to a mounting board, with little spikes of glass. And the air is full of screaming. There's always the screaming.
There are falcons perched on every rooftop and ledge and powerline, impossibly huge and watching his every move with the impassive judgment of the angels but Walter is not paying attention to them. He needs to get there in time. He needs to be there before—
He lurches into the doorway and through the room, knocking over dusty mannequins and old sewing machines and it can't be too late, it just can't be because if he's too late and she's gone forever then… then
The flat becomes a stair which becomes a hallway. Little boy and girl neighbors peek through the door across from him, but the top half of the little boy's head has been torn away and the little girl is ripping apart his brain, shoving it into her mouth in greedy mouthfuls. He doesn't spare them a second glance.
He looks forward instead.
White dress.
Brown hair.
Blood everywhere.
She moves in stop-motion, and his eyes have trouble tracking her. There's blood on her dress in obscene places. It's all his fault. He can't move. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know who he is. He wants to get out of here. He doesn't want to move. She's so small. She's right in front of him. She's climbing on the wall, little feet straining at handholds as she peers down at him from the upper corner. Her neck shouldn't bend that way. Her eyes are dark. She's on the floor. She's standing in front of him. She smiles. There is blood in her mouth. His mother is standing behind her.
His mother is standing behind her.
He wants to tell her to move, to run, to hide away and he wants to protect her. Instead he stands there as Blaire's smile turns into a leer and as her little mouth opens, a spider leaks out (and you've always hated spiders, haven't you?).
"You want some of this?" She murmurs and as his mother looks on with a look of pride on her face, Blaire lifts up her dress—
Rorschach let out an awful scream and lurched out of bed, tumbling to the floor, entangled in his one ratty blanket. Sunlight streamed through the windows, but it was already low in the sky, almost sunset. The shadows stood out in sharp relief, making his hands shake. Allowing himself this one concession (just this once, this one time, please), he wrapped his arms around himself and let his shoulders shake and hitch as he shrouded himself in the knowledge of just what kind of monster he was.
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A/N: Jesus Christ, Rorschach. *shakes head. Well. There you go. Rorschach's psychological trauma at its finest. Some of the things I chose were because they mean something in canon, or in the psychiatry stuff I googled. And other stuff I put in because of movies, books, or shit I thought was really creepy. I may have overdid it, so if you think this needed more warning, just let me know and I'll put more of a note before. I'm going to go eat some chocolate or something.