.
Decapitation
.
Stitches lined the crease of Danny's neck, just under the chin. Danny had to tilt his head back to see them properly in the mirror. Hesitantly, he raised his hands and let his fingertips brush against the seam. It reminded Danny of the stitching on a baseball, but several steps to the left. Too supple. Too flexible. Too mobile, going up and down as he breathed shallowly.
He shouldn't touch. His fingers followed the seam back, to the sides of his neck, and then all the way around to touch their opposites. Then he repeated the process in reverse. And again.
There was just something about the sensation that made him want to do it again and again and again.
He shouldn't.
It hurt. Because, no, duh, having your head sewn back on after getting decapitated hurt. But the feeling of his fingers running back and forth over the stitches, over the cut, was grounding or meditative or something. Jazz would probably have a better word for it.
His core made a sort of crooning sound (because his throat certainly wasn't up to the task) deep in his chest, and a line of ectoplasm-tinted saliva escaped from his lips to run down his chin. Because excessive drooling was a side effect of healing from decapitation. Apparently.
Well. Either that or it was blood. Or both. Anyway, he was still suppressing the 'I was decapitated' trauma, so the 'why is my blood green' existential crisis had to wait.
Speaking of appropriate times, he was supposed to be getting ready for school. But then he'd zoned out, and... His fingers followed the bumps of the stitches around his neck again.
Resolutely, he pulled his hands away from his neck. His core made another sound, and he rubbed his breastbone. It had been... more vocal since the whole 'beheading' incident. Maybe it was compensating? Or maybe it was some kind of stress response, like how his fangs still wouldn't retract. Ugh. It made his gums ache on top of everything else, and he really wanted to bite into something, like maybe an orange or an apple, but eating was contraindicated due to the state of his throat.
He was getting ready for school.
Right.
He picked up the nice, soft bandages he'd taken out of the kit prior to getting lost in his own head, and started to unwind them. He was going to wear a turtleneck, but the cut was high up, and turtlenecks slipped.
Even nice, soft bandages didn't feel great against a wound like this.
He pulled on the turtleneck, and tried not to grimace, because that, too, would move the skin on his neck. There was pressure on the cut, now, from all sides, and as he moved his head to get an idea of how much this was going to hurt, the cloth dragged across and caught on the faint bumps. This didn't have anywhere near the same satisfying sensation as running his fingers over them.
He sucked in a deep breath, ignoring how much that action hurt, and centered himself. Facemask next. Because they were spinning everything wrong with him as 'ghost cold, probably not contagious for anyone not ectocontaminated.'
Because the school bought stuff like that. Or, at least, didn't want to question it and get answers. Unless he skipped and then they started poking around.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He'd had his head sliced off, and he was still going to school. He didn't want to do this anymore.
His tears were glowing. He wiped them away.
.
"Ghost flu?" asked the secretary.
"Just a cold," said Jazz, her smile fixed. "It isn't contagious, but better safe than sorry, right? Anyway, it comes with some really awful laryngitis, so he won't be able to talk."
The secretary shot Danny a suspicious look, then turned her gaze on Jazz, clearly calculating how likely it was that Danny (slacker) convinced Jazz (model student) to lie for him.
She evidently judged it unlikely, because she sighed and nodded. "I'll make sure his teachers know," she said.
"Thanks," said Jazz. The backed out of the office. "Was that too easy?"
Danny shrugged. Honestly, yes, it was. But he'd take the win.
.
He spoke too soon.
The lunchtime ghost fight had left his careful bandages in tatters, and several of his stitches had been raked through by a sharp claw. It was as if the ghost had known Danny'd been decapitated recently.
He'd have to go back to the Far Frozen to get these redone. Would the turtleneck still cover them, so he could last out the day? He touched the stitches, for a moment falling back into the morning's trance. It just felt so... much.
The bathroom door opened, and Danny froze, staring at Dash out of the corner of his eye.
"What," said Dash.
Reflexively, Danny vanished.
Dash continued to stare. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he tilted over backwards. Danny caught him and lowered him to the floor, slowly.
Hopefully, he'd think he'd just hallucinated? After all, coming across the kid you beat up every day with ectoplasm oozing from his mouth and a line of stitched around his neck in the bathroom wasn't exactly realistic.
Or he'd think Danny was playing a prank on him.
Danny checked Dash's pulse. Yeah. Oh, and there were his eyes, flickering open. He'd just fainted. Right.
Danny was just... going to go, now. He still had half a day's worth of classes to get to.