NOTE: Mentions of attempted suicide.
THE BREAKING POINT
The taste of blood clung to Sirreth's tongue like rusted metal, heavy and inescapable. He stood hunched over the sink, trembling hands cupped under the running water as it swirled crimson against the porcelain. He splashed it into his mouth, desperate to wash it out, but the moment the water touched his tongue, his stomach rebelled.
He gagged violently. The sound shattered the silence, sharp and raw, echoing against the sterile walls of the hospital room. The water felt wrong as it slid across his tongue—thin, cold, tainted. It spread the taste further, metallic and sour until he felt like he was drowning.
He spat it back into the basin, chest heaving, but the taste wouldn't leave him. It clung like something alive. The water gurgled down the drain, pink-streaked and mocking, as his breaths came sharp and uneven. His throat convulsed, dry and burning.
His stomach lurched violently.
Sirreth spun around, stumbling toward the toilet. He barely made it before he fell to his knees, clutching the cold porcelain as his body gave in. He retched, the sound tearing through him as the taste of water turned acidic and foul, rising up and out of him.
It burned as it left him, his stomach twisting painfully, and when it was over, he slumped against the toilet, gasping. The hum was louder now—a low vibration in his chest, ribs, and skull, like the thrum of something ancient and alive. It wasn't just sound; it was a force, pressing into him, coiling tighter with every breath. It seemed to strain against his body, pushing outward as if trying to protect him, to hold something back. But the voice didn't speak again. It just watched, silent and unmoving, its presence both unnerving and unsettlingly familiar.
The silence pressed down on him, heavier than the weight in his chest. The hum curled deeper like fingers wrapping around his ribs as if it were waiting.
His fingers dug into the bathroom tiles as he tried to steady himself, but the panic surged again. The taste was still there, lingering, coating his throat—wrong and endless.
He pressed his forehead against the cold porcelain, forcing his eyes shut, but he could still feel it—the presence, the silence. The waiting.
It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.
His breaths came shallow and sharp as he gripped the edge of the toilet seat, knuckles pale and trembling. The silence was unbearable, pressing in on all sides, and still, the voice refused to speak.
It was there on the bathroom floor that he caught sight of his veins.
At first, it was a glint beneath the pale stretch of his skin, a dark line barely visible in the dim haze of the bathroom, illuminated only by the faint sliver of light seeping through the cracked door. Then it moved. Sirreth froze, the air catching in his throat as the blackness seemed to pulse, crawling outward like ink spreading through brittle paper.
The skin on his forearms looked wrong—too tight, too thin, as though it might tear open. The veins protruded like cords of oil, festering and alive. Each line twitched beneath the surface, slow and deliberate, winding their way up his arms like roots burrowing deep into flesh.
Sirreth's chest seized, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. The hum inside his ribs throbbed in rhythm with the veins, and for a moment, it felt like the thing inside him was breathing too.
He couldn't look away. The blackness spread with each heartbeat, blooming and splitting like cracks in glass. It crawled, relentless and quiet, as though it knew it had time—as though it owned him.
His trembling hand lifted toward his arm before he could stop it. His fingertips hovered over the grotesque ridges, his stomach twisting violently at the thought of touching them. What would it feel like? Soft and swollen, or hard and unyielding, like something dead?
The hum inside him surged suddenly, no longer a faint vibration but a desperate pressure, as if it were pushing back. It wasn't words. It wasn't the voice. It was a force, twisting and writhing in his chest, straining against the black veins.
His body tensed, muscles locking like cords pulled tight, and for a brief moment, the veins stilled. The blackness seemed to resist, pressing forward with sluggish determination, but the hum—the presence—fought back. Sirreth gasped sharply, the strain making his ribs ache as though he were caught between two tides, one pushing forward, the other holding him still.
His pulse raced, thundering in his ears as his vision blurred. He could feel it, deep inside—a silent struggle that didn't belong to him but was him. The hum pushed, squeezed, fought for him—desperately trying to stop what was spreading under his skin.
"Stop," he rasped to nothing, to everything, but the hum didn't listen. It couldn't. It simply acted.
Sirreth's eyes darted to the veins, to his hands, to the faint sliver of light on the floor, and for a moment, he thought the blackness faltered. It twitched. Then it pulsed back, darker and deeper than before, like it was testing the limits.
The hum shuddered through his bones, rising in desperation—a wordless plea against the thing trying to consume him.
But the veins only waited, crawling forward again, slow and deliberate, as though they had already decided. As though they knew they would win.
A knock on the bathroom door sounded, sharp and sudden, cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade. Sirreth flinched, his head jerking toward the sound as though it had come from miles away. The hum faltered, pulling back as if startled, and for the briefest moment, the crawling blackness froze.
"Sirreth?" The nurse's voice was calm, but firm. Professional. Concern tightened her tone, but she didn't panic.
Everything snapped back with a force that stole the breath from his lungs.
It came in a rush—a searing, blinding pain. A white-hot spike drove behind his eyes, radiating outward until it felt like his skull might shatter. His vision fractured, the room tearing apart into jagged, splintering shards of light. Every sound hit him at once—the rushing of his own blood, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights, the soft, rhythmic thud of footsteps approaching the door—all of it clashing in a cacophony that made his head scream.
Sirreth cried out, the noise strangled and ragged, hands flying to his temples as though he could hold his skull together. The pressure in his chest swelled, a balloon ready to burst, as his breathing turned sharp and erratic, too shallow to calm him.
The knock sounded again, like a hammer driving into his ears.
"Sirreth?" The nurse's voice carried through the door, firm and clear, but it cut through him like a blade. Too loud. Too sharp.
The door creaked open, and the light that spilt into the bathroom was unbearable—bright, cruel, a jagged line splitting the dark. It seared across his vision, and for a moment, Sirreth thought he might retch again.
The nurse stepped in, her movements quick and proficient, but Sirreth barely noticed. The overstimulation consumed him—every shift in light, every scrape of fabric, every sound felt magnified, hammering against his skull. He gasped, his body curling inward as the pulsing headache surged in time with his heartbeat.
"Sirreth," the nurse said, calm but clipped, as she crouched down beside him. Her words felt distant, muffled beneath the roar in his ears.
Her hand on his shoulder was steady, but the pressure sent sparks of sensation crawling over his skin, as though he were being burned. His chest heaved as he fought to draw in air, the hum inside him shuddering like a caged thing.
"Let's get you up," she said, her tone unwavering, her professionalism cutting through the chaos even as his body betrayed him.
Sirreth flinched as she touched him again, her hands firm but careful as she guided him upright. The effort sent fresh spikes of pain lancing through his head, his legs trembling violently as though they couldn't remember how to hold him. His vision blurred, the light blooming in harsh halos that left afterimages on his retinas.
"Back to bed," the nurse said quietly, with an authority that brooked no argument. She supported him, bearing most of his weight as the sharp angles of the bathroom faded into a blur of shadows and light.
"Sit down. That's it," she murmured, propping him gently against the pillows before pulling the blankets up. Her expression remained focused, her movements quick and precise, as though she had done this a thousand times before. She turned to the bedside cabinet, retrieving the bottle of painkillers with practised efficiency. The twist of the cap was sharp, the faint rattling of pills inside unbearable to Sirreth's overworked senses.
"Take these," she said, pressing two pills into his shaking hand before holding a cup of water to his lips. "Small sips. Don't rush it."
The water brushed against his lips, and his body recoiled at once, his stomach churning violently. It felt wrong, too thin, too cold, spreading across his tongue like ice splintering apart. He gagged, his throat convulsing as bile surged upward, the urge to retch overwhelming him.
"Swallow it, Sirreth. You've got this," the nurse said, steady and firm. Her voice tethered him just enough for him to fight it down.
His hand trembled as he forced the pills past his teeth, the act feeling monumental. The water, no longer cool, turned thick and heavy in his throat, making him fight back another wave of nausea. For a horrible moment, he was sure he would throw it all up, but somehow, he managed to keep it down, slumping heavily into the pillows as the effort drained him completely.
The nurse hovered close, her face pinched with focus as she checked his pulse.
"Good," she said, her tone softer now. Her fingers moved with mechanical care against his wrist, but Sirreth flinched at every touch, overstimulated nerves screaming in protest. The room was too bright, too sharp, and even her steady breathing seemed too loud.
"Just breathe," she said, pulling back slightly, her eyes watching him. "You're okay."
Sirreth didn't sleep. He couldn't. The way his blood writhed overwhelmed his senses, like something alive under his skin, curling and uncurling with each beat of his pulse. The nurse stayed at his side for a time, lingering until she believed he had drifted off. He heard the soft scrape of the chair as she rose, and the faint creak of the door as she left the room.
The moment the door clicked shut, Sirreth shoved back the blanket and ran for the bathroom once more. His legs wobbled violently as he staggered to the toilet, collapsing to his knees just in time. He retched, the convulsion tearing through his body, violent and unrelenting. His stomach had nothing left to give, but it didn't stop, leaving him gasping and shaking over the cold porcelain.
The room swayed around him, his skull pounding in rhythm with the pulsing hum that still lingered inside him. His chest heaved, throat raw and burning, but the pressure eased—only slightly—as he slumped against the sink, his trembling hand reaching for a cloth.
Blood smears streaked faintly across the white basin, mocking him. They were a reminder—a quiet accusation that refused to be ignored. His breath hitched as he stared at them, his chest tightening with something sharp and sour, too much like shame. It was his blood, his mess, and leaving it there felt unbearable like it confirmed something broken within him. Sirreth stared at them for a moment, then grabbed the cloth, his hand jerking as he scrubbed the porcelain. Harder and harder, until the stains began to fade beneath the frantic strokes. The motion steadied him, if only slightly, though his arms felt leaden, the weight of his own skin unbearable.
When the last streak vanished, he dropped the cloth beside him and sagged back onto the tiles, pressing his forehead against the cold surface. His veins still burned beneath his skin, but for the moment, the bathroom was clean. Silent.
And still, sleep refused him.
He spent the night pacing back and forth, hands coiled tightly around his hair, the strands tugging at his scalp in sharp little bursts of pain. He moved in frantic loops across the room, every step uneven, every breath shallow. His ribs ached from the exertion, but he couldn't stop—wouldn't stop—because stillness only invited the chaos in.
This had happened before. He knew it had. A fractured memory lingered just out of reach, fuzzy at the edges. Bella had seen it. She'd looked at him with wide, startled eyes, her voice strained with questions he couldn't answer.
The presence was alive. He felt it coursing through him, like hot oil winding through his veins. It wasn't a thought or a voice, but it was there, alive and undeniable. His blood writhed, twisting with purpose that felt both foreign and familiar—something inside him that didn't belong, and yet, always had.
His thoughts splintered into jagged fragments as he tried to make sense of it—the hum, the veins, the undeniable feeling that his body was no longer his own. Maybe it was a hallucination. It had to be. He clung to the idea, squeezing it like a lifeline, but even as he tried to believe it, the presence refused to let him. It surged through him, a silent insistence that it was real.
Over and over again, it pushed, seethed, demanded—wordless but alive. A terrible certainty dug into him, spreading like the black veins that had crept beneath his skin. Sirreth stopped in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, his fingers trembling where they gripped his hair.
"It's not real," he whispered, his voice hollow. The silence ate the words whole. "It's not—it's not—"
The hum in his chest answered, faint and relentless, twisting deeper with each passing second. He sank onto the floor, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to block out everything—the sound, the pulse, the unbearable sensation of beingalive in a body that no longer felt like his own.
Even then, he tried to fight it—to resist it—but the effort was futile, like trying to claw his way out of quicksand. His body fought him at every turn, muscles seizing and trembling as though something else had taken hold. The harder he pushed back, the more violently his body rebelled, twisting against itself in a war he could neither win nor understand.
That was until memories blinded his vision once again, searing into his mind like fire. Aurics—the word clung to him, a thorn embedded too deeply to remove. The madman's journal sprawled open in his thoughts, its words vivid and alive, shifting and reshaping themselves into commands. It was as if the presence within him, ancient and insistent, was urging him to act, pulling at threads of recollection he didn't know it possessed. It whispered, louder than any voice, urging him to remember, demanding that nothing else mattered other than these fractured pieces of a truth long buried.
Sirreth took a sharp breath through his nose before spiralling into action. His body was exhausted, every muscle aching with protest, but he couldn't let that stop him. He needed to write it down. To capture the fleeting shards of memory before they slipped away into the void.
Panic bubbled up, sharp and suffocating. He tore through the sparse items around him, shoving aside the hospital tray and pulling open drawers, scattering their contents without care. Nothing. His mind raced as he clawed at the floor, his breath hitching as desperation clawed its way into his chest.
Paper. Anything. He crawled across the cold tile, shoving aside fallen objects in search of something—anything—he could use. A crumpled patient's discharge form, the back of an old hospital pamphlet, a discarded napkin. He seized the pamphlet, smoothing it against the floor as his hand shook. Ink-stained fingers grasped a pen from earlier—pocketed from the nurse's station—and he began to scrawl, jagged and frantic.
Remember. Use it. Each word felt like a lifeline, tethering him to something solid as the storm raged within.
Aurium—alive? blood alive? Aurics—no proof? Theory—madness? Why? Voice—sick? Hearing things?
The words came in bursts, scattered and raw, each one clawing its way out of his fractured thoughts. He didn't care for coherence, didn't care for neatness. His hand moved of its own accord, dragging lines of ink across the pamphlet until it looked like a battlefield of desperate scribbles.
Veins—warm? No, burning. Wrong. Inside? Voice—not mine? Aurics. Who is the madman? Who is he?
His writing bled into the edges of the paper, letters overlapping in a frantic spiral, the questions colliding with answers he didn't understand. His hand cramped, but he pushed through, the urgency in his chest like a wildfire threatening to consume him. The presence pulsed in the back of his mind, a silent yet powerful force that seemed to approve. He wrote until his hand cramped, the letters bleeding into one another, but still, he couldn't stop. This was everything. This was survival.
The sterile room began to close in on him. The rhythmic beep of the monitors grew louder, morphing into an unbearable droning in his ears. He clutched at his head as the pen slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the floor. The presence pressed harder now, icy tendrils creeping up his spine, wrapping around his thoughts like chains. The air itself seemed to thicken, making every breath feel like a struggle.
The box. The thought came unbidden, slamming into his consciousness with the force of a storm. It wasn't just the book. The box was heavy and cold, almost alive in its weight. He could almost feel it now, a phantom pressure in his hands, demanding to be opened, to reveal… something. What? The thought slipped away again, elusive and mocking.
He scrambled for the pen, his knees scraping against the tile as he snatched it up. His fingers trembled, smearing ink across the paper as he wrote again, this time more disjointed:
Box—locked? Hidden? Why? Light—burning. Skin? Aurics. They knew. Madman—truth? Lies?
Tears pricked at his eyes, not from sadness but from the sheer force of frustration and desperation. His body felt like it was burning from the inside out, each scribbled word tearing more from him than he had to give. The presence—it shifted a pulse of something close to approval, yet its warm grip refused to relent.
The edges of his vision darkened as exhaustion threatened to pull him under. He collapsed onto his side, sprawled on the cold floor, the crumpled pamphlet still clutched in his ink-stained hand. The frantic scrawls glared back at him, incoherent yet vital, a puzzle he couldn't solve but couldn't afford to ignore. His breath came in shallow gasps as he stared at the sterile ceiling tiles above, the whispers of the presence fading but not disappearing entirely.
Sirreth had no sense of how long he'd lain sprawled on the cold floor, but the ache in his muscles told him it had been too long. Every movement felt deliberate, like dragging stone, his body protesting as he finally forced himself upright. The chill of the tile had seeped into his bones, yet the clammy layer of sweat clinging to his skin made him shiver more. It streaked his face, slicked his trembling hands, and made his shirt cling uncomfortably to his back, heavy with dampness. The sense of suffocation was overwhelming.
He swayed on his feet, one hand bracing against the wall for support. Shallow, sharp breaths rattled through him as he took a hesitant step toward the small bathroom tucked into the corner of the hospital room. Before moving, he reached under his pillow and shoved the crumpled pamphlet into the narrow space. He needed to clean himself, to scrub away the sweat, grime, and the faint metallic scent of blood that clung to him. The act felt necessary, a ritual to reclaim control amid the chaos that consumed his mind.
Fumbling fingers tugged at the IV embedded in his arm. He hesitated only briefly before ripping it free, the sharp sting barely registering against the background of his exhaustion. A bead of blood welled at the site, but he ignored it, his focus already shifting. His shirt came next, peeled off in clumsy, jerking motions, followed by the rest of his damp clothing, left in a careless heap on the floor. The air was cold against his skin, biting and sharp, sending a shudder rippling through him.
It took what felt like an eternity to adjust the faucets. His trembling fingers struggled to grip the handles, each twist an ordeal that left his knuckles white. The sound of water cascading into the tub filled the bathroom, the steady rhythm oddly soothing. When the warm water began to steam faintly, he leaned heavily on the edge of the tub, watching the ripples on the surface as the water rose.
Sirreth rested his arms over the edge, too drained to do anything else. White curls clung to his damp face, plastered to his forehead and cheeks. Sweat still rolled down his temples, mingling with the faint mist rising from the bath. His breathing slowed but remained uneven, each exhale trembling as though his body couldn't fully release the tension coiled within.
For a fleeting moment, he wasn't in the suffocating hospital. The rising water lapping at the tub's sides, the warmth of the steam, and the muted sound of the cascading faucet offered a fragile respite. He let his head drop forward, his chin brushing his arm as his eyes fluttered shut.
But the reprieve shattered with the creak of the hospital door opening. His eyes flickered open, and his shoulders tensed as footsteps echoed against the tile. Then came the voice—low, measured, and unmistakably familiar.
"Sirreth," Carlisle called, his tone soft but tinged with concern. "Are you in here?"
Sirreth couldn't respond. His throat felt constricted, as though any attempt to speak would unravel the tenuous thread holding him together. The sound of running water was answer enough. Carlisle paused, the silence heavy with understanding, before his steady footsteps drew closer.
"I'm coming in," Carlisle said gently. His voice carried no urgency, only quiet reassurance. He stepped into the humid space, his calm presence filling the room without overwhelming it.
Carlisle's gaze swept over the scene—the damp pile of clothes, the faint pink mark on Sirreth's arm where the IV had been yanked free, and the younger man's trembling arms resting over the edge of the tub. His expression softened, tinged with worry but free of judgment. His eyes lingered briefly on Sirreth's fingers, stained with ink, the faint smudges trailing across his knuckles hinting at a frantic, hidden effort.
"You're running a fever," he murmured, more to himself than Sirreth. His hand hovered near Sirreth's forehead, the warmth radiating from his skin confirming his suspicion. "And, you pulled the IV again, didn't you?" He sighed softly, but there was no reprimand in his voice. Instead, he retrieved a clean washcloth from the nearby shelf.
Kneeling beside the tub, Carlisle wet the cloth in the warm bathwater, wringing it out before gently pressing it to Sirreth's face. The motion was steady, and soothing, as though he was carefully unwinding the tension locked in Sirreth's frame. "Let's get you cleaned up first," he said softly. "We'll deal with the rest later."
Sirreth didn't resist. He lacked the strength to. The warm cloth against his skin dulled the sharp edges of his unease, and Carlisle's deliberate movements carried a quiet certainty that stilled his frayed nerves. His breathing hitched, then slowed, settling into a more even rhythm.
Carlisle worked methodically, wiping down Sirreth's arms and shoulders before combing his fingers through the tangled curls clinging to his forehead. Then, reaching for a small jug that had been left beside the bath, he filled it with warm water and poured it gently over Sirreth's hair. The water cascaded through the white curls, loosening the tangles and washing away the lingering dampness from sweat.
"You've been carrying too much on your own," Carlisle murmured as he lathered a small amount of shampoo into his hands. His tone was calm, and measured, like a gentle anchor. "Let me take some of that weight off your shoulders."
The words drifted over Sirreth as Carlisle worked the shampoo through his hair, his touch careful and methodical, as though handling something fragile. Each pass of his fingers was deliberate, unravelling the tension that had knotted itself deep within Sirreth's shoulders and neck. The warm water coursed through his hair, pooling at the base of the tub with faint ripples, and the scent of the mild soap lingered, clean and comforting.
Sirreth's hands rested limply on the edge of the bath, his fingers twitching occasionally as though resisting the urge to pull away. His body, though, had surrendered, too exhausted to fight the care being offered. He let his head tilt slightly forward as Carlisle continued, the rhythmic motion of water and touch lulling him into a fragile calm. The heat from the bath seeped into his muscles, loosening the rigid ache that had plagued him for hours.
Once finished, Carlisle emptied the bath slowly, the sound of the draining water filling the room. He moved with precision, lifting Sirreth out of the tub as though handling something delicate. Sirreth's head lolled slightly against Carlisle's shoulder, his body limp and uncooperative, too drained to resist or assist. The younger man shivered faintly as the cool air met his damp skin, but Carlisle was quick to wrap him in a large, soft towel, swaddling him with ease.
Gently, Carlisle dried him, his hands steady and deliberate as he patted away the lingering moisture. Sirreth's fingers twitched faintly, ink stains smudged against the towel, but he made no move to pull away. Carlisle worked quietly, his presence grounding, offering no words but carrying an unspoken reassurance in his actions.
Once Sirreth was dry, Carlisle disappeared briefly, returning moments later with clean clothes. The scent of freshly laundered fabric filled the space as Carlisle dressed him carefully, his movements efficient yet tender, ensuring Sirreth was comfortable. Each piece of clothing was adjusted with care, from the soft shirt to the loose-fitting pants that wouldn't aggravate his fevered skin.
When the task was complete, Carlisle scooped Sirreth into his arms, cradling him with the ease of someone who had done this before. Sirreth didn't protest; his head rested lightly against Carlisle's chest, his breaths shallow but steady. The steady rhythm of Carlisle's footsteps echoed softly as he carried Sirreth back to the bed, lowering him onto the mattress with an almost reverent gentleness.
Carlisle paused after settling Sirreth into the bed, his sharp gaze lingering on the younger man's pale face and trembling hands. "I'll let you rest for now," he said quietly, adjusting the blanket to ensure Sirreth was tucked in securely. "But we'll need to reinsert the IV soon."
His voice was calm but carried a subtle firmness, a reassurance that he would handle the situation when the time was right. Sirreth's eyes fluttered closed, his body too drained to argue or resist. Carlisle lingered a moment longer, watching over him, before finally stepping back. "Sleep now," he murmured, his tone softening. "I'll be here if you need me."
So he did, and the presence inside him allowed it. He didn't know how long he slept, but when he woke next, it was dark again. The reprieve felt fleeting, as though the very act of rest had only sharpened the edges of his unease. Behind his closed eyes, memories flared like embers, searing themselves into his mind. They came with urgency, fragmented and relentless, whispers of moments and truths he couldn't yet grasp.
Even in the depths of his exhaustion, the memories wouldn't let him rest, not fully. They pulsed like a distant drumbeat, a constant reminder that he needed to act. The presence stirred again, stronger this time, pushing an unspoken demand into the forefront of his mind. The thought struck him impulsively, sharp and clear: he needed to get to Carlisle's office.
He didn't know why. The reason didn't matter. The presence was insistent, weaving urgency into his every thought. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pausing as a wave of dizziness threatened to send him back down. His body protested the movement, weak and unsteady, but the impulse was too loud to ignore.
The floor beneath him was cold, grounding him just enough to take the first shaky steps toward the door. Shadows clung to the walls of his room, twisting and curling like smoke, and for a moment he wondered if they were real—or if his mind was playing cruel tricks again. He hesitated, his hand hovering near the doorframe as a shiver ran through him.
The faint glow of the hallway lights seeped through the crack under the door, and he listened carefully, his breath shallow. The soft hum of a distant conversation told him the nurses were still awake, still roaming the halls. He would have to be careful. Gathering what little strength he had, Sirreth pulled himself upright, slipping his feet into the cold hospital slippers at the bedside. He padded toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.
The presence urged him onward. He cracked the door open, just enough to peer out. The corridor was dim, with faint shadows dancing along the walls. He waited, his heart pounding in his chest until the sound of footsteps faded. Then, with careful precision, he slipped out into the hall.
The journey felt impossibly long. Each step was a calculated risk, his body trembling from exertion. He ducked into an alcove as a nurse passed, clutching at the wall to steady himself. His breathing was shallow, his movements sluggish, but he kept going. The presence wouldn't allow him to stop. It pulled him forward, relentless and demanding, guiding him down the twisting corridors until Carlisle's office door loomed ahead, shadowed and silent.
Sirreth paused, his fingers brushing the doorknob. His pulse thrummed in his ears, the urgency within him growing sharper, more demanding. This was where he needed to be. He twisted the knob and slipped inside, the faint click of the latch echoing in the stillness of the room.
The office smelled faintly of polished wood and the sterile tang of antiseptics, a combination of both clinical and oddly comforting. Dim light filtered through the partially closed blinds, casting slatted shadows across the room. The edges of the space blurred into darkness, but the details closest to Sirreth stood out with startling clarity.
A heavy oak desk dominated the room, its surface meticulously organized with a stack of leather-bound notebooks on one side and a polished nameplate—Dr. Carlisle Cullen—gleaming softly on the other. Beside it, a stainless steel lamp with a minimalist design shed a weak pool of light over a tray of surgical tools, their edges glinting faintly.
The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, each filled with volumes on anatomy, medical journals, and faded tomes with cracked spines. Interspersed among the books were jars containing strange, preserved specimens—fragments of bone, a small heart suspended in an amber liquid. Each item felt out of place yet deliberately positioned as if Carlisle curated them for some deeper purpose.
A glass cabinet near the far wall held rows of labelled vials and syringes, each meticulously organized by size and colour. The sterile precision of the display clashed with the faintest hint of dust on the cabinet's edges, as though it was rarely disturbed but still carefully monitored. Behind the cabinet, a tall X-ray viewer panel hummed faintly, the light still on, displaying an image of a distorted ribcage—human, but not quite.
The room's furniture spoke of understated elegance. A high-backed leather chair sat behind the desk, its seat worn from years of use. Nearby, a sleek examination table with a faint metallic sheen stretched against the wall, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room's other elements. The table's surface bore faint imprints, the ghostly remnants of past patients.
The air was cool, carrying the faint hum of an overhead vent. A small plant sat in one corner, its leaves impossibly green and untouched by the chill. The corners of the office seemed to press inward, the shadows alive with unspoken secrets. Every object seemed imbued with purpose, and Sirreth couldn't shake the feeling that the room was watching him—bearing silent witness to his every move.
He didn't know what he was looking for, but his fingers moved with purpose, sifting through thick folders and scattering papers across the desk. The faint sound of shuffling echoed in the quiet room, each movement deliberate yet frantic. He pulled another drawer open, his breath catching as the hinges groaned. Whatever he sought, he knew the presence would tell him when he found it.
The compulsion grew stronger, tightening his chest and quickening his pulse. One file caught his attention, its edges worn as if handled many times. He hesitated, the presence stirring faintly, its wordless insistence sharpening as he reached for it. His ink-stained fingers hovered over the tab before pulling it free, the weight of the folder heavy in his hands.
As he flipped it open, his vision swam briefly, exhaustion mingling with the overwhelming pressure within him. The presence quieted, almost approving, as his eyes scanned the first page. His breath hitched. It was his file. He found himself lowering to the floor, his legs folding beneath him as he spread the contents out, desperate to make sense of the fragments before him.
His name was printed neatly at the top, accompanied by a photo taken during one of his earlier admissions. The sight of his image—a face too pale, eyes dark with exhaustion—brought a jarring sense of familiarity and discomfort. Pages upon pages of notes, charts, and observations stared back at him, a chronicle of his condition meticulously detailed in Carlisle's handwriting.
There were mentions of his accelerated healing, his blood type marked as "Aur" in bold letters, and several references to anomalies that Carlisle had been monitoring. But what struck him was the absence—despite the exhaustive detail in Carlisle's notes, the earliest entries only began when he was six years old. The years before were blank, a void in the documentation. Diagrams and test results were tucked between the pages, some marked with hastily scrawled annotations that seemed to hint at discoveries Carlisle had yet to fully understand.
Sirreth's hands trembled as he turned another page, spreading it across the floor with the others. His breathing quickened, matching the frantic energy of his movements. He was flicking through the notes with a restless urgency, the file a tangle of half-finished thoughts and clinical jargon. The weight of the folder seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment. The presence stirred again, pushing him forward. There was something he needed to see, something critical hidden within these pages. He flipped through notes about his blood's reactivity, mentions of Aurium, but no mention of Aurics.
The words blurred for a moment, exhaustion tugging at his mind like a heavy fog. Yet the presence bore down, relentless, demanding he continues. Why did the notes begin so late? Why was there nothing before six? The silence in the pages was as deafening as the chaotic thoughts racing through his head. He needed to know. He swallowed hard, forcing his focus back onto the pages. Whatever Carlisle had written here—it was important. It held answers he didn't yet know how to articulate, but the presence inside him understood. Among the pages, Sirreth found a section marked with a different handwriting. The script was sharper, more clinical, and signed with the name Dr. Snow. The name felt distant, a foggy memory that refused to solidify, but the notes carried weight.
Dr. Snow's entries dated back to when Sirreth was six years old. They described his inability to maintain focus, moments of inexplicable fatigue, and odd occurrences with his bloodwork that had baffled even seasoned physicians. Words like "erratic," "reactive," and "untraceable patterns" were scrawled in the margins. Diagrams of blood samples annotated with peculiar anomalies littered the pages, with arrows pointing to phrases like "unknown stability" and "possible rejection of norm."
Sirreth's chest tightened as he read. The absence of earlier records loomed heavier now. What had happened before six? Each note added more questions than answers, yet the presence inside him seemed to hum with a quiet urgency. He knew he had to keep digging. Somewhere in these fragmented details lay the truth.
But before he could continue, the sound of the door creaking open froze him in place. A sharp intake of breath followed, and Sirreth's head snapped up to see a nurse standing in the doorway, her expression a mixture of shock and disapproval. "What do you think you're doing here?" she demanded, stepping into the room.
Sirreth instinctively clutched the folder tighter, his fingers curling around its edges. The presence stirred, almost growling within him, pushing him to protect what he'd uncovered.
"You're not supposed to be out of bed," the nurse said, her tone firm, though not unkind. She crouched slightly, trying to meet his eye. "And certainly not rifling through Dr. Cullen's files. Do you have any idea—"
"I needed to," Sirreth interrupted, his voice hoarse but resolute. The words surprised even him, but the presence held him steady, its pressure keeping his panic at bay.
The nurse frowned, glancing at the papers scattered across the floor. "You've overexerted yourself," she said, her tone softening slightly as she reached for the folder in Sirreth's hands. "Come on, let's get you back to your room."
But Sirreth pulled back sharply, clutching the file to his chest as he scrambled backwards, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. "No," he said hoarsely, his voice trembling but resolute. "I need this."
"Sirreth, you're not well," the nurse tried again, her movements slow and deliberate as she took a cautious step forward. "You don't understand what you're doing. Please, let me help you."
"I can't!" he snapped, the desperation in his tone startling even himself. The presence surged, insistent and unyielding, driving him to protect the file at all costs. His back hit the edge of the desk as he held the folder tighter, shaking his head. "I need to—"
The door opened again, and this time Carlisle stepped in, his calm demeanour shifting as his gaze swept over the scene. His sharp eyes landed on Sirreth, then on the scattered papers and the nurse, her hand half-raised in alarm.
"What's going on here?" Carlisle asked, his voice steady but firm. He closed the door behind him, his presence immediately grounding, though Sirreth flinched at the sound.
"He was in your files," the nurse said quickly, her tone defensive. "I caught him going through them, and he won't let them go."
Carlisle's gaze softened as it shifted back to Sirreth, who was clutching the folder like a lifeline. "Sirreth," Carlisle said gently, taking a slow step toward him. "What are you looking for?"
Sirreth's lips parted, but no coherent words came. The presence was a roar in his mind, demanding, yet offering no clarity. "I... I need to," he stammered, his voice breaking. "I don't know why, but I have to."
Carlisle knelt slowly, keeping his movements deliberate as he lowered himself to Sirreth's level. His sharp eyes studied the boy's trembling hands, the file clutched so tightly it bent at the corners. For a moment, Carlisle didn't speak, his expression caught between concern and hesitation. Sirreth continued to back away, inching further from both Carlisle and the nurse until his back hit the wall. His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, but the space between them seemed to calm him slightly, enough to lower the file to his lap.
Carlisle respected the distance, staying where he was and raising a hand slightly, a gesture of peace. "It's all right," he said again, his tone softer now. "I won't take it from you."
"What are you looking for, Sirreth?" Carlisle asked gently, his voice careful not to break the fragile calm. "Maybe I can help."
Sirreth's lips parted, but his voice caught in his throat. He didn't know how to explain it. He didn't know what he was looking for—only that he would know it when he found it. The presence stirred faintly, urging him forward, guiding his trembling fingers across the notes.
"I just... I need to," he finally said, his voice breaking under the weight of his desperation. "It's important. I can't explain it, but I need to find it. Please, just let me."
Sirreth's hands shook as he opened the file once more, his eyes darting across the pages in frantic flicks, searching for something—anything—that would justify the pull he felt. His trembling fingers froze when he stumbled upon a page he hadn't fully registered before. Carlisle's handwriting stood out, neat but with an urgency that made certain words heavier than others.
Admittance date: March 6th, 20XX.
The note began clinically, detailing Sirreth's arrival at the hospital under Carlisle's care. His name, condition, and vitals were meticulously logged. But as Sirreth's eyes moved down the page, his breath hitched.
Patient presented with self-inflicted lacerations to both wrists. Immediate intervention required.
Sirreth's fingers hovered over the words as if touching them would somehow erase their existence. He blinked, his mind struggling to comprehend. The next line hit harder:
Suicide attempt preceded by notable dissociative episode.
The presence within him swirled, quieter now but insistent as if it too demanded he confront this truth. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he turned to the next page, scanning the carefully detailed notes of Carlisle's initial observations:
Patient exhibits severe emotional detachment, and inability to articulate the reasoning behind actions. Significant history of isolation was noted. Priority: stabilize physical health. Explore underlying triggers.
Sirreth barely registered Carlisle's steady voice breaking the silence. "You've found my first notes about you," he said, his tone gentle but laden with meaning. "The day I became your doctor."
Sirreth looked up, his vision swimming with unshed tears. His breathing hitched as conflicting memories clashed in his mind, sharp and jarring. He shook his head, his voice trembling as he muttered, "No... that's not right. Was it?"
His grip on the folder tightened, and he glanced back down at the notes, his thoughts a chaotic blur. "I remember my journal," he said, more to himself than to Carlisle. "You were in it. I wrote about you—how you might be the one to treat me, to fix me. But was that wrong?"
His voice cracked on the last word as his hands hovered over the pages, his eyes darting across the lines as though they could reconcile the disparity in his thoughts. The presence within him shifted uneasily, offering no clarity, only the unrelenting pressure to keep going. Sirreth's shoulders slumped as he muttered, "Why don't I remember? Why can't I trust what I wrote?"
Carlisle sighed, the sound heavy with both understanding and regret. He shifted slightly, leaning closer but still respecting the distance Sirreth had created. "Sirreth," he began carefully, his voice steady but laced with deep empathy, "a lot of what you remember—what you think you remember—might not be entirely accurate."
Sirreth blinked, his gaze snapping to Carlisle's face, confusion and frustration etched into his expression. "What are you talking about?"
Carlisle's eyes softened, though they held a certain gravity. "It's not uncommon for your mind to distort things, especially given what you've been through. Sometimes, your memories aren't entirely your own—they're fragments, reconstructions. It's as though your mind fills in the gaps with something plausible, something you can live with, even if it's not real."
The words hung heavily between them, and Sirreth shook his head again, his fingers gripping the folder tighter. "So, you're saying I can't even trust what's in my own head?" he asked, his voice rising slightly, a bitter edge creeping into his tone.
"I'm saying," Carlisle replied gently, "that your journal and your memories may hold truths, but those truths can be warped by trauma or the illness itself. It doesn't mean everything is false, but it does mean we have to be careful about what we accept as fact." He paused, his gaze steady. "You've been carrying a lot of this alone, and it's shaped the way you see your past. That's not your fault, Sirreth."
Sirreth shook his head, his breath quickening. "Why would I do that? Why would I make up memories? They felt real. I thought they were real," he muttered, his voice trailing off as he flipped through the file again, each turn of the page more frantic than the last.
His hand froze mid-page, the edge of the paper trembling between his fingers. A memory—not a whisper, not a flicker, but a full, unrelenting wave—crashed into him. It wasn't a memory he wanted. It wasn't one he wanted to keep. His throat tightened as the words clawed their way out of him.
"Why would I try to kill myself?" The question lingered in the air, sharp and raw. Sirreth's voice cracked, breaking under the weight of it, his words spoken as much to himself as to Carlisle. His gaze locked onto the file, but his eyes weren't truly seeing it anymore. "I don't— I don't remember doing it, but why would I try?" He looked up, his expression twisting, the confusion and desperation bleeding into his features. "If this is all in here," he said, gesturing to the file, "if you've seen it, then why? Why would I do that?"
The room felt heavier in the silence that followed, the shadows around them pressing closer. Carlisle, seated across from him, opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, the words forming on his lips seemingly caught in an invisible tangle.
Sirreth dropped his gaze, his fingers gripping the edges of the file as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored. "I didn't even know I was that far gone." His voice wavered, quieter now, nearly a whisper. "You— you've been watching me this whole time, haven't you? You knew I was slipping, and you didn't stop it. Why didn't you stop it?"
His breathing was erratic, his chest rising and falling as though he'd been sprinting. The file trembled in his hands again, the clinical language staring back at him like a mocking reflection.
Carlisle finally spoke, his voice measured but tinged with a gentleness that felt out of place in the storm of emotions flooding the room. "Sirreth, I don't think you wanted to die. I think you were looking for a way to escape something else—something you couldn't understand yet. But we're going to figure this out. Together."
But Sirreth shook his head again, the reassurance sliding off him like water on glass. He wasn't looking for the answer to Carlisle's words—not yet. Instead, his eyes darted across the notes, scanning for something tangible, something definitive.
His movements slowed as a pattern emerged among the pages: dissociation, anger issues, memory lapses. They were written in sterile clinical language, yet the weight of each word pressed on his chest like an unbearable burden.
"This isn't what I was looking for," Sirreth whispered, almost to himself, his voice trembling. He flicked to another page, then another. The presence inside him stirred restlessly, insistent yet silent, as if urging him toward a truth just out of reach.
Carlisle watched from a few steps away, his sharp eyes catching every twitch of Sirreth's hands, every uneven breath. "Sirreth," he said gently, his tone cautious, "if you keep pushing like this, you're going to overwhelm yourself. Let me help you."
But Sirreth didn't answer. He kept going, flipping back further through the notes, his vision blurring as exhaustion clawed at him. The presence roared again, louder this time, driving him forward despite his body's protests.
Eventually, the presence surged to an unbearable intensity, its relentless demands clawing at Sirreth's mind. His hands shot up to grip his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as though he could physically force it to stop. "Please," he gasped, his voice breaking, "stop—I'm trying! I'm trying!"
Carlisle's alarm was immediate. He took a cautious step closer, his sharp gaze scanning Sirreth's trembling frame. "Sirreth," he said, his voice calm but firm, "who are you talking to?"
Sirreth didn't answer. He couldn't. The roar of the presence drowned out everything else, its urgency hammering in his skull. He hunched forward, his body trembling violently as he clutched the file against his chest. Carlisle crouched, keeping his movements deliberate, his concern etched plainly on his face. "Sirreth, listen to me," he said, his tone steady despite the rising tension. "I need you to focus. Tell me what's happening."
But Sirreth ignored him, rocking slightly as the pressure inside his head built to a fever pitch. "I'm trying," he whispered hoarsely, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes. "I don't know what you want from me. Just stop—stop!"
Carlisle tries to approach, but Sirreth shakes his head vehemently, his voice trembling as he repeats, "No. No. No. I need to." His words came out ragged, as though every syllable cost him more strength. His body trembled under the strain, his knuckles white as they gripped the folder tighter, almost crumpling the edges.
Carlisle froze mid-step, his eyes narrowing with concern. "Sirreth," he said carefully, his tone measured, "what do you need? What are you trying to do? Let me help."
Sirreth shook his head, his voice trembling as he confessed, "I don't even know. I just—" His words faltered as his eyes darted back to the file in his hands. "There are gaps. Things missing. The medical notes—they're not all here. Where are they?"
He flipped through the pages more frantically now, the edges crumpling under his unsteady fingers. "There has to be more," he muttered, half to himself, half to the presence gnawing at his mind. Carlisle, still hesitant, slowly stepped closer and knelt, his hand hovering over the scattered papers. "Let me see," Carlisle urged gently, his eyes locked onto Sirreth's trembling hands. "If something is missing, I need to know too. Let me help you find it."
Sirreth hesitated, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the folder tighter, but the relentless demand of the presence bore down on him. With a sharp, ragged exhale, he thrust the file toward Carlisle, though his hands didn't fully release it. "Okay," he choked out, his voice laced with exhaustion. "But..."
Carlisle took the folder carefully, his fingers brushing Sirreth's ink-stained ones in a gesture of calm reassurance. He flipped through the pages with practised precision, his sharp eyes scanning each note and observation. His movements stilled suddenly, his brow furrowing as he reached a section where notes should have continued but didn't. The gap was stark, glaring against the otherwise meticulous record-keeping.
Carlisle turned to the nurse who had been standing apprehensively in the doorway, his voice steady but edged with unease. "The notes," he said, lifting the folder slightly, "there's a gap. They just start abruptly from the age of six. There's nothing here about Sirreth's early years."
The nurse frowned, stepping closer to peer at the pages Carlisle indicated. "That doesn't make sense," she murmured, her brow furrowing. "Records like these should be comprehensive, especially for someone with his history. Are you sure they weren't moved to another section?"
Carlisle shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the fragmented timeline again. "I've seen this file countless times," he said, his voice quieter now but tinged with disbelief. "Sirreth is my patient. I know these records—there shouldn't be any gaps." He ran his fingers over the pages, his expression hardening as the realization settled in. "The notes before six... they're completely gone. This seems deliberate."
His gaze lifted, locking onto the nurse. "This doesn't make sense. In a case like this—there would be detailed documentation from the start. There's no way an absence like this is accidental."
The nurse hesitated, her frown deepening as she scanned the notes Carlisle held open. "If someone did this," she murmured, her tone uneasy, "they were thorough. There's no trace, no hint that anything was altered. But why would anyone do that?"
Carlisle's grip on the file tightened slightly. "That's what we need to figure out," he said, his tone firmer now, though his concern was evident. He glanced at Sirreth, who was still huddled on the floor, clutching the scattered papers as though they were a lifeline. "This missing piece—it's important, isn't it?" he asked, his voice softening.
The presence inside him agreed, its intensity flaring briefly, as though it too understood the significance of what was missing. Sirreth's lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders trembling with exhaustion, but his nod was resolute.
Carlisle tried to coax him out of the office, his voice steady and calm, but Sirreth was relentless, yanking drawer after drawer open in a frantic search. Each opened drawer seemed to heighten his distress, his breathing growing ragged as papers and objects clattered to the floor in a chaotic cascade. Carlisle stepped closer, placing a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder, hoping to anchor him before his panic spiralled further.
"Move! Please, just move!" Sirreth begged, his voice cracking under the weight of his desperation. He clung to Carlisle's arm, pulling with all the strength his shaking hands could muster. "I have to find them! I need them!" His eyes glistened with unshed tears, his frantic gaze darting around the room as if the missing notes might suddenly appear.
Sirreth grabbed at Carlisle's arm, trying to tug him away from the desk, but Carlisle stood firm, his presence an immovable wall of calm amidst the storm. His voice was soothing yet unwavering as he said, "Sirreth, you're going to exhaust yourself like this. Take a breath—you won't find the notes if you let the panic take over." The steadiness in his tone was a sharp contrast to the chaos, offering a lifeline to the boy who seemed to teeter on the edge of breaking.
Sirreth's protests grew louder, his words dissolving into incoherent fragments as he pushed and stumbled. "No...no, I-I need... they were—" He gasped, his hands trembling uncontrollably as his knees buckled slightly. "It's not... not gone, it can't be gone!"
Carlisle's steady grip shifted, holding Sirreth upright as the boy sagged under the weight of his exhaustion. "Sirreth, listen to me," Carlisle said firmly, his calm voice cutting through the frantic rambling. "We will find them. Right now, you need to stop before you hurt yourself."
But Sirreth shook his head violently, his movements jerky. "You—you don't under—understand!" he stammered, his voice breaking apart as his chest heaved. "It's... it's in there... I know it is. Please!" His plea came out as a choked sob, his energy visibly draining with each passing second.
Sirreth fought him, even as they went back to his hospital room, his feet dragging with every step. The presence in his mind seemed strangely quiet, almost watching, yet its insistence remained—a constant whisper gnawing at the edges of his mind, urging him to keep searching. Carlisle's grip on his shoulder remained firm, his patience unyielding as he guided Sirreth toward the bed.
"Let's take it one step at a time," Carlisle murmured, his voice a low thread of calm against the storm still brewing within Sirreth. The boy slumped onto the bed, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. His words were no longer coherent, just broken syllables that failed to form thoughts. Carlisle knelt beside him, brushing stray papers from the bed and speaking in a soothing tone. "You need to rest," his words were careful. "I'll find them, okay?"
They should've been a comfort, but they weren't. Sirreth just sat there, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress tightly, his knuckles pale. The presence inside him writhed incessantly, its movements sharp and unsettling, as though calculating its next move. Carlisle, however, stood by the door, his expression a mix of worry and determination, instructing the nurse to keep an eye on him.
Yet, as the nurse nodded and walked further into the room, Sirreth felt the futility of those words. He exhaled shakily, laying back on the bed with deliberate slowness, his body trembling with exhaustion. His breaths were uneven, his gaze fixed on the sterile ceiling above, trying to find calm in its unchanging surface. But the presence wouldn't let him; it lingered, pressing at the edges of his consciousness, refusing to be ignored.
He closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breaths, but everything inside him was screaming. The raw tension coiled tighter with each attempt to steady himself, his chest rising and falling erratically. It demanded movement, action, escape—anything but stillness. His fingers dug into the mattress as if grounding himself could silence the uproar. But then, it came again. The voice stirred for the second time, low and sharp, cutting through the chaos: You need to leave.
The urgency inside him was unbearable, a relentless pounding that drowned out reason. He almost curled onto his side, clutching at his stomach as though the pressure might burst from within, but then, his eyes caught the window—a way out. His breaths came in ragged bursts as he lay there for another beat, his mind a cacophony of panic and that singular, insistent command.
Suddenly, he sprang upright with a force that startled even himself. His hands fumbled desperately at the latch of the window, trembling as though every second wasted was agony. The air seemed thicker, suffocating him, as he forced the window open with a sharp grunt of effort.
The nurse rushed forward, her voice breaking with panic, "Sirreth, stop! Don't—please!" She seized his arm with desperate strength, her fingers digging into his skin as she struggled to hold him back. "You're not thinking straight!" she pleaded, her words almost drowned out by her calls for help that ricocheted down the corridor. Sirreth barely seemed to register her, his wild, glassy eyes locked on the open window and the freedom beyond.
"Let go!" he rasped, his voice hoarse and uneven, each word a fractured cry against the roar in his head. His body trembled violently, exhaustion threatening to topple him, but the demand inside him—the voice—was louder than his fatigue. "I... I have to... I can't—"
For a fleeting moment, he froze, the nurse's pleas penetrating the haze of his desperation. His wide eyes flickered with fear, his breath catching in his throat as if a sliver of clarity was breaking through. But then the presence surged, a crushing wave of urgency that obliterated any doubt. With a guttural cry, he wrenched his arm free, stumbling toward the open window.
"Sirreth, no!" the nurse cried, lunging after him, but it was too late. With a final, frantic motion, he hurled himself through the window. The cold night air hit him like a shock, slicing through the chaotic heat of his panic. For a fleeting second, he felt the weightlessness of his leap, gravity pulling him down into the waiting darkness below.
—
LAST EDITED:18/12/2024