He was done the second Eleanor's bloody, mutilated corpse dropped down into his lap. To be honest, he barely remembers any specifics. It's all just a horrifying blur. He knows he screamed and cried; he threw up, actual food instead of shadow monsters, and had to scramble away to hide his face. For several terrifying minutes, he felt like he couldn't breathe.
In other words, he acted just like a human. Even after recovering some composure, his attempt to carry Eleanor back himself only ended with him doubled over and retching into the dirt. It would have been embarrassing, were there any room left in his heart for shame. Instead, he just took one of her elf friends, curled up in the pharmacy with all of the bodies, and stayed there.
It seems so silly - he's a demon! He's literally run many people over with trolleys before! Of course it would feel different, seeing it happen to Eleanor, but the mechanics should've all been familiar. Thinking back on the other times now, though, and even before that...it just turns his stomach. Was the mere fact of seeing what he'd done always this bad for all the humans, and he just couldn't see it himself? Is he better this way? Or is he just less useful? He couldn't torture anybody now, but he doubts he could bring himself to bind up a wound either.
And that's what he wants. He doesn't want to torture anybody. He doesn't torture now. Except...
As time has passed, vague memories have started to resolve themselves in his head. They seemed like nothing more than bad dreams at first; Michael's never really dreamed before, but between his illness and how raw he still feels, he's spent a lot of the past few days in and out of consciousness, dozing fitfully on the pharmacy floor. So it would make sense, wouldn't it, for his ailing meat brain to spit out a dozen little fragmented nightmares?
But dreams are supposed to fade with time. These ones don't. They only rearrange themselves into something more like coherence. He thinks...maybe he did something bad. Maybe several bad things.
As nausea starts to curl in his stomach, he can't help but wonder if they all made some awful mistake, bringing him along in the first place. It takes so little to make him a monster - nothing more than a few years, a few memories here and there. And even if he were himself, he wouldn't have thought the damage done was all that bad, before he rolled those dice. He's just...lacking some bits of humanity, and maybe he's never really going to know how much.
All in all, Eleanor wakes up at a good time.]
Eleanor! [He rushes to close the small gap between them, clutching for her nearest hand. Her eyes are black. Even his aren't that bad yet, he thinks. His own ashy skin and black veins are on full display still - maybe he should have covered them, but too late now.] You're awake! I was so worried about you!
A
He was done the second Eleanor's bloody, mutilated corpse dropped down into his lap. To be honest, he barely remembers any specifics. It's all just a horrifying blur. He knows he screamed and cried; he threw up, actual food instead of shadow monsters, and had to scramble away to hide his face. For several terrifying minutes, he felt like he couldn't breathe.
In other words, he acted just like a human. Even after recovering some composure, his attempt to carry Eleanor back himself only ended with him doubled over and retching into the dirt. It would have been embarrassing, were there any room left in his heart for shame. Instead, he just took one of her elf friends, curled up in the pharmacy with all of the bodies, and stayed there.
It seems so silly - he's a demon! He's literally run many people over with trolleys before! Of course it would feel different, seeing it happen to Eleanor, but the mechanics should've all been familiar. Thinking back on the other times now, though, and even before that...it just turns his stomach. Was the mere fact of seeing what he'd done always this bad for all the humans, and he just couldn't see it himself? Is he better this way? Or is he just less useful? He couldn't torture anybody now, but he doubts he could bring himself to bind up a wound either.
And that's what he wants. He doesn't want to torture anybody. He doesn't torture now. Except...
As time has passed, vague memories have started to resolve themselves in his head. They seemed like nothing more than bad dreams at first; Michael's never really dreamed before, but between his illness and how raw he still feels, he's spent a lot of the past few days in and out of consciousness, dozing fitfully on the pharmacy floor. So it would make sense, wouldn't it, for his ailing meat brain to spit out a dozen little fragmented nightmares?
But dreams are supposed to fade with time. These ones don't. They only rearrange themselves into something more like coherence. He thinks...maybe he did something bad. Maybe several bad things.
As nausea starts to curl in his stomach, he can't help but wonder if they all made some awful mistake, bringing him along in the first place. It takes so little to make him a monster - nothing more than a few years, a few memories here and there. And even if he were himself, he wouldn't have thought the damage done was all that bad, before he rolled those dice. He's just...lacking some bits of humanity, and maybe he's never really going to know how much.
All in all, Eleanor wakes up at a good time.]
Eleanor! [He rushes to close the small gap between them, clutching for her nearest hand. Her eyes are black. Even his aren't that bad yet, he thinks. His own ashy skin and black veins are on full display still - maybe he should have covered them, but too late now.] You're awake! I was so worried about you!