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It was just supposed to be a quick trip to the bathroom. All she did was give the mirror a short glance.
Three felt her skin crawl. She dropped whatever was in her hand — what the object was or why she was after it quickly became irrelevant.
She gazes into the mirror. Her skin: blotched with a permanent turquoise. It mocked her. She was a disgrace for it. If she hadn’t failed, it would have never happened.
She hears buzzing. Every noise around her felt amplified. She could hear every electrical current, every quick breath she took; she could almost feel her blood moving. The walls feel like they’re closer than she thought. She goes back to her reflection.
Three threw a hand on her face, rubbing the scar. She feels the… ooze. It drips off her fingers. Her face feels like it's protruding. It’s lumping out like there’s something stuck to it.
She claws. Tries to peel it off. It doesn’t come off. She looks at her eyes. Her right eye used to be orange, like her left eye. It’s teal now. The texture on her iris is still different. She can almost feel it.
Three stumbles backwards, bumping into the bathroom wall. She uses a hand to steady herself, her breath shaky. The right side of her face feels swollen. It feels wrong- foreign. It’s not her. It isn’t her.
Her fingers feel wrong. She looks down at them, her vision blurry. They have teal markings on the tips of each finger. She tries shaking it off, but her movements are sluggish. The blotches grow, moving towards her wrist. Her fingers start dripping. She’s dripping- melting. Three can’t stand it anymore. She collapses on the floor, her mind unable to think. She can hear it. Him. She’s not in control. Was she ever?
Her eyes leak tears. The teardrops from her right eye don’t feel like water. It’s slime. More ooze. Three screams. There’s ooze in her throat. It’s inside of her. She desperately tries ripping the ink off her face. Her fingers look elongated, sharp with ooze. She nearly cuts her face but her legs buckle before she has a chance. She feels trapped. She can’t move. Three sobs. She wants to scream, but the sound fails to come out. All her senses feel numb. Then, she hears a door open.
Two figures — a pink one, and is that yellow? — walk in beside her. She can’t see who they are, nor hear them. It’s too much. Maybe they’re here to end her misery. Three feels herself being lifted up. She’s too busy crying her eyes out to see. She doesn’t even try moving her hands anymore. She feels the top of her head being touched. Rubbing? Can they see it? Her limbs feel heavy. The sound of ink dripping fills her ears. Hours pass — that’s what it feels like — before she feels herself pressing on something soft. A pillow? Three then feels someone- two, actually, pressing up against her. It’s warm. For the first time in what’s felt like years, she feels comfort. She barely feels herself passing asleep.
Three’s eyes open. She’s looking up at her bedroom ceiling. There’s just enough light from the outside that she can see properly. Her eyes dart around. There’s no sign of the ooze. She pulls a hand up, carefully inspecting each finger. Nothing. She feels her face. The scar is still there, but it hasn’t changed. The skin on her face feels dry, from all the dried up tears. Finally, she acknowledges the two cephalopods sharing the bed with her.
Eight rests by her left side, her head nestled up on Three’s pillow, her arms wrapped around the inkling’s side. Four is on her right, one arm snuggled around Three’s shoulder, and her head pressed next to Three’s own. Her long tentacles are carefully wrapped around each bed mate, respectively.
She can’t help but feel flustered from the close proximity of both. Their presence seems to chase away any bad thoughts that enter her mind, however. Three feels her lips curl up into a smile, for what seems like the first time in forever.
She feels the sleeping Four and Eight shift closer to her. Their hands curl around her and they wrap into a cuddle. She's safe. He won't hurt her anymore.
For now, she’s happy.