There is something about silence that Dave just couldn't stand, even though it was technically the absence of a more common fear. Silence means something lurking does not want to be noticed. Not until it's too late. When there is nothing to hear, his brain fills the gaps with nonsense. Whether in an effort to distract or protect him, he doesn't know, but that's why he's here, quietly rambling to himself about breakfast foods at one in the morning.
There is something else much more important to think about, but the sick feeling in his stomach was enough to keep him focused on not throwing up the last thing he ate. Dave stopped talking and opened his eyes. Even without the shades, his room was still pitch black. "When was the last time I had breakfast?"
The window was shut, blocking out the sound of wailing sirens and pattering rain. Dave's hands twitched to open it, but the last thing he needed was rain getting in and soaking everything. He let his hands drift from his shoulders to his ribs, holding them tightly and pretending the arms weren't his.
"Just close your eyes," he whispered. The silence kept him awake, alert. Dave couldn't help it: he thought of Dirk. When was the last time he thought of his bro's name?
"Names are funny that way," he said, searching his desk for the half eaten bag of Doritos that awaited his shaking hands. "Your mama just goes on and decides what combination of noises will be used to identify you as an individual. And then some sets of noises are common, uncommon. Dave is common, but I've never met another Dave before. Some are meant for only boys or girls, but you might still be stuck with that one anyways. Middle names, who ever thought those were a good idea? And then you need a last name." Dave paused, shuffling to press his back firmly against the wall. The name burned his tongue, "Strider."
He brought his knees up to his chest, careless for the mess of crushed chips underneath him. "Dirk Strider."
He healed quickly, as all trolls did, and Karkat faced the ceiling once again. Thanks to Dr. Lalonde's impulsive surgery, his ribs did their job properly, and there was no need to restrain him any longer. When Ms. Paint finally undid the black Velcro cuffs, Karkat lunged for the letter. He unfolded it carefully, and just like every other time, he read it over:
"Dear Karkat,
I'm pretty bad at writing letters, so cut me some slack, would you? I guess I just wanted to say, I'm sorry. I promised you the day I brought you home with me that I'd keep you safe and nothing bad would happen to you ever again. I didn't mean to lie to you, but I'm still so sorry. I swear, Karkat, nothing will stop me from bringing you home again. Ok? I'm gonna come get you. In the mean time, get better soon.
Dave."
The writing was messy and some words where scribbled over so badly, they were illegible. The paper was crumpled, lined with uneven creases in an attempt to fit it in the envelope, and half erased words. Still, Karkat found himself reading it over and over, hoping to hear the sound of Dave's voice again.
The worst spot was right next to Dave's name, where it must have been erased a million times. Karkat could barely make out the end of "sincerely," but he guessed Dave had decided his name would be good enough.
Sighing, he pressed the letter against his chest and closed his eyes. Dave is coming for him. He doesn't remember the apparent promise made to him, but it hardly mattered. Guilt ate away at him for yelling the first time they met. Well, the first time he remembers.
He stood up and walked over to the window, which couldn't open without a key. Not that he knew if a key for the gold lock even existed.
He was placed in a different room, again, but it looked almost identical to the first one. This room was on the third floor, but it also had a little, red disk, ticking away. He looked at it again, but had no idea how to interpret the three, moving sticks. There were no numbers or marking on it, just red, silver and black. Karkat dreamed of being tall enough to take it off the wall and tearing the power source out. He growled at it, then turned away sharply.
The sleeping boy across the room stirred, probably his subconscious getting nervous over hearing such a threatening sound in a vulnerable state. Regardless, he stayed asleep. He slept all hours of the day, but was taken out of the room every night, not to return until morning, exhausted. The nurse always had to carry him out: he had no legs.
Karkat loomed over him, cursing at how young he looked. He looked a year, maybe two years, younger than himself, but he could just be a late bloomer. He looked peaceful in his sleep. Fear, submission, and acceptance—it was so odd to see on a face only in consciousness.
Karkat bit his lip and returned to his side of the room. The floor was cool against his warm skin, especially since there was nothing covering him except for thin, blue pyjamas. His feet were left bare, so he sat on the bed and warmed them with his hands.
There was nothing to do, but wait. Wait for what? For Dave to come get him? Someone else? Would he stay here, and end up with no legs too? He shook his head, as if expelling his irrational thoughts, and stood up. He had to get out of the white room with the quiet ticking. Karkat took hold of the doorknob and twisted.
"Karkat, where are you going?" Ms. Paint seemed to be everywhere when he wasn't where he was supposed to be, and nowhere when he needed her.
"Just going to the bathroom." She nodded affirmatively and he carried on. The hallway was much brighter. He passed a few closed doors keeping other trolls, until he reached the bathroom. He went there a lot, just to be in another room. It's walls were cream and always smelled like lemon. It was just too damn cold, colder than the ticking room. At least now, it was quiet.
No more than a few minutes later, a hard knock on the door made Karkat's ears twitch. He growled, but stood anyways. Pretending to have been using the bathroom for its intended purpose, he flushed and let the tap run. Another knock, this time harder, and another twitch. Karkat yanked the door open, startling the troll on the other side.
"S-sorry," they tried, but Karkat already brushed past. Down the hall, he saw Caliborn walking out of a room, and tried his best not to make eye contact. Not that it mattered, his dark features were immediately noticed against the white walls.
"God damn it, again? Can you not stay in one place for more than a minute?"
Karkat didn't respond, didn't walk any closer. Long, black bangs covered most of his eyes and and his fangs peaked over his bottom lip.
He sighed, clenching his fists. "You know, I'm getting really sick of you thinking you're better than me. No, I get it," he let his arms drape at his side, "you think I'm not worth your time."
Karkat blinked, slowly, hitching his ears up, and the skin on his neck prickled as he forced a growl back.
"But I'm warning you, troll. Keep ignoring me, and I'll paint the walls with your mutant blood. Got it?"
Despite the attempt at threatening him, Karkat rolled his eyes. "Fuck off, would you?" He snatched the paper cup of pills off the tray, and walked back to the room.
The door was left open. He tossed the cup into the trash, and flopped onto the bed, springs squealing under his weight. The ticking was drowned out by the buzzing in his ears. Flat, short claws dragged down dry skin from shoulder to elbow, leaving a trail of bright red behind it. He would wait for Dave, for he had no other choice.
The warm, Texas sun hid behind the dark clouds that hung in the sky. "It's going to rain soon," Dave mumbled. He wished for a response, anything really. Even a curt nod. A short, soft laugh was more than enough to convince him this was pathetic.
There was a feeling deep in his chest: cold and sharp. His head felt heavy on his slouched shoulders, and he could feel the strain on his neck from the uncomfortable position. It's been a few hours, he should really move. Slowly, he flipped over to face the rest of his room instead of the wall.
Dave tossed his shades onto his nightstand with a frown, and stared at his shelf of dead things. They were curled and crystallized; preserved in seconds and stayed that way for millions of years. Frozen in time. He wondered what it felt like, to be suffocated and preserved. Surely they could never have known they would end up in some weird kid's collection.
Suddenly, the silence was overwhelming. It filled his every thought and his breath hitched. His eyes darted around the room as he took hold of his sword, but nothing moved. Still tense, Dave left the room in a hurry, practically throwing himself at the bathroom sink.
He shut the door and locked it behind him, turning on the tap. For some reason, this only made it worse. Hands quivering, he splashed water over his face and listened closely for anything. Anything coming to get him.
Only then did he realize, there was nothing after him. His bro promised not to attack him anymore, right? He tore the shower curtain back, revealing nothing but his own paranoia. Hissing at how ridiculous this was, he took hold of the sink with both hands. Dave forced his eyes closed, breathing as deep and evenly as he could. Bro promised he would be safe. Bro has always kept him safe. He would never let anything bad happen to him. He looks out for him.
As the stream of water and gurgling of the drain slowed to a soft tap, Dave finally opened his eyes. He looked at himself for a long while, hatred bubbling in those demonic eyes. He saw the dark bags under them, sunken cheeks, and messy hair. Dave raised a hand to the mirror, but stopped halfway to brush his fingers along his jaw instead.
Suddenly, a loud crash rang through the apartment, and he flinched with a yelp. Holding his breath, Dave listened closely for any more noise. It was dead silent. He opened the door and carefully investigated the scene. Everything was still.
Halfway down the stairs, he saw it: a body at the bottom, clutching its heart and writhing in agony. Every instinct told him to run, when every moral told him to do something. Dave stared, unmoving.
It was Dirk. His knee was bent sideways, but he hardly seemed to notice. His mouth hung open, but nothing came out other than choking and gasps. The phone in his hand was pressed tightly to his chest, but it was not ringing. Then, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he stopped moving.
Dave hadn't realized it, but his feet already took him down the rest of the stairs so he could stand above his brother's body. The hand slipped down to the ground, letting the phone fall with a clutter. There was a cut above his eye, which bled so much the smell twisted his stomach painfully.
His mind was overtaken by fragments of thoughts and half completed sentences. After many seconds, Dave picked up the phone. It was unlocked, so Dirk had been trying to call someone. "9-1" and it ended there. Who was he going to talk to? Nine. One. Nine one one. The police.
Shaking, Dave dialed the number and watched the phone ring in his hands. Seconds later, someone answered.
"911, where is your emergency?"
He stared at the numbers counting the seconds of how long the call will last. Five, six, seven...
"Hello?"
"Hi," Dave choked. "I have an emergency."
"Ok, what is your emergency?"
He sunk to the ground, leaning against the wall and pressing the phone to his ear. "My brother fell down the stairs."
"Ok. What is the address?"
"I...I don't know."
"Could you find out?"
He nodded, crawling towards the kitchen. It was cluttered and messy, but he couldn't find anything. The table had a few letters on it—just bills. He almost walked away, but he caught the address before he could.
"Sir? Are you still there?"
"What? Yeah." He answered the rest of her questions with similar fashion. Eventually, the police broke the front door down, startling Dave. His dazed eyes hardened as he rose swiftly to his feet, watching the armed men with apprehension.
Now, time was slow. There were two men in clean uniforms jogging towards the body on the floor, a yellow stretcher rolling between them. One looked fairly young, while the other was a few decades ahead. As the younger paramedic started yelling at Dirk, the other introduced himself as Dave. He unzipped the bag of equipment he had brought, and asked for Dave's name.
"My name's Dave too," he answered, his voice steady and indifferent.
Dave chuckled, scratching at his beard, "well would you look at that. I've never met another Dave before."
"Me neither."
He continued like this for the next few minutes, trying again and again to make conversation until finally giving up.
"Dave, I think he's having cardiac arrest, but he keeps fainting." Terry, the younger paramedic, asked the same questions as the woman who answered the phone, thought it was hard to hear some because someone was screaming hoarsely. Did he hit his head? Probably. Yeah, he fell down the stairs. No, Dave hadn't seen it: he heard it. He had been upstairs at the time. His name is Dirk Strider and he is 35 years old.
By the time he made it through every single question, the ambulance doors were shut by a very uncomfortable, bearded-Dave. His stiff shoulders and worried eyes were broadcasted for the world to see. He wore his heart on his sleeve, every emotion on his face unmistakable. Well, Dave Strider didn't need his shades to hide what he was feeling this time: he simply felt nothing.
Dirk groaned in pain, shallow breaths rasping under the scratchy blanket thrown over his torso. His knee was still crooked, and Terry tried his best to keep him awake. Dave didn't get the chance to ask what exactly what will happen, even though he already knew. He wanted confirmation.
As the ambulance pulled into the emergency parking, it occurred to Dave that his brother could die today. That's a thought that should make the minutes he walked down the halls feel like seconds, and the hour he spent sitting in the waiting room feel like a lifetime. Fear and guilt should turn his stomach and make him sick. Tears should spring to his eyes when the weight of his only family's death became a startling reality. He had cried when Dirk told him about his cancer, but the weeks of aching in his chest had vanished at the sight of death at bottom of the stairs.