The Bliss. You have heard many things about it, how it opens your mind and frees you from the troubles of a harsh reality. How it is nothing but an elaborate lie developed in makeshift labs to force compliancy, and how high exposure can rot the brain into something only really pictured in the medium of horror.
Already you have been subjected to its wicked workings, once being shot as if an animal needed under anaesthetic and the other was once you had woken up, under a polluted bulwark of water that coated your vision in a perverted pixie dust. You had not known it at the time, never having experienced the hallucinogenic agent until that point, but it was enough of a taste to know that whatever the substance was it was beyond bad news for you.
It's why you made it a conscious effort to stay well clear of the stuff. The moment it's name was even uttered you'd tense, body aching at the sheer memory of what it could and has very well done to you. You've seen the effect it has on others, seen their distant gazes and heard their murmured prayers. It actually looks quite peaceful from what you've seen.
Too bad it's effect on you is nothing short of hell-inducing.
You have an assumption as to why that is, why the Bliss instills an itching paranoia and an all-to-real terror and physicality to your languid companion, but you'd rather not dwell. Sadly, despite where you've looked and who you have spoken too, you lack the means to potentially aid your crumbling situation. Although you suspect the items you search for may only bring about a different sort of effect; something less fear inducing, but just as equally terrifying.
You give a heavy sigh, fingers brushing through your hair, as already you are regretting your decision to journey into the land of nightmare fuel. Just why the Sheriff had decided to set up base in the heart of such a hell zone was absolute madness to you. True, you understood the reasoning for it - it was well defendable, much like a modern fort - but that didn't mean you appreciated it just as the others did. All you could think about was the long drive back to the borders and into less, although arguably more, dangerous territory.
It's pretty safe to say though that you'd rather face off against the war-torn werewolf and inhuman incubus with a brother complex than deal with this scheming siren.
Regrettably though you're in a bit of a bind; too nice for your own good some would say. You'd be somewhat inclined to agree with them too. You just can't bring yourself to say 'no' to people. Not that they give you the opportunity to say anything else mind you. In fact you're actually starting to wonder if you even have a voice anymore; it hardly gets used nowadays - what with you being shoved from task to tedious task without so much as a tea break.
Thinking about it the only ones who even know what you sound like (other than distant family and friends) are either being tortured, conditioned, drugged up or are just too busy to have something even remotely related to a normal conversation with you. Then again...
You straighten up, head tilted toward the concrete heavens as the chair squeals at the casual shift in weight.
There is one other person that knows what you sound like, but you're actually not too sure if she's even still alive at this point. Although you're certain she is, considering she sold you all out quicker than a swindler can swindle ice from an Eskimo.
Nancy. Fucking Nancy. In all honesty though you can't say you're actually angry with the women. Sure, you're hurt and more than a little disappointed in her, but you don't have the strength for something as draining as anger. It's too much stress. Besides, if you want your ever-loving companion to stay weak and well away from you then you're going to need to stay as calm as you possibly can. You don't need it looking for an early supper; you're still recovering from the last bite it took.
It's getting stronger, you think idly, rolling your aching wrist with an answering snapping sound, much like the popping of bubble wrap; only this isn't fun. With an anxious gaze, lip worried between your teeth, you trace the faintest of blotches, an irritated red that lingers under the skin, on the back of your hand and just kissing the start of your arm.
Physically it does nothing to you, no itching or tingling sensation to be felt, but mentally it has the warning bells ringing a harrowed toll. You know from years of experience that the moment you start to have marks, red like a flush with no heat or a rash with no bite, that it's rearing it's head; gearing up for a new attempt at dominance.
Thankfully it's not around, skulking off to wherever it goes once you got yourself through the doors of the prison, taking a jab of that anti-Bliss stuff without a second thought. It stung as an injection does, heads turned worryingly in your direction at your hurried form and brash action, but it relieved the paranoia; banished the fear, even if only for a little while.
Really you should be honest and tell Whitehorse what's wrong, let him know that the Bliss has had a truly nasty effect on you and that you can't - don't want to stay because of it. You can't be of help. You're sure he'd understand. He knows about your condition, so you're sure he would. He has to. Wouldn't he?
You suddenly feel hollow, as though every other emotion and feeling inside of you is being emptied like a full glass turned on it's head. All that's left is an empty space. Echoes of feelings and emotions tap on the glass, vying for your attention, but they are merely dull sounds that carry no weight to them.
Any anger that you once held like a tempered weapon now lacks drive or enthusiasm in its swing, your sadness now cold and still like a frozen lake without the warm comfort of tears. Your mood has taken a sudden dive and for a moment you wonder if it's okay for you to drown yourself in it. It's not like anyone really cares anyway.
You're just 'Rook'; a poster-child for the resistance, the one that got away, a piece to be played and sacrificed. That's all you are, and it breaks your heart to know - despite how much you may deny it you know - that that's all you are now. That is what you have been reduced too.
With a sharp inhale your hand comes to fall across your face, shielding you away from the hectic world outside as your eyes start to sting.
You jump at the feeling of something against your leg, a heavy pressure that nudges purposefully against you. You don't have to remove your hand from over your eyes to know what it is.
It feels warm against your leg, a thick dampness that seeps into the material of your pants and onto the skin of your leg. Your stomach squirms at the contact, a nervous reaction that is gradually eased as It remains against you, unmoving and unthreatening.
Slowly you look down, suspecting to maybe see It's foreboding gaze cast up in warning to your anxious form or It's maw pulled into a mocking smile that is filled with menacing razors, but that is not what you see. The sight before you is not a common one.
It's head is bowed forward, long ears pulled back submissively, as It presses into the bone of your leg with a pressure that comes across more reassuring than anything else.
You don't even realise your free hand has placed itself on the back of It's exposed neck, fingers and palm painted a bitter obsidian, until It leans into the contact. Such a small and innocent gesture suddenly turns the monster of your waking dreams into a lost puppy seeking an affectionate touch. Absently your fingers trace invisible lines into It's swampy form, soothingly rubbing back and forth into the ichor of It's hide.
As if in response It's head mirrors your fingers movements, nuzzling into your leg with a distorted purr that isn't there. Your hand and leg ache at It's touch. However, even when the lights in It's dark sockets come to life, white and as luminescent as the stars in the night sky, looking up at you with a steady aura, you don't pull away from It. Instead, you meet It's endless stare.
Sadly you smile at It, watching as It's head tilts lazily at you in a silent question. You know It doesn't truly mean to hurt you, only wanting to protect you in It's own misguided and painful way, yet right now you can't bring yourself to care. Your hand tingles as though on the cusp of cramping up, yet still you continue to stroke through the black of It's liquid-like body.
It does nothing but watch, lights unblinking and still like a focused predator stalking it's prey. Strangely enough though it doesn't feel as if you're being hunted, or even watched in a sick and knowing anticipation as is normally the case. There is a softness in It's gesture, a comfort in It's harmful warmth, and a reassurance in It's abyssal sockets.
And, oddly enough, as though It's nonexistent eyes speak words that can't be heard, you realise something quite profound; a thought that holds more weight on your heavy shoulders than is already there.
Right, you think with the slow dawn of a sorrowfully tight smile, it's just the two us, isn't it? Till death... and maybe longer still.