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I Want To Be...

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Bam had been preparing for this floor since the day he’d heard of it.

For what? He wasn’t sure since the thing he fears have all been repressed inside of him. He doesn’t know a single thing of what he fears, he can’t just think of them, unfortunately. It’s a great way to ruin himself, but he’s for sure he won’t know what he fears until he’s facing it face to face. So with that, Bam is left to prepare in every way possible.

When it started, the first thing Bam noticed was his appearance. Nothing, absolutely nothing, had changed. His sight, his taste– everything was of the same. That brought in the dread.

The second thing Bam noticed was the feeling of something lurking under his skin. Twisting, crawling, and pulsing against his flesh. His body felt sticky and fake like it wasn’t his, wasn’t him. His fist tightened by his side and he tried to understand; what is it that he fears?

Something wet slipped through his fingers as his nails dug into his soft human palms. It’s cold and thick and it wraps around his knuckles; alive. He doesn’t notice it’s onyx hue.

They continue through the floor without much fuss. There was a silent law to not mention how they’ve changed. The stripping stares and quick glances are as far as any of them will go.

Bam doesn’t know if he’s thankful for that or not, for he can feel each time they look curious at his form but leave without their stress of words, without their concerns. He replies with tense smiles to each intruding stare.

With a step and a slam of the door, he crumbles.

He’s scared, hurt, and in pain. He hasn’t felt this way since his days in FUG; The urge to tear apart his skin. The excruciating desire to change. Something is terribly wrong and he is a raven trapped inside a cage.

Dragging himself to his bed, he can feel the pressure begin to build. It burrows behind his eyes and melts into his spine. It takes hold of his stomach and twists his ribs. It hurts and it hurts and it hurts and it hurts and it’s too fucking much.

He sobs. He weeps. He lets himself go. He lets the tar leak from his eyes, lets it all pour from his mind.

It swallows his hands beneath him.

He screams. Or at least he thinks it does. It’s a squeal, a whine of an animal. He isn’t actually sure if he made a sound or if it was all in his head. When he opens his mouth again, all he does is chokes on upon the grime that dares to twist and drip and trickle and pour.

There are worms alive as he stares down. They wriggle helplessly in the smut. Rising. Drowning.

They’re insignificant, but they’re disgusting. So, so disgusting. He feels one wriggle in the back of his throat and it makes him sick.

He burrows into the corner of his room terrified.

Black, oh how it’s all black against his skin. He can feel it all, see it all, but he can’t feel himself nor see himself. The rough walls and the soft carpet but not his calloused hands or tempered feet. He can hear the wind passing through the room but not his labored breaths.

He doesn’t have a body. He doesn’t have any flesh.

He wants to scream that this isn’t him, this isn’t him, but with every denial his form breaks and he takes into the void.

His eyes are of the wealthiest golds like bait to tempt the greediest of man. It gleams with heavenly streams to hide the tar of demise, a body of atrocity. Slithering and oozing from one place to another, whining as he journeys across the paths. He leers with a hanging head. Ebony tendrils don his lengthy body, searching and reaching for nothing in particular. They feel every surface, every warmth. Hiding in the crevices, sinking into the cracks; his eyes are thousands. His cries are weak with wheezes in every other breath; whines and whimpers with a voice of silk. Pleading for nothing in particular he ventures into the looming somber of twilight.

The night is kind to its children. He feels safest in the blanket of soft light. With an irregular form, the void takes darkness to all the room. Only the window is left uncovered to allow the gleam of the moon onto his shifting figure. Like the surface of the water the light ripples against him. It morphs hazy, but it’s soothing to watch and lulls him to sleep.

He wakes up to the tender sounds of a familiar voice. He’s hopeful, for a second, that earlier was just a dream, that he’s normal now, but when he reaches out to find that voice, he realizes he has enveloped it whole.

He panics. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He struggles to move away. The sweet warmth of a person is hard to let go of and if he could, he would cry.


He freezes.


His calling.


He calms.


He’s back.

“Come back.”

As his senses are overwhelmed with only Khun—the scratch of fabric against his skin, the burning share of heat, the familiar scent of mint, and the sight of his everlasting peace—he is only thankful to be home.

He fears being a monster, but he fears being alone even more.