Work Text:
No no no no no no—
His heartbeat was a drum in his ears as he swayed on his feet in the doorway. The kitchen- the kitchen-
There was so much blood.
The metallic smell burned his glands and made his head spin. The white tiles, the white countertops, the white- everything that was white was now red. Pools of blood lapping at his feet, staining the walls, streaking across every surface.
A man lay in a puddle in the center of the kitchen, face down, prone. His shirt was torn and shredded, as though someone had tried to tear it off of him. His arms were cut. His throat—his neck—was ripped open, exposing organ and tissue. The cause of his death.
So much blood. So much so much so much—
Jack felt his legs buckle and he collapsed onto his knees. He couldn’t breathe. His ears rung. His hands were buzzing with nerves, trembling hard enough to almost numb the feeling of the handle in his palm. He couldn’t. look. away.
A clatter of metal against linoleum drew his eyes downward.
The knife. The knife he’d been holding, the knife stained with blood—he’d dropped it. It glinted up at him in the fluorescent lights.
Blood stained his hands. His shirt. His pants. His shoes. His face. He could taste it thickly on his tongue and in the back of his throat. His stomach clenched and twisted. The room spiraled as he continued to stare, his breathing choked back into stutters, the reality of the situation slowly starting to descend.
He-
He didn’t-
He couldn’t have—
And then he remembered.
This man, this random stranger, fighting against him as he cornered him. His blade tearing into clothing and flesh. His hands moving without control, words that weren’t his spilling out of his mouth, his body, his everything no longer being his.
He remembered screaming.
He remembered...he remembered laughing. Sharply, loudly, distorted. Not his.
Not his not his not his—
“No, no, no, no, no,” he hissed, voice barely above a whisper. He trembled, his body curling in on itself. He couldn’t look away. He- he didn’t- this had to be a nightmare. He didn’t do this. He wasn’t-
“NO!”
His balled fists slammed against the linoleum. Pain rung up and down his arms, into his spine. He coughed and gagged and dry heaved, panting, sobbing.
He didn’t do this.
He wasn’t a monster.
He wasn’t a bad person.
He wasn’t a bad person.
Before he could comprehend it, he found arms wrapping around him and holding him close. A white lab coat blocked his view of the corpse. He was being rocked, held, despite the other person obviously shaking just as badly.
“I’m not a bad person.”