27. milch
(HAVING TO COVER THE WHOLE WEEK SO FAR BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN BUSY)
TUESDAY
[After the milkman leaves with his instructions, Tybalt makes a rare show of enforcing his Mayfield-given head-of-household status by sending Kurt upstairs, regardless of how much the boy protests.
After he's gone, Tybalt sits and stares at the milk for a while, weighing his options, before sighing and picking up a bottle, eyes dull and resigned.
Something slices his cheek a moment after he starts drinking from the bottle. He slams the bottle on the counter and spits something into his hand.
It's a razor blade.
Of course.
It takes him twenty minutes to finish the bottle. He drinks slowly, to make sure the blades don't get to his throat, but that doesn't stop them from slashing up his tongue and the inside of his cheeks all the same.
When he says it's all right for Kurt to come downstairs, it's more of a rough, barely comprehensible groan, moreso than usual thanks to the damage to his mouth.]
WEDNESDAY
[Thin tissues of skin have started regrowing over the wounds in his mouth already, and though his voice is a little more slurred than usual, at least he can talk.
This bottle seems totally fine, but that night he has to vomit, and it undoes much of the healing.]
THURSDAY
[After he finishes the bottle and waits for whatever side effects it has today, the drone girl comes in and brightly asks if he can retell the story of how he and Mom met. Tybalt rises from his seat, grabs her by the shoulders, and strikes her across the face with his flail, instantly blinding her in one eye and throwing a mass of ugly, open welts across her face.
She's still smiling afterward, and staggers upstairs. Tybalt's breathing is uneven. He doesn't tell Kurt to come back downstairs for fear that he'll be compelled to hurt him as well.
He goes outside to do some pushups and sees some passers-by.
He has no interest in killing them.
It dawns on him that this was an ordinary glass of milk, and it was his own paranoia that made him attack the drone girl.
There's more vomiting tonight. It's not because of the milk.]
FRIDAY
[Spiders, this time. More disgusting than truly frightening. Tybalt's never minded spiders much.
Drink, spit out the spiders, crush them.
It takes over an hour to do it, but he succeeds, with only three bites on one hand for his trouble.]
TUESDAY
[After the milkman leaves with his instructions, Tybalt makes a rare show of enforcing his Mayfield-given head-of-household status by sending Kurt upstairs, regardless of how much the boy protests.
After he's gone, Tybalt sits and stares at the milk for a while, weighing his options, before sighing and picking up a bottle, eyes dull and resigned.
Something slices his cheek a moment after he starts drinking from the bottle. He slams the bottle on the counter and spits something into his hand.
It's a razor blade.
Of course.
It takes him twenty minutes to finish the bottle. He drinks slowly, to make sure the blades don't get to his throat, but that doesn't stop them from slashing up his tongue and the inside of his cheeks all the same.
When he says it's all right for Kurt to come downstairs, it's more of a rough, barely comprehensible groan, moreso than usual thanks to the damage to his mouth.]
WEDNESDAY
[Thin tissues of skin have started regrowing over the wounds in his mouth already, and though his voice is a little more slurred than usual, at least he can talk.
This bottle seems totally fine, but that night he has to vomit, and it undoes much of the healing.]
THURSDAY
[After he finishes the bottle and waits for whatever side effects it has today, the drone girl comes in and brightly asks if he can retell the story of how he and Mom met. Tybalt rises from his seat, grabs her by the shoulders, and strikes her across the face with his flail, instantly blinding her in one eye and throwing a mass of ugly, open welts across her face.
She's still smiling afterward, and staggers upstairs. Tybalt's breathing is uneven. He doesn't tell Kurt to come back downstairs for fear that he'll be compelled to hurt him as well.
He goes outside to do some pushups and sees some passers-by.
He has no interest in killing them.
It dawns on him that this was an ordinary glass of milk, and it was his own paranoia that made him attack the drone girl.
There's more vomiting tonight. It's not because of the milk.]
FRIDAY
[Spiders, this time. More disgusting than truly frightening. Tybalt's never minded spiders much.
Drink, spit out the spiders, crush them.
It takes over an hour to do it, but he succeeds, with only three bites on one hand for his trouble.]