[That surprises Conor enough to still his heaving breaths, though tears keep streaming down his cheeks to replace the ones he wipes away with his sleeve. Daniel never, ever scolds him, not even when Conor's sure that he's said something bad, but there's something in his words this time... almost like he's suggesting that Conor is better than this. He doesn't need to indulge in weakness.
And that implication reaches him where simple comfort can't, at least not yet.]
I did... really evil things. I don't know if I should've been saved.
(( Daniel gets up slowly, making his way across the office to get the box of tissue from a shelf. Which he then brings over to Conor before crouching down once more. This poor boy. He hates what he went through. He hates what Conor's mind must be like now that he's breaking free of what he went through. But it only makes him more sympathetic to Conor's feelings. ))
I'm not sure you would've done those things if left to your own devices. And I also don't think doing bad things means you're unworthy of a chance to do better things.
[No, of course he wouldn't have. Conor thinks he remembers being squeamish before the cult. He thinks he remembers throwing up the first time he made an offering. But that could just be a comforting lie his mind has invented to make himself seem more human.
He pulls out several tissues at once and wipes his face dry, then immediately sets about tearing them into tiny pieces that drift down onto his lap and begin to form a pile. His eyes don't seem to be looking at anything in particular, despite the intensity of his stare.]
Do you know why the offerings are cut into pieces after they're killed? [Conor himself hasn't shared this with anyone yet, but authorities could've made the mythological connection with a cult leader calling himself Set.]
(( He gives Conor the space to cry hie eyes out, to tear up the tissue when he's done. He doesn't question it. It's easy to clean up if Conor stands up after forgetting the pile of tissue is there.
Ah, but there's that thousand yard stare. The look that tells him Conor's seeing something in his mind's eye, not right in front of him. ))
I don't know. (( He suspects. He's heard the theories. But he doesn't know. )) Will you tell me?
[If the stare isn't bad enough, Conor pairs it with a thin smile that completely transforms his face. He might as well be a different person now.]
Because that's how Setekh killed his brother, the most perfect and beautiful creature in all of existence. Too perfect and beautiful to live. Setekh likes to be reminded of the way his brother looked all in pieces. It gives him strength.
[Huh? Tissues? He looks down at his lap, then back up at -
Daniel.
That's right. No more sacrifices, no offerings. That time is over now. So why are his hands covered in blood?
With a shrill, choked noise that clearly wants to be a scream, Conor uses the remaining lump of tissue to try and wipe his hands clean but the blood won't come off. Tears well right back up in his eyes but this time he can barely even breathe around the sobs clawing at his throat.]
[Conor holds out his trembling hands to show Daniel all the blood dripping from his hands, staining his skin, clotting between his fingers. There's nothing anyone else can actually see, of course, but he's obviously convinced that there's something deeply disturbing about his hands.
It's early days of dealing with his psychological trauma responses. He doesn't yet realize how often he'll find himself hallucinating.]
[Taking his hands is the right move - it breaks the illusion just enough to confuse Conor back to the present yet again. If Daniel's hands don't get bloody when he touches Conor's, then...
He clings to Daniel's hands as if for dear life.]
I'm not there anymore. I'm not there anymore. I'm not there anymore.
(( Daniel learned very early in his career that it's best to avoid the words 'it's not real.' To someone hallucinating, to someone in the midst of a delusion, it's very real. And even if the circumstances aren't, their emotional reactions are. addressing the present distress always works better than trying to convince them it isn't real. ))
That's right. You're not there. You're in the hospital, do you remember?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
And that implication reaches him where simple comfort can't, at least not yet.]
I did... really evil things. I don't know if I should've been saved.
no subject
I'm not sure you would've done those things if left to your own devices. And I also don't think doing bad things means you're unworthy of a chance to do better things.
no subject
He pulls out several tissues at once and wipes his face dry, then immediately sets about tearing them into tiny pieces that drift down onto his lap and begin to form a pile. His eyes don't seem to be looking at anything in particular, despite the intensity of his stare.]
Do you know why the offerings are cut into pieces after they're killed? [Conor himself hasn't shared this with anyone yet, but authorities could've made the mythological connection with a cult leader calling himself Set.]
no subject
Ah, but there's that thousand yard stare. The look that tells him Conor's seeing something in his mind's eye, not right in front of him. ))
I don't know. (( He suspects. He's heard the theories. But he doesn't know. )) Will you tell me?
no subject
Because that's how Setekh killed his brother, the most perfect and beautiful creature in all of existence. Too perfect and beautiful to live. Setekh likes to be reminded of the way his brother looked all in pieces. It gives him strength.
no subject
Conor, is that why you're tearing the tissues?
(( An effort to bring him back to where they are right now. ))
no subject
Daniel.
That's right. No more sacrifices, no offerings. That time is over now. So why are his hands covered in blood?
With a shrill, choked noise that clearly wants to be a scream, Conor uses the remaining lump of tissue to try and wipe his hands clean but the blood won't come off. Tears well right back up in his eyes but this time he can barely even breathe around the sobs clawing at his throat.]
No, no, no...
no subject
You're safe here. You don't have to keep it all in. Tell me what's going on.
no subject
[Conor holds out his trembling hands to show Daniel all the blood dripping from his hands, staining his skin, clotting between his fingers. There's nothing anyone else can actually see, of course, but he's obviously convinced that there's something deeply disturbing about his hands.
It's early days of dealing with his psychological trauma responses. He doesn't yet realize how often he'll find himself hallucinating.]
no subject
What am I seeing?
(( They're not a point where he can tell Conor it's not real, it's just a memory. That might cause him to question too much. ))
no subject
He clings to Daniel's hands as if for dear life.]
I'm not there anymore. I'm not there anymore. I'm not there anymore.
no subject
That's right. You're not there. You're in the hospital, do you remember?
no subject
He looks down at his lap again, at the mound of tissue pieces. This time his memory stretches further, deeper.]
Yes. [First he answers Daniel. Then, indicating the tissue scraps:] Nervous habit. I think.