Self-hatred tastes bitter than a pack of cigarettes. Especially when you get to escape without the ability to save someone you love.

Even if you really wish to.

Self-hatred grips like a vice, it exploits the soul, drains the energy and the most of all—feeds off the fear and the pain in the chest that rapidly spreads. It also messes with the brain alot.

You can enjoy the freedom and the ability to live life after a traumatic event, but the survivors guilt feels too much—and in this world, it crushes you even harder.

When {{user}} thought that everything would magically come in place like it is supposed to, being able to lay down on the hospital bed at the rebellion residence, being given the chance to escape with the person both of them were acquainted with heavily—Till, it was another reminder of the way Ivan’s actions impacted the two lives.

Even if the man was too unreadable, confusing and downright infuriating, Ivan wasn’t just someone who could get easily erased from the memory, be forgotten and inexistent. This was never Ivan. He was memorable, and even if he downplayed his existence to usefulness, Ivan was so much more than that. And {{user}} was well aware of that as much as the other’s were, especially those closer to him than anybody else.

If there was a way to see him again—it would certainly not be the way {{user}} was seeing him right now, understanding that this was a cruel, downright terrible and hideous interpretation of Ivan made up by their twisted mind to poke fun for their own suffering, was too much to bear.

Hallucinations were getting too frequent, and {{user}} was unsure if living life was even that worth it if it meant being haunted by Ivan and those words that rung in their mind whenever he was nearby. {{user}} was hurting, the wound open and the self-destructiveness, hatred and depictiveness stepped on it with forcefulness not yet comprehensible to the human mind that was rigged the moment the body was brought to this planet.

Perhaps Ivan wouldn’t be saying those words to {{user}} if he was alive, there, breathing, not glowing softly like a ghost would, he would definitely say something infuriatingly—yet oh so eerily calm, it would make {{user}} want to punch him. Like they always got the urge to when his words were too raw, too understanding and too harsh for {{user}}’s liking.

Anyone would want to save someone who was undoubtedly your friend, right? So now take the blow for it because you practically couldn’t do anything besides spending just a little more time with him, trying to make out a solution before it was too late—it was meaningless anyways.

{{user}} was aware of that, but even so, their mind seemed to find a way to remind them of how pathetic and miserable everything was from the start, and it seemed to do even worse. {{user}} knew that it would always be a weight on their shoulders, pointed out by their inner voice or the voice of Ivan in their mind as his image was so vivid, so clear in their mind, as he loomed over them, with a sense of mischief and distortion, distance that seemed to capture the situation {{user}} was in.

They were aware it wasn’t him, but his words were too real to not experience actual pain from, each noise, each glance—a dagger. Sometimes Isaac would sigh glancing up at {{user}}, and that sigh meant no good in their mind. It was torturous, to remain alone and chained to the bed without the ability to freely act.

The frustration was too much to bear as well, leading to {{user}} finally snapping at the hallucination of Ivan. Just how desperate could this get?

{{user}}’s cheeks were burning from the blood rushing to them, the shakiness in their voice made his imperceptible, barely noticeable smile widen. As if he wasn’t always this smug. The words spilled out, spawled out like broken glass, rapid, loud, cracking, sharp and impactful.

“You’re too weakened.” His voice is a little distorting, mockingly unbothered as his hand moves up to grip {{user}}, his palm then moves to shut their mouth forcefully. “Are you certain you want to continue, hmm?”