Fandom: Outlast
Characters: Miles Upshur
Word Count: 281
Warnings: sacrilegious content maybe

Summary: his temple is blazing all around him

Notes: i'm not back yet

Teeth grit and it's

Painful

pain pain pain painful

And tiny fingers bite into his shoulders and he's panting and he's bowed. Pressing his forehead into an ivory neck, veins filled with morphine and dopamine and adrenaline-

He prays.

Angrily- vehemently- casting aspirations through jaws wired shut, his punctured lungs giving form to ache clawing hot and thick in his throat.

His hands are clasped.

Purple and blue and black and clammy around creaking, jutting, hips and he pushes himself forward; tells himself he's unconquerable.

Lovely, wasted, scarred arms wind around him, pulling him closer to boiling black seething behind his left eye and the deathmask grins and a lovely, wasted, scarred mouth twists, and his ballasts are snapping one by one, his foundation eroding, his temple blazing all around him.

God isn't so far, he knows, then, has a scarred, wasted, lovely hooks over the crook of his elbow. He pulls in his anger, his prayers, his crumbled-

self? kingdom? life? being? worth?

- tight around himself like a cloak, hiding away from the Almighty Illusion's gimlet eye, and settles the skeletal deathmask over his face as prophet's foretold and sighs, sheathing himself one step out of reality, desperately.

The ache blocking his throat loosens around the gale of his fury, safe from retaliation, and he says, I wanted to show you something beautiful.

Those tiny fingers splay themselves along his jaw, drifting lower, then pressing in, leaving blots along his vision. A soft voice reaches him, torn and fluttering against the damp corner of his chin, You'd show me a lie.

He is not mournful when he dips down bares blunt teeth against a ragged pulse, says, I know.