Re: [Mental: Lyssa & Damian]
[The violin was violent. It screamed. It retched notes up, spattering up the wall of Damian's skull, and he held his head between his knees. His hands were to his ears, uselessly, pathetically, and he just wished for it to stop.—It did. It void it left was the sort that makes one wish to crawl out of one's skin, and Damian swiped at his still-bleeding nose. That was when he heard the meow.
He whipped his head toward the desk. And fear—fear, an al Gol feared—boiled up in his belly that she was here. Alyssa. She would don his skin like a costume, plant a seed in his brain, simply encourage the latent tendencies and destinies within him, and slaughter every last living person in the facility.—What he found was not precisely Alyssa, but some version of her face that he did not understand related to a phone application.
Green eyes ringed in wide white stared back and Damian stood. He ignored the continued flow of blood. He scrabbled around the bed and to the desk. He took hold of the mirror and he smashed it on his desk. It cracked, but it did not shatter as glass would have. The acrylic cracked, but that was all. He put it face-down on the drawings scattered messily on the desk. The red-ink one of Misha kissed the reflection, as that is where it was slammed. Damian held it down, as if he were drowning someone, all his weight on his palms and blood sprinkled down.]