There was an itch in the back of Cores’ neck from the moment they woke up. It itched, and itched. Even after their warm shower where they scrubbed the back of their neck, it still itched. Like someone had dragged their teeth over the back of their neck and left burrs there. As they walked to make breakfast, one hand scratched and rubbed, scratched and rubbed, their expression twisting into an annoyed grimace. Halfway through making tea, a frustrated groan left them. As if someone were teething on their prosthetic left arm, they used their left hand to scratch the back of their neck as their right scratched their left forearm, elbow, and outer bicep.
“Get out. Get out. Get out!” The desperation in their voice was fueled by more than an itch. Gnashing their teeth together, the taste of iron bloomed in their mouth. Swallowing past it, they dug and dug at their skin, the feeling of something, multiple somethings, biting down on their arms and neck urging them on. More and more, faster and faster, they dug and dug and scratched and scratched.
Stumbling into their bathroom, they were blind to the blood now staining their right fingers as they shoved their own fingers into their mouth, pushing their lips aside to see their teeth with jagged edges stained rose-gold. The scent of flower fields turned to that of rotting leaves and flesh, making them gag, blood splattering into the clay colored sink.
When they looked back into it, they saw their teeth, and the familiar ache from when the Hive had bashed their teeth out of their gums and forced them down their throat returned with a fervor. A shuddering sob left them, rose-gold running down their chin, leaving splatters on the floor, joining the large splatters from the frantic scratching.
Heaving as they tried to breathe, tears ran down Cores’ cheeks as the Wizards’ cackle echoed in their ears in time to their blood dripping onto the floor, running off their chin and fingertips and leaving rose-gold trails down their back and chest. Collapsing on the floor of the bathroom, they bit their lip and cried out in pain, the memories flooding back. It was impossible to rid the feeling of the ravaging bites all over their skin from the Thrall that had descended upon them in the Hellmouth.
Wrapping their prosthetic under their knees, they curled into a ball as sobs racked their body, their blood leaving trails of rose-gold from their neck, mouth, and fingers. “Make it stop,” they pleaded, voice quiet and broken as they could only murmur those words over and over again, unaware of how their voice was growing hoarse from the crying. “Make the teeth go away…. Make it stop...please.”