Salted Wounds and Burned Hands

by Browa123

Summary:

"Have you ever had a near-death experience?"

Notes:

Last chance to turn back, readers. This fic is a plot designed to test my skills and see how far I can go.

Bear witness to my own experiment if you dare...

Chapter 1: Muted

When I had first awakened here, I could speak.

It was a long time ago now, the times in which my voice could be heard. All the cheering, the yells of joy as I twisted through the air, the soft sounds of my singing and the loud declarations to those I protected. I was a hero, and my voice was the most powerful of my weapons.

I taunted. I jeered. I joked, laughed and matched wits with the sharpest of tongues. I thought I was funny, not a lot of my opponents did. I could always think of something to say, spur the moment in the heat of combat. Every sly remark rolled of my tongue in a more practiced manner than even I anticipated at first. It was my responsability, but I would make it fun, so everyone could enjoy it with me.

Have you ever had a near-death experience? Even years after the moment, it sticks with you. The pain a reminder in the back of your mind, what had nearly caused your end. A reflex, to avoid loosing what you had almost already.

Whenever lightning flashes, I get tense. It's not the sound of thunder that scares me. During thunderstorms, I keep my head down, leveled at the ground so I can't see it. The bright, electrical light would fill my vision all over again and the pain would return. I can barely stand to see sparks, though I had adapted in recent years after the accident.

Teenagers are dumb and impulsive, you know? Dumb and impulsive, but so curious about what they've been told to avoid. You tell a teenager no, and it just entices them to look further. Sense of rebellion maybe? Perhaps it's just sheer curiosity. Why is this thing so dangerous? Why do my parents want me to keep out of it?

When you finally find it in you to give into curiosity, things go downhill. You learn the why and how the hard way. By then it's already far too late.

Ever since the accident, I've been fighting tooth and nail to fix what I had caused. It was my fault, always my fault, when the town was attacked. I had opened the portal, I had given them a door, I had let them into the world of the living. They were my mess, and I was left to clean it up. I was the one who had the tools to clean up my mess.

Flight. Invisibility, Intangibility. Beams of pure energy that could harm them, frozen energy from within myself. Superpowers that the accident had given me to clean up my mess. But I'm not a ghost, like them. I'm not human either, the accident made sure of that.

I was young when my friends and I decided on it. Real life superhero, complete with a costume change, a secret identity and a name. It was just another pun at the time we all thought of it, the greatest inside joke we had ever come up with. It was never meant to be so renowned, just a game.

Making light of a bleak situation. But the name was spoken all around Amity Park, my home, and became infamous for the ghost who fought other ghosts. Hero or villain, people would ask, opinion split. That name always on their lips.

Phantom.

Hero of Amity Park, Phantom. World's most elusive ghost, Phantom. The most powerful ecto entity remaining in the living world, Phantom. People came to Amity to see the Phantom, people cheered for the Phantom, people scorned the Phantom. Phantom became an icon, a mascot for the town.

Did they ever once stop to think that there was always a Danny before Phantom? That there was a boy any more than there was a ghost. Perhaps not. The eyes of the world see what they want to, and blind themselves to the full picture and every important detail. Phantom was just a ghost that haunted Amity Park and fought other ghosts. Nothing more.

But Phantom wasn't a ghost. He wasn't a human either. He was impossibly gray in a world of black and white. I was impossibly a hybrid in a split between living and dead. A ghost who had a beating heart wasn't really a ghost.

Blood and Ectoplasm do not mix, the experts would say. Two vastly different elements, so foreign to each other could not possibly mix. But I was still here, alive but also a ghost. Not even I understand it.

Though you're probably bored of me rambling on about things you already know. You want the real story, it's why you're making me tell it.

Fine, I'll tell. The memories are still fresh in my mind. At least now all that time won't be like it never even happened. I'd hate for everything that did staying in the shadow. Because as evil as science says ghosts are, humans are the real monsters. They give into curiosity and by the time they realize what the problem is, it's already far too late.

I'll ask you again. Have you ever had a near-death experience?

I remember it like any other day in my dead-end career. Ghost fighting, late nights, another essay I wouldn't be able to write with stopping a road accident due to Technus, the crazy technology ghost who loves to monologue, attacking all over town. Routine, you know. A ghost attacks, we exchange witty banter, I kick ghost but and everyone goes home learning some lesson about honesty. It's how it always was.

That habitual sense of security made me a bit too cocky that day. One of Technus' robotic extensions hit a power cable and caused it to snap, and the bright flash had gone everywhere. I couldn't see after that. It was all so bright, too bright, I couldn't keep my eyes open as my senses dulled to the electrical flashes.

Vaguely, I remember falling while the white light had become laced with green. I couldn't feel any part of my body, and I had hit the ground so hard I couldn't process what had happened. The light had faded after that, and so did everything else.

I don't know how long I was asleep. I just remember inky blackness behind my eyes as I laid still in the dark. There wasn't much I could do being asleep the first time.

A hand had roughly grabbed at my wrist while I saw darkness. I was numb to the world so I couldn't judge the grip, strength or if the hand was large or small. The feeling of something on my arm lingered long after the grip had left it, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that they attached something to it.

When the darkness had finally lifted, I was greeted to an unfamiliar space. It was no bigger than the living room of my house, but held no significance. The walls were all of a dull steel color, and there was no visible exit.

I tapped on the wall with my left hand, the metal of the walls echoing at my touch. What grabbed my attention though was the banding I found on my left arm in that action. It was steel as well, as gray as my existence, sitting on my arm.

How did this get here? I remember asking myself that as I prodded the band. There wasn't even anything on it, just a thin metal band wrapped on my wrist for no reason. It must have been what that grip in my sleep had put on me. The next question was obvious.

Who put it on? I still had no idea, I couldn't tell from someone just gripping at my hand while my eyes were closed. Would they be back? I wasn't sure back then, and I couldn't sit around. I had to get home after all, my team and my parents surely were scared for my well being. A simple phase though the wall should have let me though, but it was ver quick how I found how the band works.

It had buzzed and zapped me, causing me to stumble away from the wall. It's not like I only tried once, though. Every wall elicited the same reaction to the thing on my wrist, and when the electric shocks became an unbearable pain I began banging on the walls of my prison.

"Let me out of here! Help! Someone! Anyone!" The band shocked me again after a few hours of raw screaming for someone to hear me through the metal walls. The shock wasn't a sting like when I tried to escape with my powers, though. All it did was numb my core, and within moments I was asleep again.

I wasn't alone when I woke up again. There were a few ghosts in here with me now, Technus from earlier, the Box Ghost, how typical, and Ember. All three were awake and also sporting metal bands like my own. Their eyes turn to me as I wake up.

"Morning, Dipstick. Enjoy your nap?" Ember teased, to me shooting her a glare. The other ghosts look me over and then around the room. It was quite obvious all three of us were trapped in this small, metal room. No escape in sight still, and the steel felt more restraining with more souls in the room.

"What do you guys say to putting aside our differences to get out?" I had asked them. They all poked at their bands and agreed on working together with me, though the reluctance was clear. I knew I had to watch my back, because my enemies will betray me for their chance at freedom.

We started with the walls, trying to find weak points in the barriers. Technus tried to use his power over technology to get the bands off us, to no avail. We all called and shouted for freedom, as loud as possible. But nothing happened. We'd all be put to sleep and something would happen while we were unconscious.

After the seventh time we were forced to sleep, we gave up.

Technus always had something to talk about. His glory days as a ghost, being master of all technology. The voice I used to find annoying became that of a storyteller to keep us from keeling over in boredom on long days. The way he talked started to remind me of my father, and I found comfort in that. I was sure my real father was out there looking for me and I was so excited for him to meet Nicolai.

The Box Ghost loved pranks. The two of us would team up to pull some pretty nasty ones on the other two occupants of our cell while we were awake. I'd use my ice to craft a few boxes for my temporary partner in crime to play with while hours wasted away. I had the most laughs when imitating his beware.

Ember would sing for us when the usual time to be put asleep came around. It was a haunting lullaby she had written herself, planning to use it on the unconscious crowd, but without her guitar it was fine. I learned the lyrics to the songs she sang and joined in when a particularly catchy one was being performed. It had gotten us through the time when we were trapped, holding out hope for rescue.

Shame that all of it changed.

It was particularly hot in the chamber when Boxy passed. I was using my ice core to keep everyone as cool as possible as the heat began to rise, but Boxy had been shocked by his band and pulled out of the circle and into temperatures his weaker core couldn't handle. His ectoplasmic remains are still on the walls in the center of the room, blue as the ice that nearly faded when he was gone. I remember screaming.

Technus went next. He had again tried using his powers to overtake the band and the walls of the prison. The voltage in the band grew higher and higher and I blanked out from another flare of bright light. Regaining my senses and there was just ashes and a very silent Ember in the corner.

Ember and I didn't really do anything except sing after that. We sang in ghostly tones, the songs more somber as the two of us wondered which would be next. Which would destabilize in this place, now feeling so empty without the chime of voices Technus and Boxy brought. We sang our lullaby again, one we'd written together in honor of our fallen comrades and wishes to go home and see those we loved.

Ember didn't sing when I woke up the next time. She was eerily silent, waiting for something. I asked her what was wrong, and she turned to me. She was emotionless and dead, more so than I've ever seen before in any ghost. She still didn't speak, not a somber note in her tone when she lunged at me.

I did everything in my power to keep her off of me. Without her music, she wasn't very strong, but relentless in getting back up again. Ember was growling like a feral animal as she attempted to claw my eyes out. I kept pushing her back, but she kept getting up. The band shocked my arm.

"Destroy it."

A voice echoed in the chamber. I froze in my steps. I didn't recognize the voice, there was a filter over it at the time, and it was unfamiliar compared to the voice of my cellmates. Did it... want me to kill Ember? I look back over to her, as she sways on her feet and I find myself shaking my head.

"Destroy it, Phantom," the voice commands again. Ember lunges with a roar and I push her off again. I refused to do so, to hurt the only comfort I've had in what had to be days. The band shocks me at a higher frequency, and Technus flashes in my mind.

"Just do it!" The voice shouts at me, and I continue to step away while holding at by burning arm. Ember attacks again while I'm vulnerable and I push her off using the static shocks. She stumbles back, clutching her chest and looking at me. My eyes meet hers in turn and I see a spark of the old Ember I knew.

She begins singing her lullaby as the band shocks harder, making me unable to join in the song she singing. I'm comforted by her voice as the commanding one continues to try ordering me around. The pain gets worse as Ember gives me a sad smile. She grabs the arm with the band and holds her fingers under it.

"Live on for us, Babypop, okay?"

She destabilizes in front of me, ectoplasm splattering all over my black jumpsuit. It leaks all over and I'm at a loss for words as her aura fades from my sense. The shocks had stopped and everything had gone quiet. All I could do was stare at the ash and ectoplasm staining the walls.

Feeling returns to my body, and I fall to my knees, getting more ectoplasm to dirty my jumpsuit. It's been forever since I was human last, the band inhibiting my power to change back. Even as a ghost, I'd never felt this cold. What the hell had I done to deserve this fate?

My eyes find their way to the ceiling as I sing my half of Ember's Lullaby. Hopefully the world of nonexistence still holds her dreams of fame and fortune. The ectoplasm continues to to stain my white gloves as my glare hardens at the ceiling. I feel my fists clench and anger fill my mind to cover up the grief.

"Are you happy now?" I hiss at the voice who had commanded me to kill her. The numbing shock of sleep hits my core and I'm out like a light in the seas of death that surround me.

My nightmares are of people I miss and friends I lost. I'm so choked up, and my throat is so sore with anguish and guilt the whole time I sleep.

When I had first awakened here, I could speak. Tell jokes and stories. Laugh, cry, yell and shout. My voice as a hero was one of my most powerful weapons. My ghostly wail was my most powerful attack in my prime. I could sing, songs and lullabies, tunes and rhymes. Tell myself the memories of the past.

I woke up the day Ember passed unable to make a sound.

My throat was in pain. I coughed, gagged on my own air trying to make a sound, convinced that if I tried any harder I'd choke on my own tongue.

If my tongue was there, that is.

I was in a nightmare, when I'd go to sleep there would be nothing and I'd wake to something missing from me. My family, my friends, my voice.

What else is this nightmare going to take from me?

Chapter 2: Starved

I may have been unable to revert to human form but even as a ghost I still suffered human urges.

Sure, they were dulled by my otherworldly nature, but they still existed. I had no doubt it had been a long time here when I started to become thirsty. The desire to drink was heightened by the pain in my throat from where my tongue and vocal chords had been ripped out.

I tried to beg for water, but all that came from my mouth were puffs of stale, ectoplasm tainted air. Not a squeak or whisper of my voice. I screamed at the ceiling of my cell for water, but no sound could be heard from my dead throat.

My gloved hand found it's way to my neck, rubbing across the sore areas from where it had been cut open, clearly through my mouth. If they had gone through my neck, surely a major artery would be severed since to them I'm just some ghost. Nothing that could have a major artery.

But I do, and my hand found it's way to my slow and sluggish pulse, beating bursts of warmth under my skin that reminded me I was still alive, still human, no matter how remotely. I sighed at the feeling, more soundless air moving past my lips and creating ambience in the cell.

It's silent without my friends. The jokes, the stories, laughing and singing like we weren't all trapped in hell. They weren't so bad when not trying to take over the world. To die twice so untimely right in front of me, ectoplasm still staining the walls around me, it felt so wrong.

Whoever comes in my sleep cleaned my jumpsuit while I was out cold. I could still feel it though, like cold slime, leaking through my gloves and seeping into my core. Still staining my soul. I watched them die, and did nothing. Their ectoplasm was on my hands too, no matter how it gets cleaned off it will always be there.

I could still see their eyes in my mind. Boxy, wide with shock before he exploded, the stain in the center of the room. Technus, so strained, missing his ever present grin while his plasm stained the corner, charred and unrecognizable. Ember was still splattered where I've been sitting the past few days, I hadn't dared to get more of her on my hands then what already couldn't fade.

It was my fault. I wasn't strong enough to protect them. My core seared at the thought. It was my responsibility to protect, and I had failed. All my years as a Halfa, a half ghost, and I had never been so unprepared to deal with it in my life.

Seeing someone die.

Before that point, I thought I was familiar with death. Half ghost, nearly fatal accident, a portal full of restless spirits I faced every day. My very existence was close to death, but never before had I been a witness to it's cruelty.

I stopped people from dying. So young and naive, blinded to the pain Death could bring, but still certain of what I'd heard it could do. What effect it had on the deceased. But the moment was the most horrible, the moment you realise someone is gone, for good.

They say time heals. But in the moment, there is no time. It's wounded you, the blood is fresh and there's no way to comprehend it. It's beyond your control, and it hurts. I had experienced near death before the moments my friends died, but this pain was worse.

The most comprehensive thought in your mind witnessing it is usually how it should have been you, and not the person who you'll never hear again. You deserved it more than them. You're the freak. They were dead once while you were still alive, and you're still living now that they're gone.

I'd seen a world once, where death had driven me to a point of madness. I wanted to make the hurt disappear in that world. It did, and without emotions, I was driven mad by the lingering grief that imprinted on my post human consciousness. My ghost self was driven by the remnants of grief and made evil by the pain it still felt in full death.

I understood why I made the choice in that timeline now. The pain of loosing my cellmates was, in a word, bullshit. I still couldn't bear the plasm on my hands, and those were just enemies turned friends. The mere thought of the pain of my family ending up like them horrified me.

But I had promised that I would never turn into the grief driven monster of another world. I owed it to my family who had to still be looking for you, days and weeks in here be damned. And I owed it to my friends, who I had promised to live for. No matter how desperate, I knew I couldn't give up my humanity, for any pain in the world. Even the pain now.

My hand dropped from my neck, resting in my lap. Silence makes your thoughts loud. Already, I was beginning to forget the sound of my own voice. The fact that my voice had died annoyed me more than caused me pain. There's not much I can do about that now, anyway.

I fall asleep three more times before the thirst in my throat had grown unbearable. Ember wanted me to live on, and there was no way to communicate that I needed something to drink, save for the disrespectful thought in my mind. I was growing desperate to rehydrate now, so I could only hope Ember could forgive me.

My finger dips into the cold slime of her remains, I suppressed a shudder at the feeling. As I move my hand through the ectoplasm, I don't stop shaking. I lift my hand and dip it in again for the next letter, carving another zigzag into what was essentially Ember's carcass. If I didn't think I was ever going to get the plasm off my hands before...

I'd tried to use my ice to make water before, but the chamber was far too cold to melt it, and so was my mouth that consisted of already ice cold ectoplasm. It was more like attempting to melt ice with liquid nitrogen in that sense. So I'd needed to do this in order procure something to drink.

Finishing the job, I sat back and looked at my work. "WATER" was crudely traced into the ectoplasm in front of me, and my tired mind could only hope it was worth defiling Ember's spectral corpse like that. Ectoplasm was on my hands again, reinforcing the cold grief that lay under my gloves. I'm still shaking from when I started writing my plea when the numbing shock of sleep overtakes me.

I dream of the lullaby. It helps me sleep. I'm reminded of times of freedom, when I'd be read bedtime stories and told no ghosts were hiding under my bed. I'd ask, and my Dad would lead me out of the room quickly and make a lot of noise, yelling at a Ghost that wasn't there. Ironically he kept me up later than any nightmare could.

I chuckle at the memory. In my dreams I can still speak. Still hear the sound of my voice. Still remember being young and asking for a glass of water in illiterate tones that hadn't gotten used to speaking yet. I was free when asleep.

But I'd wake up, and something would change. Reality would return, and I'd remember I'm still trapped, waiting to be saved. I held out on dying hope that Dad would burst through the door, guns blazing to save his son, Mom would find the one who captured me and give them hell, my friends and my sister rushing to my aid and helping me home.

Dreams of home were the best. I felt loved at home, even if only halfway. My ghost hunting parents may have hated my ghostly name, Phantom seeming to be the bane of their existence, but they loved me unconditionally when I was named Fenton.

I knew that, and I knew I could never blame them for hurting me as my ghost self because of that. It would solely be my fault for not telling them sooner. It was always easier to put myself at fault, even then, even now.

I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't strong enough. I was irresponsible, rash, hasty, naive. Blaming myself and taking the punishment was so much easier than all the other lies in my life. I may not have liked it, but if I'd learned anything since the accident, it's how to swallow my pride, even if that lesson took a while to truly sink in.

Eventually I had to wake up again. I tried to keep my eyes closed as long as possible and remain asleep, but the soreness of thirst dragged me screaming back into reality. To a world where those screams could no longer be heard. Needless to say, I was reluctant to sit up.

It was the room that changed this time. A bucket was sitting in the opposite corner of the room, and to my utter relief was filled with water. I dipped my hands into the cool liquid and quickly began to savor every drop of the vital substance, the first thing I'd seen that wasn't steel or ectoplasm in so long.

Water was tasteless, but I still found myself savoring every drop that slid down my broken throat. The cold had numbed the pain slightly, and I sighed silently grateful that plea had been heard. Ember had my gratitude again, for such wrong but vital reasons.

The bucket is empty when I go to sleep again, a bit more restful now that I had something to quench my hurt throat ever so slightly. I knew whoever was behind this wouldn't be so merciful again, and if I didn't touch ectoplasm again for the rest of my life, It would still be too soon.

More sleeping, more waking in pain to the citrus smell of ectoplasm in the air, more steel walls and more silence. I get more water once every seven sleeps, and more things continue to happen while I'm unconscious.

I've noticed new scars on my limbs and ectoplasm that doesn't belong to my friends around the room occasionally. It's usually cleaned up by the next sleep while I wake up sore and more tired then when I slept last. It's disconcerting, but it's not like I can voice my thoughts anymore. When was the last time I heard someone speak?

My middle rumbles one day as I grow weaker. Through the soreness of my limbs, I've been able to ignore the pain in my center for quite some time before this point. I was growing hungry now that I wasn't thirsty anymore. Sick realisation hits me.

I can't ask for food.

I was already pushing it with water, but to ask for food? Something very easily convinced me that asking for food would push the limit of what demands I could make. The master of this place would surely refuse to bring me the luxury of something to eat.

I was a ghost to them, after all. Water and ectoplasm could just barely coexist, but a ghost eating food? It would reveal too much about my hybrid nature, and that information is dangerous in very clearly wrong hands. The risks are too high.

Existence of ghost and human hybrids could spread, and the lives lost in manually creating them were too dark a thought. Plus, I could be cloned and have my DNA turned into a powerful weapon no one could control. The wrong person could become a Halfa and turn out like my old nemesis.

No, it was too risky to ask for food and expose myself.

More sleeps passed, and the pain in my gut became harder to ignore. I needed to eat. My flickering gaze soon rests on the slimy ectoplasm all over the floor of the chamber, the citrus smell reminding me of oranges and lemonade, causing me to drool.

I pull myself away from that thought quickly. No, do you know how gross it would be to eat all of that?! Those were other ghosts, your friends! And it's been sitting there for days on end surely and would not be good for your health.

But it's something.

It was a crossroads.

I always hated those stupid morality puzzles, the ones with cars and trains you had to redirect and someone was always going to be hit. My personal answer would be using my ghost powers to phase the vehicles through the people so no one gets hit in the end. I could always cheat the system like that, use my power so no one gets hurt.

This morality puzzle, on the other hand, can burn in hell.

Expose myself as a hybrid and ask for food or eat the ectoplasm of my passed friends. The sinking feeling was barely prominent over my hunger, but still very much there. My fingers gripped at my scalp as my elbows hit the floor, wracking my brain for the best decision.

If I exposed myself as a hybrid, millions of people would be endangered. Experiments to make more, power in the wrong hands, ghosts with human conscious were dangerous. I had the sense in me to know my power was dangerous, and my self control was invaluable to my morals.

Not every poor human the wrong people would force to near death would be like me. Not every clone will be conscious enough to make an effort to be good. Not every new Halfa would be willingly used as a weapon for who is behind this.

My desire to preserve my life and protect the innocent makes the choice so much easier than it ever should have been. I should have hesitated longer, thought of the other half of how wrong this is, never made such a foul decision so easily. But I had made my choice, and there was no going back.

I didn't even have time to apologise before I cleaned my cell.

The smell of citrus fades and I fall asleep. My dreams are riddled with nightmares about what I had just done to survive. It was my choice, and my burden to bear now. There's no turning back now, it's already been done.

There's an animalistic ghost in my cell when I wake next. It lasted about ten sleeps before it was gone without a trace from my cell. I don't even have anything to remember it by. There's nothing for any of the ghosts that appear every ten to twenty sleeps. I beg for their forgiveness in my dreams, where I can speak but still go unheard.

I may be half human, with needs and requirements to my survival, but I don't feel as warm every time I take another ghost out myself. The voice is satisfied with my performance against other ghosts now that I have to kill them to survive. Sick bastard, was sure they were laughing from whatever computer monitor recorded my actions.

I go to sleep after they feed me again.

How do I still have a pulse when I'm not human enough for one?

Chapter 3: Nihilistic

Summary:

The rejection of all religious and moral principles, in the belief that life is meaningless.

There was something weird going on.

I had noticed it when I was drinking my ration of water. It was routine to find the bucket full of clear liquid in the corner, something I would be grateful for having in this harsh place. Water was cool, unlike the cold steel walls. Water was refreshing, and it numbed the pain of my broken throat. I knew I would never forget it's importance in this place.

But, while the cool liquid soothed my sore senses today, something was off. Always waking up in pain, scarred here, the water bucket was always my first stop when I could move again. It was always like that. Drinking my fill, my ration for the day, my water as it had always been, I didn't notice it at first. I had no tongue, I couldn't taste, but water was tasteless anyway, so what did I care?

I started to feel dizzy halfway through the day. After my drink. The sudden spell had caught me off guard, as I had just eaten the night before. I knew I shouldn't be this dizzy from hunger alone this early. It wasn't thirst either, I knew I had my water. Something else was making me dizzy.

In my response to this sudden dizzy feeling, I rationally took the time to lay down and stare at the metallic ceiling until my head stopped spinning. Everything was numb for a good little while, and I remember my chest hurting a vague bit.

Eventually it did wear off, and I find myself feeling nauseous after the fact. Its not like I have anything to puke up, so I mostly dry heaved in the corner for a good long while.

I've been in in constant pain here, with the hunger, the thirst and the scars. Though, I don't recall ever being sick since the accident that had changed me, aside a flu or cold on the off chance. It had to be one tough as nails virus to pierce through my immune system.

Needless to say I haven't vomited in years, so dry heaving in the corner is so far turning out to be hell. It felt like Plasmius had charged up his fire plasm and hit me square in the gut, to be honest. And I didn't like any one of the seconds I sat there, soundlessly pushing ectoplasm and saliva out my own throat.

I fell asleep after that, grateful that the rest would ease the pain and pounding in my brain as unconsciousness took me over.

How long has it been now?

Who the hell cares?

Where's my family? It's been so damn long, but they wouldn't give up, would they? The Fentons would search hell and high water to find their missing son, tear apart the ghost zone at the seams if a ghost had kidnapped me.

Even if they did find me as Phantom, they'd get me out of here and at least torture me in their own lab and not this dump. I'd prefer it, since at least I'd be helping someone I know and trust with ghost stuff. Maybe they'll even find out the truth. It would certainly be better than this.

Where are my friends? If it isn't my family going through hell to find me, then it's certainly my team. Even if any wanted to give up, the others would keep pushing to the end of time to find me. I could trust them to do that, even if it gets them in danger I can't save them from. Stubborn bastards, but I know you're still looking for me, right?

Valerie too, I'm sure. Some disappearing act I pull wouldn't get her to quit going after her revenge. She'd hunt my ghost down like no tomorrow to get her revenge, and at least she would only really pester me for information to hunt other ghosts. The escapade with Dani proved as much, wonder if my old cousin is searching with Val?

Where are my fans? At least they'd have something to say about Phantom disappearing. The media is probably going nuts about the disappearing of their hero, maybe even a bunch of ghosts attacking because I'm not there to protect the town. Is that where everyone is? Saving the town? I couldn't be more proud if that's the case.

Maybe they don't need a hero anymore. They can take care of the ghosts attacking the town without me, right? Maybe they're too busy saving lives to come save me. I can certainly agree with the priority, my life isn't worth the hundreds ghosts put in danger.

I've been here for who knows how long now, and perhaps they just decided to give up? Maybe I'm not worth the effort anymore. I'm just a boy, one boy. A kid from a middle of nowhere town that nobody will miss when things are all said and done.

I'm just a ghost. A falling star that crashed and burned in the ground, before turning to ash and vanishing. The hype around Phantom had certainly been fading slowly with time, and he'll be remembered as a ghost no one could catch, if Phantom is remembered at all.

I'm just a freak. A freak named Danny, which is literally one of the most common names on the planet. What's one less Danny in the seas of others with the same name. What's the loss of the failure of the Fenton family, who can't even do his homework or save the world right?

My entire existence is failure, honestly. I fail at life, I fail at dying, I fail at ghost hunting, I fail at saving the world. I even fail at fitting in anywhere, forced to walk a line only occupied by one of the most self-centered pieces of shit I know. Wonder if he cared enough to look, I doubt it.

In sleep, my thoughts are at their loudest. The doubt sinks in, and it's very convincing when one doesn't have a voice to fight them off with. I've started loosing sight of seeing the point.

Doubts exist because they're a possibility. They could be right, they are right until strictly proven otherwise. Like a screwed up version of looking at the dumb box with the cat in in it, I'm not even gonna bother remembering the name of the guy who owns the cat, who cares?

At least nothing happens when I sleep. I don't feel pain. I don't react. My thoughts are free to dwell on what they want, and I can do what I want without being zapped. I can soar, fly and sing with a voice I can barely remember, echoes of a deeper than average but still adolescent tone. Other voices chiming back. Would I recognize them if I heard them again?

In sleep I'm free. Nothing can hold me in sleep.

But I always wake up. And here I am again, trapped. Surrounded by steel and ectoplasm with no means of escape. No one is coming to save me. I lay on the floor a while longer than when I usually wake up, mentally chasing the fleeting dreams I was just having.

It's useless. Dreams don't exist. Why am I even bothering?

I wonder if I'll see the stars again one day. Maybe for the briefest moments, maybe the sky will open up and soft moonlight will sink in. What I would give to see stars and space again, to fly away and chase the moon to the ends of the earth and beyond.

Again, dreams don't exist. Stop bothering thinking about them.

It takes some time, but I do get myself off the ground. I need a drink after all, and here's hoping my bucket is still there. It is, and again I get to drinking the ration I have for the day. The cool liquid cleanses my throat again, but the feeling of things being wrong return as I down my share.

My chest starts to burn again, the cool liquid suddenly turning to hot fire as I spit at the flavorless air. My grip moves to my chest and I heave loudly, the sound of voiceless coughing beginning to echo. I knew what had happened. I should have known they wouldn't be generous to some freak like me.

They tainted my water.

The bastard decided to poison me using one of my needs. I'm burning with rage as the fire seeps into my core. It was my water, the one thing I had in here that I didn't have to disregard what I stood for, the one element that I had to keep me around in the cold of this hell. And now they've begun to taint it. The fire creeps into my limbs.

My vision blurs and my dreams are dark.

In my head, the filtered voice had returned. They were listing off something. I can barely make out the words "Blood Blossom Extract" and "Plasma Lily" in the fog of semi-consciousness. Blood Blossom syrup in my water? Joy. Part of me wishes the damn flower killed me.

My vision flutters open, and the bucket it across the room from me again. I'm not thirsty. I'm lying. Whatever Blood Blossom Bullcrap they had me drink still has my mutilated throat raw with leftover burns. I really don't want to drink that water though. What did they do this time?

So, I end up avoiding the bucket for as long as I can possibly manage. I rub my throat for the first time in ages, feeling my pulse in my neck. Still alive, still a ghost. Still a hybrid freak that no one cares enough about to come for.

I last three sleeps before the water, if it even is water anymore, in the bucket becomes too tempting to keep ignoring in favor of my own safety. After all, half human freaks still need to drink. What am I even holding out for anyway?

Maybe there is some hope that someone's coming for him? Lest they do find him out in the middle of nowhere as a corpse. That would be depressing for them. It's worth some kind of shot in an attempt to live through this, I guess. I've got nothing else to do in the dark.

With reluctance, I move over to the bucket of liquid that probably isn't water and take a cautious sip. The cool liquid moves down my throat as it once had, and I begin to feel numb as it reaches my center. Yeah, certainly not water, but it's not as bad as drinking literal blood blossoms for the sake of whatever sick science I'm a part of.

Stupid Technus, if it weren't for you I wouldn't be in this mess. I miss you, you dumb bastard.

I find myself mindlessly drinking the whole bucket of fluid, feeling my body grow more numb with every sip. My vision blurs and buzzes at the new and unfamiliar feeling. I register in the back of my mind that I've probably been drugged. Behavioral test, maybe? Again, why the hell do I care?

I remember stumbling around for a bit after the bucket was left empty. Ghost drugs, what a fascinating concept. Are they gonna drug up some of my food before they throw it in with me? Wouldn't doubt that one. Who knows what else they're going to put in me, huh? I'm probably going to ingest a whole bunch of illegal chemicals over the next few sleeps.

Well, at least it hasn't killed me yet. If killing me was their goal, I'd have died to the blossoms last night. Studying the effect of blood blossom on ghosts in detail? That makes more sense. Don't put it passed professionals to professionally fuck you up with a million different things.

I'm right about them drugging my food though. Ten sleeps later when food does arrive, I'm seeing a bunch of random colors when I'm done eating. Never was one to be interested in psychedelic drugs, what would mom think if she saw me right now?

I think I see her in the corner of the color trip I'm on. She looks all pouty and disappointed. I can practically hear her scolding me for ingesting drugs like this and ruining my health and future. I can only chuckle at the illusion of my mother and her sternness in short, breathy laughs.

What future?

Chapter 4: Isolation

Things had started to blur when my food and water started to be tampered with.

I could barely keep track of when I was awake, asleep or dreaming. The colors would fade in and out, swirling and making me sick, and then I would lay on the ground and wait for it to stop. Not that it would help much, even on the ground my head is on an unending tilt-a-whirl.

When was the last time I was at an amusement park? I'm sure my friends were there. Though with ghost powers I could usually take myself on my own thrill rides with flying.

The faces of my friends are starting to blur with the steel walls at this point. Black hair, Sam. Red berets, Tuck. Long red hair, Jazz. My friends, who I haven't seen in forever. I'm sure they stopped looking by now, we've been over this.

The elusive Phantom disappeared, and no one batted an eye. He's just another ghost.

I usually kill my food before it has the chance to speak. Let it be as silent as I am. I'd rather not feel the guilt of eating something that speaks, so I don't let it. It's easier that way, so much easier to pretend they have just as much a chance at freedom as I do.

I still hear the voice now and again. In my dreams, I think I recognise it from somewhere. But I can't tell over the filters. Do I know who's doing this to me?

The drugs kick in again, and I realise I don't care if I know who they are. They can bark commands about what they want me to do, see if I care. I don't, not anymore. As long as I don't anyone human, I don't have a need to care.

Though, with my head all fogged up like this, I can still feel something wrong with my core. A deep, gripping pit seemed to form at the center of my chest a long time ago, and it only seems to grow deeper. No amount of tainted drugs seems to be able to rid me of it.

When was the last time I was human? With hair as black as the night I loved, and eyes a dull, normal, living blue that did not glow in the darkness. I haven't felt warm since Boxy left the world, and the spark in my core that let me turn human refused to react to anything.

Any time I tried to transform, the band would shock me. Along with any powers I could use to escape. No invisibility or intangibility. I could fly, but the box contained me. I could fire blasts of energy, but they had no effect on the walls. I could shoot ice of all kinds, try and reach for the blue eyes of my human self, but it would stick there and be gone the next day.

My ghostly wail had been torn away with my voice.

This was the perfect prison. It was ghost proof and derived me of the one cheat I could use in any situation. Real life has no cheat codes. Who had said that? A pot belly and many boring lectures invade my thoughts. I'd beg to differ, life does have cheat codes, if you're me. I've cheated every law in two different dimensions.

But cheaters always pay. I guess this is the price.

It's as quiet as usual, and my thoughts are again loud. What did my voice even sound like again? You don't usually think of the sound of your own voice. It's inconsequential, wether or not your voice sounds like one thing or another, unless others force you think on it too hard. It's something that makes remembering my voice harder.

How many different times did they try to tear my voice from me in my sleep before resorting to a method that would work on a human? I suppose they've been pretty surprised I haven't made a sound since they did that. Guess they found my sense of humour annoying.

Not like they're much better. Filtered out sick bastard definitely doesn't have a sense of humor. I got shocked every time I tried to make a visual joke when they took my voice. Another thing they took from me, piled on top of the fact that I can't laugh, just make huffs of air in a laugh like manner.

I'm not as great a guy without my sense of humour, you know? Looking back on life, I've been a bit of an ass, mostly to other bastards, but that's not really what matters in the long run. I guess it never hit me how bad it was now that I don't have any humour to cover up my problems.

Jokes were my thing, my way to cope. A sharp tongue (gone) and witty banter (impossible) paired up with my actions (That aren't allowed) and my dashing good looks, (I look like shit) I could please a crowd with a good show in a life and death fight. Helps take the "this is to the death" out of it.

I wonder what's funny nowadays. With how fast things can change, I'm sure everyone's laughing about some inside joke without me. I might have found it funny too, if I was there to hear it. Whatever.

I'm curled in the corner after the drugs wear off for the day. My finger is furiously tapping against my thigh, and I think it's piercing the jumpsuit a bit. I'm rocking back and forth out of sheer boredom, glaring over my knees at the adjacent wall for no reason.

I want to leave. I want to get out of here and see my friends and family again, even if they don't want to see me. Just seeing them again and hearing their voices, hearing that they're alright would make me happy.

Happy. What a faraway word. What's it like to feel happy? I can associate the word with a bunch of things. Smells, tastes, touch, sounds and sight. But everything is blurred into fuzzy, background static. It's been forever since I've experienced any of them, to the point where I'm questioning if they ever happened in the first place.

Happiness. It's just as much a delusion as the chance to get out of here. I'm a delusional drug addict no one cares about locked away in a cage, condemned to be a science project for some sicko who wants to study a ghost ten ways to sunday.

I wonder what day of the week it is right now...

It doesn't matter. What does matter doesn't really exist anymore. It's reality, it's what's waiting for me every time I open my eyes. And every time I open my eyes, I'm rudely awakened to the fact that something else has changed, something else is missing from me.

I soon realize my thigh hurts, because my nails have grown long and sharp under my gloves, which grew and adapted to fit around my hands like always. My tapping left a puncture wound, and there's a small trickle of green and red splattering on the floor now, along with a small amount on the offending finger.

I fucking hate Christmas.

I wipe my hand on my black jumpsuit and scuff whatever fell on the floor with my boot as the puncture quickly seals with my unnatural healing. The bright colors vanish as soon as they came, and gray steel is all I can see once again. Hell, black and white make gray, so I don't count as a change of color at all.

I blow my bangs out of my face, white hair surely unkempt by now. I can feel it on my shoulders too, so it hasn't been cut in a long time. I can make blades of ice, but I haven't bothered to cut my hair because it doesn't really matter what length it is.

I remember having a favorite style, but prisoners can't afford to be picky. So I just leave the bangs where they are, still as untouched as day one, and I pull the rest of the white strands behind my head. I don't have anything to his it back with.

If mom were here, she'd fix my hair. Cut off the ends so it wouldn't look like I had a ridiculous mullet like I had requested many times, and brush my hair off to the side of my face, while complimenting how soft and cute the raven strands were.

My hair hasn't been black for a long time. My mom would hate my white hair. She's a ghost hunter, I know she hates all of me like this. When my name is Phantom, I'm her mortal enemy, but when it's Fenton, I'm her most beautiful child.

Too bad my name isn't Fenton anymore. Just some ugly ghost named Phantom. She'd never love this. What I've become. There's not much I can do about that, huh? I miss my mom.

I miss my dad too. The taste of fudge and ice cream when he isn't busy. He's loud, but he's passionate, joyful, and has quite the infectious smile if you aren't all stuck up about those sorts of things.

I still see those smiles in my dreams, clinging despratly to the memory so I don't loose sight of my father's smile. I miss them so much.

I bring my hands to my face. My nails poke painfully into my skin, but I hardly care about it. My gloved hands cover my eyes, and for a moment I forget the walls are gray. I can now pretend they're white with my gloves filling my vision.

It assures I know who isn't behind this. Those white suited bastards wouldn't let a shade darker than pale moonlight into their facilities. No, the walls are too dark in color for those jerks to be involved, and they certainly wouldn't leave ectoplasm everywhere.

I move my hands along my face, but a sharp jolt from my brandished arm foces me to pull them away, the stinging scars now marring my face from where I was holding my head. I look up at the ceiling, where I can always hear the foul voice come from.

"Don't do that Phantom," it scolds, anger in the filtered tone. "You'll claw your eyes out."

I glare, brow furrowing as I drop my hands. What do they care anyway? Certainly not about my wellbeing if they keep drugging my stuff and hurting me in my sleep. I'm sure they wouldn't give two shits if I tore out my eyes, or lost a limb, or knocked myself out for once.

That's just doing their job for them, though. I wrap my hands around my legs, feeling my claws puncture my thighs again. It'll heal. The sharp fangs that have grown in my mouth puncture my lip as I bite down on it. That'll heal too.

I so badly want to shout back at the voice. Demand my freedom. Demand my family. Demand to see anyone other than a ghost I have to eat or hear a voice that isn't heavily filtered and giving me commands like an animal. Demand to take this band off so I don't get electrocuted again.

But, they took my voice from me, so all I can do is glare. Sit there and glare. Take the orders, take the punishment, force the drugs in the substances they feed me down my silent throat.

No amount of time I've spent there has healed that. My voice is gone for good. And with all the powers they let me keep, I have nothing to fight with. I've got nothing. I've got no one.

There's a numbing shock in my arm once again. Time for bed, I guess. I flop over on one side and close my eyes, letting the numb feeling crawl up my arm and feeling consciousness fade. The voice speaks in a demented tone before I fade.

"Tommorrow is a big day, Phantom. And you won't be pretending to sleep this time."

The hole in my chest constricts my heart before I finally sleep.

Chapter 5: Torn

Summary:

THIS IS THE VIVISECTION CHAPTER!

The following two chapters are going to be dark and bloody, ok? Read at your own risk, but enjoy as I finally lead up to the climax of our little tale....

When I returned to consciousness, I could feel the restraints on my wrists.

Cold metal pressed into my back as always, but I knew I was on an angle. Gravity had shifted, tilting me slightly as my arms felt numb from being pulled and my legs dangled in the air without will of flight.

I can feel my head spinning. There's nothing in me this time as I already feel sick from the usual withdrawal that comes with untainted waters for a few days, and the angle I'm sitting on does little to calm my lurching stomach.

The cold steel room comes into focus once more. I wince, holding back bile in my throat, feeling it burn. Still here, trapped in the nightmare that is reality.

Please put me back to sleep.

There's an unfamiliar creaking noise across the room. The groaning of metal scraping against itself causes me to cringe at the awful sound. And for a moment, I'm blinded.

Light. Real, actual light from the outside world leaks into my cage for the first time. The bright whiteness makes me want to close my eyes, but despite the sting I can't look away. I refused to loose this precious moment behind closed eyelids.

I see a figure in the doorway, a familiar frame. A shape I had so longed to see but I'm sure had almost forgotten. Hope fills my cold and broken heart when I see the figure walk in. She came to save me, she came to save me!

Looking like an angel, bathed in light, is my mother. She'd finally found me! I couldn't wait for her to scoop me into her arms and carry me home. I'd see my family and friends, and I'd be home again, loved and cared for. I'd be free soon.

The change in tone hits like whiplash.

The heavy steel door closes behind mom, bathing us both in cold darkness once again. She continues to approach the table, a sinister glint in her eye. I quickly remember what form I'm in, and begin to beg her to let me explain.

"It's me! It's me! Mom, it's Danny! You have to listen to me!" I cried with all my might. And although my thoughts are loud, not a sound leaves my lips. Not a peep, a hint of my old voice as she continues to advance on my prone form. I shout and I plead, but no sound comes.

Just.

Empty.

Air.

I cough and gag, doing my best to get her to listen, to reconsider, to stop. She still doesn't respond, and I begin tugging on the restraints. I rattle the chains and violently struggle against the bonds, shouting a soundless plea for freedom.

A gloved hand forces me against the table, and the air is pulled out of my lungs. I'm given a cold, unfeeling glare from my mother, one I cannot refute. Even in this chamber alone, she still holds her authority over me.

"Don't think of trying that again," she spits at me, like I'm lower than dirt. I am, I always knew I was. But, something about her affirming my thoughts made it hurt so much more. I'm pulled into a mental silence at that, and even my loud mind goes blank.

She brought a cart with her, I observe. It's lined with glowing blades of many shapes and sizes, causing me to go tense. My memories are flooded all at once, of what my parents would do if they ever caught me.

Stark realizations fill my mind. If she's here to do what I dread her to, then is she behind everything else? My breath is lost once more.

I could always deal with blaming myself. My fault, my mistake, me screwing up. But right there, in that moment, my mother standing over me with a greusomly sharp blade and memories of hurt, silent, screaming in this hell, I find that I can't.

I can't blame myself this time. The thought terrifies me more than the blade over my chest. This isn't my fault, my mind screams at me. It's not, and this time, I can't blame myself like always. I can't just take it because I know it's false.

I know it's her fault now.

And, I'm not as angry as I thought I'd be. I thought blaming my mother for all this would make me furious with her. But, I'm just numb as I sit there, giving her the blame for this. No, not angry at her at all. Just disappointed, I guess.

The irony of me sounding like my mother is lost right now though. I'm brought back to the blade over my midsection, looking my mother in the eye as she holds it over me. I'd expected better from her. Like she would figure it out by now. Can I blame her for not figuring it out? Might as well, while I'm at it.

"Stop looking at me like that," she growls, moving her hand to push my head against the table. I hear the crack of my skull hitting the steel, a sound I'm all too familiar with. I lean back, accept it. This is the end, I guess.

I wonder if she'll use what she learns from this to save the world. It seems to be the only hope I have here, as this was sure to be my fate from the beginning. Predetermined to be a lab rat in a steel cage.

And all I can think is why. Why did it have to be me, confined in this place for days on end, forced to endure tortures that destroy my moral code, only for it to end like this?

"Ghosts don't feel pain, stop shaking like you're afraid," Maddie speaks again. Her tone is just as bitter without the filter. I can tell now, it's obvious it was always her. She'd never take my name, Fenton or Phantom.

"I've always hated how much you remind me of my son," the words are filled with finality, and the ghost scientist brings the blade down on my chest.

The pain is sharp. I'd been sliced by many blades in my prime, ghost and human alike. The sounds are always the same. The tearing of fabric permeating the air, the feeling of something so deeply wrong, the urges to scream your lungs out, instant awareness and dizziness mixing at the same time.

My eyes are wide and my mind is blank to nothing but pain. My throat is raw, mouth so very wide, but also so very silent. The otherwise swift slice through my very being takes an eternity, as it's followed by another, and another.

"Stop pretending it hurts," Maddie chides, finishing the Y shaped incision. The pain in my chest continues to sting at the same intensity, not an ounce of pain leaving my fresh and bleeding wounds. My eyes sting too, so lightly in comparison to my chest-

She grabs the folds of skin, so neatly aligned as she had just cut. The pain increases and i want to wake up. Get me out of this nightmare, please! I'm begging, someone, anyone, don't let me see this! Don't let me feel this, I don't, I can't...

My thoughts are cut off again at the sound of a sharp gasp. It's not my own this time, and I catch sight of my mother. Her hands are coated in blood and ectoplasm, surely all mine. Where else would it have come from? Her eyes are wide too, disbelieving.

She drops one of the flaps of skin, the pain still very present, and lifts her goggles, revealing wide, violet eyes that take in the scene before her. I find myself daring to look, even though I know what I would see. I just never thought I'd actually see it.

I turn off to the side and retch of the table, previously swallowed bile coming up again. Mom looks just as sick as I feel when I turn back to her, as she drops the other half of me, covering my insides from both our view. The pain is still very hot and present.

"What the hell are you?" Maddie whispers. Looking back on it, I'm guessing she was expecting to find some matrix of ectoplasm, not a fully functioning human body just coated in the stuff. I don't care now, it's karma in my opinion.

The table restraints drop and I fall unceremoniously on the floor at her feet. The motion is followed by a sickening splat as I land in my own blood and ectoplasm that had pooled on the floor. Maddie takes a step back, and another.

I may not be the scariest ghost, but I sure spooked you, huh?

I hear mom run for the door, scraping metal hitting my ears, making the pain worse. The pain is so much worse, so terrible. I can barely breathe as I struggle to keep my chest together, to keep my innards from falling out.

I leaned on the edge of the table, whimpering and crying as I pleaded my healing to fix what had been torn apart against my will. I want to sleep, I just want to sleep away the pain and never have to see anything like this again.

I realise with horror that the band on my arm is gone.

It's not there to put me to sleep. My breathing gets ever so impossibly faster. Without the band, I can't sleep. I'll be stuck in reality, with my own mother to experiment on me until the day I die. What's one Vivisection going to change about that?

My mind is panicked, my breaths ragged and everything is in pain. I hate reality. I hate it so much, these gruesome images stained in my vision. I want my family back now more than ever. I want my mother to love me again. But that won't happen here, in this world.

Not while I'm awake.

I find my gaze raking over my hands. Clawed, unkempt, monstrous. Sharp as I had made them out of sheer boredom, as there had been nothing in this hell. Words continued to swirl in my brain, messy. No coherent thought to be found.

"You'll claw your eyes out."

Mom's voice, filtered but still recognisable, fills my head. My hand tenses at the words in my brain, and I find myself flexing my fingers. I clench and unclench my fist.

"Ghosts don't feel pain."

I feel my breathing slow. The pain in my chest is pushed to the back of my mind as I continue to examine my hand. How many ghosts had I torn apart with this hand? How many afterlives had I ended for my own survival?

"What the hell are you?!"

A freak. A nobody. Some hybrid no one could ever truly love or care about. I was abandoned in hell where I belong and tossed to those who might find some use for a sick freak like me.

"Ghosts don't feel pain."

The mantra repeats. I turn my hand palm up, and I flex my fingers again. I put my hand on the ground and rake my nails across the metal floor. Deep scratches embed themselves in the metal, and I pick my hand up again, seeing the flecks of what I picked up fall through my fingers.

This reality. I can barely stand another minute of it. I already feel the pain in my chest returning, and everything seems hazy. I'll soon be subject to something else, something I can't stop.

I have no will here. I have no voice here. I have nothing. Just the fact that one day, when she's done with me, I'll die here. Alone. With nobody. Like it had been as long as I can truly remember.

But there is a world that exists without the will of reality oppressing me.

A world that has my friends. Sam, Tucker, Valerie, Ember, Technus, Boxy... Smiling, laughing, eating food that isn't made of ectoplasm and full of warmth.

A world that has my family. Mom and Dad, Jazz and Dani. We all have each other, and not a thing could tear us apart. It's a world without steel blades and full of acceptance.

A world that has my fans. With love and cheer as I take on any for before me, singing to the masses undefeated once again, and it's a world filled with love.

It's a world that could never exist in reality. Only in sleep, only in faded memory. But soon, I'll be able to bring that world here, and twist whatever I want into the truth. And reality will never again be able to open my eyes to itself.

I bring my hand to my face, and despite everything, I grin. Wide and fanged. Crazed and monstrous, like the hybrid freak ghost that I am, after all.

I laugh silently.

"You'll claw your eyes out."

Well, I better get started, then.

Chapter 6: Blinded

Notes:

Graphic Depictions of Violence!!

Plunging my claws into my head, I was expecting pain.

Pain is what I get, yes, but there's something more than that though the numb feelings in my mind. The smile on my lips grows as I dig deep into the left side of my face, my horrid, awful, freakish face, and continue tearing. Ripping it out, pulling and scraping at the socket, feeling my flesh tear and moving my hand along the bone of my skull.

The feeling is euphoric. My grin has reached the eyes I so desperately rip, already feeling darkness as I do the deed myself. My breaths are ragged, and I have trouble taking in air through my chuckles. My silent, voiceless chuckles.

The chuckles build as I feel something dangling from my skull. I tear at it without hesitation, my chuckles devolving into the laughter of a madman. Laughter not a soul could hear. I feel warm, so very warm in my self created world, and light.

I feel heavy, the cold slime on my hands feels warm. I think not of it. My job is only half done. I can still see. I ignore the warmth in favor of the task at hand, reaching the world beyond reality. And I can't do that if I can see.

The scraping of metal interrupts my thoughts again. I hear rushed footsteps. I hear someone call my name, a familiar voice. I can't let her draw me back in, she'll only continue to torture me. That is the reality, and I will escape it's prison.

When was the last time I was called Danny, anyway? I only answer to Phantom.

I see her shadow over me, and I look up at her with my one remaining eye. The other had splattered sadly on the floor with my ectoplasm. It was red somehow, I thought ectoplasm was green. That doesn't matter, she doesn't matter.

She's as pale as a sheet, like someone had sapped all the life out of her as she looks over my prone form. I continue to stare at her with my good eye, my smile still wide. Isn't this what you wanted? You hate Phantom. You hated how much I reminded you of your son.

Your son is dead, Maddie. I'm just his post human consciousness, nothing more.

Still looking at you, with my smile as wide as my face, I lift my pale, clawed hand once again. I breifly wonder where my glove had gone, wondering if you pulled it off for your next experiment. My good eye looks between you and my hand, and I'm still smiling.

You're calling me Danny. But I don't answer to Danny. There is no Fenton, only Phantom. The one you loved unconditionally is gone, and all that is left is your immortal enemy. You should be happy I'm doing this, so why are you begging me to stop?

I'm not listening to you. I'm not your son. Fenton died a long time ago. I just finished deluding myself, again. Half human? What a joke. You said it yourself, humans can't have ghost powers. Ghosts don't have heartbeats. Humans feel emotions and pain, ghosts don't feel anything.

I don't feel anything.

I move to tear into my other eye, but you grab my hand. You force my grip down with all your might, looking me in the good eye and screaming at me to stop. You don't have any authority in my world. After all, you're only human.

I phase out of your grip, using the power painlessly for the first time. There is no shock, the band is gone. My smile grows impossibly wider, and I bring my hand up to my face again.

Shouldn't you be happy? You ran your tests. You captured the infamous Phantom. You caged me here for what, two and a half years? Yes, that's what you told me. It all seemed to blur so quickly by, with me being asleep for most of it.

I'm looking right at you. The blurred memories of reality whispering in my ear. The ectoplasm, the pain, the substances and the isolation. After this, I'll never see any of it again. And then, once this world is ended, I'll be able to see you as happy again.

I'll be able to see you as Fenton again. You'll smile at me, and you'll love me. And Dad will be there too. Jazz will walk in with some psyco-babble of some kind or another, and we'll live as one big happy family again. No more reality. No more Phantom.

Just me, and the world I want.

I plunge my hand in, and I hear you scream. You're grasping at my arm again, trying to pull my hand away from my face, but I use my power over you to finish my job. The darkness comes almost instantly, and I welcome it with open arms.

I push you off, and finish my work. There's a splatter on the floor, signalling the terrible sphere is out of my skull. Now you'll never have to see my eyes again. Aren't you happy? I hope I made you happy.

You can keep experimenting now, uninterrupted. While you forward your ghost research, I can dream. I can dream of my voice and enjoying an evening out at some fast food restaurant with my friends, and almost, just barely, taste something again.

I helped, didn't I? So why are you crying? I don't understand that part, but I'm sure you'll be happy soon. I know that I am, finally seeing black instead of a cold, steel gray. There is nothingness, and I couldn't be happier as my loud thoughts take their command.

In my mind, I'm home. I'm safe. I'm warm and human and you're hugging me. Everyone is there with me, and I can just see the smiles. They missed me, I'm here now. I missed them too. I return your hug, and pretend that I can speak.

I'm free from the nightmare in this darkness. My smile fades, but doesn't disappear. I'm so relieved, so glad that its over. There's no more reality, just us, in the echo of my mind with memories that haven't been seen in over two years.

You're lifting me in your arms. You're still crying, I guess you're relieved to see your son again. No more Phantom, just like you wanted. And just like this, you can love me again, unconditionally. All of it was only a bad dream, and the darkness of sleep means I'm awake.

I snuggle against your chest. I missed your hugs, ever so much. You grip on to me tighter, sobbing harder for reasons I still can't seem to understand. It doesn't matter. I'm here now, and Phantom is gone, still stuck in some cage for you to play with.

I hope he stays there forever. No one liked him anyway, right? Just some ghost that was too selfless for its own good. He's going to rot there forever, and make you happy with everything you'll learn from his smoking remains, I can tell.

We're still moving. You put me down. I imagine a soft surface, like a bed or a couch. There's the roar of some engine, but you're just as silent as I am. Is it a car, or a machine designed to test something on me? I can't tell right now, I'm still adapting to the darkness.

I want to tell you everything about my nightmare, even if you can't hear me. I don't speak, I can't speak, so I understand if you can't hear what I have to say. I'm sure you wouldn't want to hear it anyway, but I want it off my chest, now that you love me again.

My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I continue anyway, regardless. I learned to stop caring about that in the nightmare that was reality.

While everything around us moves, and the whirring of some unidentifiable engine continues in the background, I start from the top. I recount the story with my silent voice.

My fight with Technus, the capture, how much the electricity hurt. The stories that my friends shared, the songs we sang and the games that we all played together when I knew we weren't going to get out.

I told you of the experiments I remember, how you commanded me in a voice I couldn't recognize, and how my human needs could ruin everything. I don't know if you're listening, after all I can't see in my new world and have to imagine you are, even if you're muttering under your breath about what you might have found now.

Yes, you're listening, like I want you too. Thank you.

Anyway, by the time I've finished, you've begun holding me in your arms again. You carry me somewhere, with the familiar scent of ectoplasm. But its masked by other things I could barely recognize.

I smell fudge, predominantly, and other things that hit my nose all at once. I wonder which experiment in reality requires these sorts of smells and what's making them. But, I'm quick to forget the steel walls again and continue imagining my world.

I can hear Dad. He sounds overjoyed, worried and horrified at the same time. Familiar, yet unknown arms take me up after you hand me over to them, and I'm rushed at a faster pace across the room. I still have no idea what's going on, but after what happened last in reality, I don't want to know.

"We have to sew the sockets shut, or else they'll keep bleeding, just like his chest," I can hear my dad in my dreams. "Dear God, Mads! What happened to our son??"

I hear you stuttering. No answer? It's fine. Join me in my world, mom. Why not pretend like I am right now? It's so much easier. Just close your eyes and forget everything real exists.

I feel cold again, pulling at a spark in my chest. I hear a gasp near my head and suddenly the room is filled with arguing. Arguing about me, and it's a grim reminder that Dad being here and accepting me isn't actually real. I try to ignore it.

I don't like my parents fighting, but there are just some memories I can't stop, even in my world. Arguing over Fenton and Phantom. Like there was no Danny in front in the first place. Was there ever, I wonder? Danny and Fenton are both such faraway names.

A third voice enters the argument, and I vaguely recognize my sister's voice in my personal world. I feel a hand push me against the table, before multiple pricks begin to hit my chest again, ragged breathing all around me.

"Danny? If you can hear me, please turn back into a human.... show me you're still alive..." I hear my sister call. I try to comply, knowing it would be pointless. I can't transform in reality, but I imagine the lost warm spark in me anyway.

A sigh, and then the pricks that were on my chest move across my face, something being pulled in and out of me. The sensations stop after a terse and silent minute, and I feel some sort of fabric wrapping my center and head.

"Danny, please be okay. Are you ok?" Jazz asks me. I smile at her direction, even though she's not actually there.

"He can't answer," I hear you, mom, whisper the words. "I tore out his tongue and vocal chords two years ago to get him to stop the awful singing with the... the other ghosts. That was over two years ago now, and he hasn't made a sound since..."

There's more silence. I keep smiling at the voices in my world, so crisp and clear now that I had all the time in the world to hear them. I still smile, drinking in the silence that had always been there. Already the cold cage felt warmer and more spacious.

I hear Dad again. "It's going to take a long time to recover from this. There's going to be a lot of talking, a lot of exposure to things none of us thought we'd ever have to deal with. It's going to be dark, and ugly for sure. But we're going to make this work, and we're going to be a family again."

And that is why I love my new world.