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His mouth felt icky. All he could taste was... blood? Did he bite his tongue in his sleep?
But he didn't feel like he was lying in bed. His hands ran across the surface. It was a sticky kind of wet and hard and was he outside?
Something nearby smelt really good though.
He opened his eyes to a completely overcast sky. That was weird. He sat up, the sudden movement sending a spike of discomfort through him. His arms drew around his middle on instinct. And he blinked in confusion. This was definitely the worst stomachache he could ever remember having, and his belly was slightly swollen and sticky where his pajama top had come unbuttoned. He fingered the edge of it, finding smooth material where the buttons should have been. So much for doing it back up.
But seriously, what the actual heck had he been sleep-doing?
Raising his head, he looked around. He was in the woods by one of the Danville parks? He turned the other direction, eyes immediately catching on what was laying near him.
"Oh go--" The rest of his sentence was lost as he quickly twisted, just managing bend his head before throwing up. The acid burned his throat. His eyes watered but that might not have been do to that. He coughed and spit before taking deep breaths. That had not helped the pain in his stomach. Then he noticed what he'd thrown up and felt like doing it all over again, but all that came were a few dry gags.
That was blood. He had thrown up blood and red-ish chucky stuff that he really didn't want to question. He'd eaten blood. That wasn't normal. And there was--
Oh, no.
No. No. No.
There was body behind him. A dead bloody body with its chest ripped open and--
No! That was not him! He did not eat someone! He couldn't even rip someone's chest open if he wanted to! Not without tools.
He was shaking. He pushed himself back.
Back away from the vomit and the body and the pool of blood that he'd been laying in...
He shook his head. There was no way he'd killed that person. No chance in heck he'd eaten them!
But he could smell them and their blood and their organs, still fresh so soon after death, and it smelt so so good.
There was something wrong with him.
He managed to get to his feet, eyes locking onto what was once a face.
And Phineas ran.
Phineas made it back home. He wasn't sure how, he hadn't even know completely where he'd been, and he hadn't been trying to get home, just away from there.
The backdoor was unlocked, and he went straight for the upstairs bathroom.
The blood was drying on his skin, his clothes, his hair, under his finger nails.
What had he done?
He closed the door, some part of him rational enough to do it softly, and locked it.
Leaning against it, his shaking came back.
He longer he'd run, the more it had sunk that he'd killed someone.
Why would he do that? But he could possibly live with that. He didn't remember anything. They could have possibly done something that he had to fight back about.
Fighting back didn't explain eating them one they were dead.
His hands drifted to his belly, not touching it. He had someone's blood and organs and who knew what else inside him. It was filling him. Made his belly stick out. The discomfort was passing with his mostly stillness, and it was almost becoming comfortable. It was warm inside, and he was fuller than he could ever remember being before. It was almost nice if not for what it was that was making him feel that way.
He moved to the sink, shoving two fingers down his throat. Or tried to. He'd never done this before. He'd never felt the need to do this before. Pulling one finger out, he tried again. He gagged. It wasn't enough.
Why wasn't it enough?
Why wasn't just knowing enough?
He had to get it out.
His hand was in his mouth. He choked and gagged. He couldn't breath. Tears ran from his eyes.
Why wasn't it working?
Why wasn't it working?!
He stopped. Hands gripped the edges of the counter as he spit up in the sink. Swallowing a few times, he wanted water, but his could make his hands move.
His eyes caught his reflection.
There was so much blood.
He looked like a monster.
He was a monster.
He was a cannibal.
What was he supposed to do?
Call the police?
It seemed like a good idea but he was twelve and had eaten someone. They'd put him in an insane asylum or something.
Maybe he should be in one. He couldn't even remember what happened.
What if he did it again?
This was bad. This was so, so bad.
What if he was insane?
He had to be right? People had told him he was, for his idea, his inventions, his jumps in logic, and he way he looked at things, but this, this was different. This was dangerous insane, psycho-murderer type of insane. Maybe.
There was a way to rationalize this. There had to be. People didn't just go to sleep and wake up with cannibalistic intentions. Random green rays from the sky? There could've been a random ray, right?
"Phineas!"
He froze.
He hadn't even heard the knocking on the door. If Ferb was actually calling him it had to have been going on for while.
"Phineas," he sounded worried. "if you don't say something, I'm picking the lock."
He opened his mouth. Visions of Ferb, scared that something had happened to him, barging in, only to see him like this, flashed before his eyes.
There was burning in his throat.
He threw up again.
It hurt.
Bent over the sink, he continued to cough. Bloody spatters fell from his lips with each one.
There was a hand at his back, rubbing circles, and shushing him.
Phineas just tried to breath. He was crying. He didn't know when he'd started.
As the coughing died down, the hand moved, wrapping around his chest, pulling him up some. The water was turned on. A disposable cup pressed against his lips.
"Rinse and spit."
He followed the directions whispered into his ear. They were soft and concerned but not judging or scared or angry. And it wasn't worth fighting.
It wasn't worth fighting when Ferb lowered them both to the floor either. His back pressed against his brother, as Ferb worked wet fingers through his hair, tugging at the matted blood.
"Ferb--" He cut off with a sob.
"I swear, I didn't know." He sounded close to crying too.
"Wha-what?"
Ferb touched his arm, drawing line across his bicep, before pressing his face into Phineas' hair despite the gunk there.
He didn't understand. Having Ferb there was slowly steading him, and he knew what he was referring to, but he didn't understand the connection. He remember messing around the other day. They'd been goofing around, Ferb was pretending to bite him, when Phineas had gotten distracted in the motion of pulling away and Ferb kind of had. It'd been shallow and they'd cleaned it up and that'd been it.
What did that have to do with him going insane?
He pressed back, wrapping himself in his brother. "I don't understand." If his voice shook, he didn't care. "Ferb, I killed someone." There. He'd said it. It was out there. Ferb could push him away now. Do... do whatever had to happen now because Phineas didn't know anymore.
But he sensed no shock from him. And it made sense because he hadn't been shocked by the blood, had he? Did he know something? But he said he didn't know. What didn't he know? "Ferb?"
He could feel the uneven breaths hitting the top of his head. Moving his hair, tickling his scalp. Ferb raised his head but the sensation didn't leave.
"I think-- you," Ferb was stumbling over his words.
Phineas reached for his hand, squeezing it. Whatever he said, it couldn't get any worse, right?
Murder.
Monster.
Cannibal.
"Werewolf."
Werewolf.
Wait.
That was what?
He couldn't stop a slightly hysterical giggle from slipping out. He knew Ferb could have a twisted sense of humor. Did believe in supernatural monsters. But seriously? A werewolf?
But wouldn't that be better?
An actual reason for what he did?
But if he was a werewolf, shouldn't he still be a werewolf? It was still nighttime. Full moon and all.
The bite.
Did Phineas have to point out the glaring issue? "You're not a werewolf."
There was an increase in tension in the body behind him, but Ferb didn't disagree. He muttered something against Phineas' head. The word 'carrier' standing out above the rest.
His brother was a carrier for a supernatural curse that shouldn't exist. The giggle came back with a vengeance, starting quiet, and growing louder. A hand was slapped over his mouth, muffling it. He was shaking. He couldn't tell if it was from laugher or the tears streaming down his face.
He wasn't a werewolf.
He was sick.
He was insane.
There was just something in him that had gone wrong wrong wrong.