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He can feel the mold creeping up his hands. It’s silly, really, to be so scared. He had a cup in his room that had filled with mold after he’d forgotten about it for a couple months. He cleaned it thoroughly and ran his hands and the cleaning supplies under boiling water. It’s fine now. It’s fine. It should be fine. But he’s sitting on his bed and he can feel the mold. Can feel it in the air. In the crevices on his palms. In the sponge he used. In the water that splashed on the counter as he cleaned. In the sink. In everything he’s touched. In his hair. His eyes. His mouth. His skin.
He cleaned it, but he can still feel it. He tried reading, listening to music, doing his homework, studying, but nothing can get the image of all-consuming mold out of his mind’s eye. Such a silly thing. Yeah, if he hadn’t cleaned it right, it could spread a little, but he doubts it’ll come to that. Worst case scenario, the cup still has some spores and all the dishes need to go for a boiling hot bath. Darry may be a little mad, but he’s been getting better about not yelling. He’ll understand. So why is there a yawning emptiness in Pony’s chest? His head? His veins? It’s like there’s nothing inside him but dread and fear.
Soda would know what to say, how to ease his overactive imagination. Darry would know how to fix it, how to make it go away. But maybe they wouldn’t. He bends his wrists back, rolls them, and imagines his veins bursting under his skin. He shudders and brushes his hair out of his eyes. Mold is growing in his hair and eyes. Shaking his head, he tries to focus on anything else, but image after image comes into his head. Him having a heart-attack. His knee dislocating suddenly. Him cracking his neck and snapping something. Mold on his tongue. His eyes going red because he burst a blood vessel. A car accident. A school shooting.
He used to be able to fix it with little rituals. Deals. If I stop breathing for 30 seconds, the drive to school will be safe. If I don’t move for 10 seconds - blinking and breathing included - then I won’t die in my sleep. If I play by the rules, or outsmart them, then I’ll be fine. But that was when Pony was 6, 8, 10, 12, 13, and still believed that logic could outrun death. That he could keep away the demon watching him, and the ghost that hides in the cracks, and the unlucky spirit that smiles a too-wide smile. Now, he knows better. No amount of logic could change the outcome, should Pony be unlucky enough. Mold will grow in his hair. His eyes will burst. His knee will dislocate. His heart will stop working. His school will get shot up. His parents died in a car accident.
No one can save him.
Pony stares ahead of him, barely processing anything other than the feeling of the veins in his wrist bursting, and mold growing on him.