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When Ada uses her power on him, stares into him with those empty sockets that he'd once called beautiful– Montresor can't help but feel like he's going to throw up, like the hellfire burning ever-present inside of him is spilling up, out of his throat, burning his hands and his chin and the floor as it drips down. It feels so real– whatever else is happening is secondary, as his throat is set ablaze with unholy flame.
It's not true, of course– not that his mind can tell the difference, cold words crooned too-sweetly against his ear– you've had the devil inside you since the day you were born–
..he wants to throw up. More than hellfire, this time, more than the vicious, vile words that his head swims with– are they curling around him, now? Somehow the arms he feels are worse than the words, squishing against him, cradling him like he's still a child– like he's the hellspawn that she once called sweetling, "my treasure," her precious bundle of joy now warped and malformed with no one but himself to blame. Tainted, perverted, a sweet babe whose innocence had been willfully shed.
He hates this.
Hands reach up and grasp him– burning into him, branding him, like he's no better than cattle– livestock, evaluated and traded, sold to the highest bidder.
Whatever words he has to counter their hatred die on his tongue– he feels like he says them, knows he's screaming, but everyone around him keeps fucking talking– depraved, horrible, good-for-nothing, tainted.
It makes him want to rip their tongues out– so he's vicious, so he's vile, so he's a dangerous lunatic– he'll show them all that and more.
When her gaze tears away, the visions still swim behind his eyes– Will's arms around him, lifting him, tighter than a vice. The swadling, the cradling was bad– this is worse, close and intimate, Ada's arms draped around his shoulders which he feels in his throat.
The night is worse.
Arms on his shoulders, hands on his thighs and his stomach and the small of his back– his legs are trapped, he can't move them no matter how hard he strains–
..he wakes with sheets tangled around his legs, cold sweat sticking his hair to his neck. Prospero hasn't woken up from whatever noise he's made– small mercies– but he can't feel relief, when a shrieking screech cuts through the air.
Barely an hour later, he's cowering for his life– spineless, vile as anything, vile as he'd always been told– he'd do anything to save his own skin, but the teeth in his leg somehow hurt less than the phantom hands he's been feeling. When he kicks them away, the hands return– less gentle, now, roughing him up, shaking him down for all his miserable life is worth.
Not much, he reckons. Less than the reason he's in this situation– less than the visions, swimming and dancing in front of his eyes.
Later, he decides, Will dying must have been part of the trick– it's been such a long day, a fight hard-fought and hardly won– if anyone could even call this outcome more than mere survival.
Will dying has to have been part of the visions– because he's felt hands and hellfire and the blood is nothing more than that, nothing more than a cruel reminder of his failures, as God or the world or whatever is in control seems so keen on hammering home.
The weight settles on him all the same– true 'dead' weight, a limp body with the warmth of life slowly fading.
It's a strange sensation– when he wakes again, free from fitful sleep underneath the trees– hellfire burning hot in his throat, yet the chill of a body pressing down against his front all the same. Hands wandering about like spiders– gentle touches, so much worse than the cruelty he provokes. Ada sleeping against one side, Will at the other, their warmth refusing to spread to his clammy skin.
It's deserved, probably– Montresor has warmth enough himself, burning and blinding, constantly spat out at everyone in his path.
He can't shake the chill, either way– can't shake the cold breath against his lips, the death rattle reverberating in his ears. Whatever else happens– it's not real, he has to keep reminding himself. This isn't real– maybe none of it is, maybe Nevermore Academy is a hallucination his dying mind had created in his final moments. It's almost kinder, to think that nothing like this could be real– to think that soft bodies leaning against him are figments of his imagination, the very thing that damned him to this personal circle of Hell.
Of course– nothing could be so kind to Montresor.
He doesn't remember when his hands moved– doesn't remember the sharp stones against tree roots, doesn't remember the tired, slurred conversation to situate everyone so no one sat on one– sharp enough to cut, probably not through fabric, but still not comfortable– be careful, try to avoid sitting there– just feels the pinprick of pain, hot warmth pooling in the tips of his fingers.
It's alive, in a way that his brain could never conjure– not the cloying warmth of arms, nor the burning of hands, nor the chill of a corpse– it's real, blood dripping down his fingers, tacky as it dries in the chill night air.
He sits and watches it, for a while. Lets it drip, stain the side of his hand, before wiping it on the grass and repeating again. Something real, something concrete– Montresor can't help but laugh, shoulders shaking with mirth.
The illusion of reality can't last long– in a while, the bodies on his shoulders will stir, shaken awake by shoulders still trembling with giggles. Their shouts of surprise will startle awake more still– a doll with a needle will come over, scold him for injuring himself again, ask what he hopes to gain from his theatrics.
That's not real, though– it never was.