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unstitch that shed-off soul

Cliff kills the rats and doesn’t know why.

He’s angry, his anger rusting him, cruelly covering the entirety of his (tiny) “body” —- this cannot be called a body. What he is now—--especially now, now that he is so small—-is something like a wraith, something with no attachment to impacting this world despite remaining in this world willingly; a victim of the universe. A ghost skipping through cycles of the past like a glitching vinyl record. Something that wants to spread out, to stretch its presence, but is tied down and limited.

But he still doesn’t know why — why he was fated to end up here in the first place. He’s not religious often, but he knows that God must hate him. If only he had been kinder, if only. If only he had been better, if only, maybe this wouldn’t have happened to him.

God. Niles Caulder took control from God’s gentle hands and placed them around Cliff’s neck—-not only his neck but around Larry’s neck, Rita’s neck, Jane and Vic and Kate and Clara and

and

and.

Niles Caulder manipulated fate, using Cliff’s life with the same consideration to that of a chess piece. Niles Caulder falsely made himself God, dethroning his predecessor in unthinkable violence. Cliff wants to kill him. He deserves to die, to suffer like Kate and Clara and he did. It would be a balance of justice.

Larry had somehow managed to craft him a tiny, sharpened dagger. To defend himself, he proposed, but Larry didn’t care about the reason; he wanted to help, to feel useful. Cliff appreciates that.

Cutting apart a rat is much easier when you’re over six feet tall. But, he supposes, the robot fingers are less of a problem at this size; while the action is time-consuming, it is not necessarily difficult. He’s able to carve into its neck like it’s instinctual, like this kind of mutilation is in his nature, in the coding of his brain. Briefly, a flash-spark of cerebral activity: I’m just like him, he thinks—-this is an acknowledgement, not a paranoia. His father. His goddamn father. The rat makes a splashing noise; he’s pressing the knife in a bit deeper than he intended to. Sprays of blood tarnish his body. He has to do this.

There isn’t much of a difference between RJ Steele and Niles Caulder; the only contrast is the fact that Niles was capable of hiding his monstrosity. I don’t know what happened to us — a snap! of fragile bone —- I’m going to — more blood, only blood — be better.

The jaw of the rat should be removed, he decides, to give his head a place to rest. Bone is tough, but Cliff is harder, Cliff’s intensity burns beyond recognition. So - he places the dagger at the right side of the jaw and slides it underneath the skin and pictures the jaw of Niles Caulder underneath his weapon in the rodent’s place. It is a horrible coping mechanism, but Cliff has never had a firm grasp on healthy coping mechanisms. He hasn’t even touched it with his fingertips. He’s just like—-

He peels the skin off of Nile—- the rat’ s jaw slowly, like peeling back fruits that have been forbidden, like peeling back the same skin of an animal slaughtered for its meat. It’s barely pink underneath the shreds; instead a deep, dry maroon. When animals are slaughtered, he thinks, they are slaughtered for a reason, and their bodies are used for nourishment.

Why the fuck is he killing these rats? This is the first time he’s thought of using any part of the rat’s body, and it’s simply for petty reasons. He could take the bone and fashion it into something useful — furniture, maybe, decoration for the dreariness of the plastic racetrack. He could use the fur to create blankets; he’s heard Jane complain about the cold recently. He could have an excuse for killing the rats that goes beyond a flesh-shredding anger.

But showing Niles that he can be fulfilled by cruelty is more important. He knows that this line of thinking is pathetic, renders him pitiful and sad, but he’s never been able to reach past the label of pathetic (his actions, betraying Kate, repeating the cycle—-) and there’s no way to start trying now.

He finishes removing one layer of skin and steps back to assess his work. It’s grotesque. The state of this corpse is horrific; it should disgust him.

He can only see Niles Caulder’s face in front of him, frozen on a head severed. He isn’t that kind of person. He was always that kind of person. He—