Despite the strong urge to roll over, because being on his front with Mattie's weight previously drilling him against the hard flooring made him achy with what little sense he could recall, Nicholas stayed on his stomach. Arms outstretched, palms against the floor, as well as his cheek pressed miserably against the wood, he stared at the drab wallpaper in his line of vision until his eyes were unconsciously closing. "You fucking suck," he groaned, fingers curling his hands into a fist before they relaxed again.

The only thing the stripping of his skin had succeeded in doing was spread the blackened, lightning-strike portions to the fresh wounds. Abnormally orange-ish red ichor was flowing from the newly-sliced sections of his back, the edges turning papery and dark, like burned wood. It burned like it, too. A sharp, icy-hot sensation where the knife had been digging into his skin, as if the blade had been heated in a forge before use.

Sparks spit out of his fingertips, skipping across the floor until they bounced against the wall like sentient little fairies and dissipated. There was a heavy, nauseous feeling in his stomach as he was becoming increasingly aware of every sense. Hearing, feeling, tasting, sight -- it was all coming back sharply, and he was trying to will them away again to no avail. The distinct memory of being trapped inside of his own subconscious was coming back as well; every awful and euphoric feeling in his own mind that had been mixed together in one terrible, god-awful concoction as Alice had spoke to him about... What did she speak to him about? That part of his recalling was hazy.

"Where's Jacob?" he muttered against the floor, eyes opening to a blurry wall.