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He used to be a scientist, once.
Dressed in a lab coat and black jeans, red sneakers secured on his feet, he would spend hours in the labs, performing experiments and research. It was touch and go, success and failure at quite the same level, but he enjoyed it.
He wanted to discover ways to help the monsters of the Underground, but a small part of him that he doesn’t like to think about also wanted Gaster’s approval. He wanted his father to finally acknowledge his accomplishments, tell him he did a “☝︎︎□︎︎□︎︎♎︎︎ 🙰□︎︎♌︎︎📪︎︎ 💧︎︎♋︎︎■︎︎⬧︎︎📬︎”
He never got that.
W. D. Gaster was leagues above Sans Serif. They never would have even been in the same building.
He would block out his longing spend his free time by tearing through any book he could find laying around the office, flipping through the yellow, weathered pages with the covers barely keeping the books together.
There is one book that he can remember. It was about monster anatomy, each chapter a different guide about each type in the Underground. It was alphabetized for an easy search. They even had skeletons, for as few of them that were there. He thinks Gaster helped to write that part, his name somewhere in the credits.
He doesn’t remember all of the medical jargon- he finds he is starting to forget a lot, these days- but he does remember a section about broken bones. About wrists. He remembers reading that it can take up to three months for an injury there to heal.
He hopes he can remember enough about being a scientist, because he has a hypothesis.
If he breaks his wrist, and it takes about three months for the injury to heal, then he knows at least three months have gone by. He would be able to keep track of time.
But it would hurt. He knows it would, because Papyrus broke his leg once, and he wouldn’t stop crying. Different limbs, but the injuries are close enough.
He sits up from where he lay on the floor of the Anti-Void. He doesn’t know how long, but it’s been some time since the incident with his hallucination. He’s been getting more of them, quick whispers coming from behind and a looming figure in his peripheral.
He hasn’t resummoned his magic yet. He’s scared.
There are more glitches, too. The ERROR signs have spread, and small patches of… static have started to show up as well.
He takes off his sweatshirt and puts it off to the side, the pile of clothing reminding him of what he looks like whenever he dusts. It pulls a slight smile out of him.
It’s not a happy memory.
He rolls up the left black sleeve of his sweater, unwilling to cause further damage to the shirt; it’s the only other thing warming his chilled body, after all. He then unwraps his scarf, laying it on his crossed legs for an easy reach. He’s going to need it soon.
He reaches his right hand up, wrapping his phalanges around his radius and ulna.
He hesitates.
Is he really doing this? Does he need to know the time that badly? Is there another solution that he can think of?
He takes a deep breath and closes his sockets.
He squeezes his hand into a fist.
The bone cracks.
He releases a pained yelp, hissing as he forces himself to not let go. He closes his hand tighter, determined to see this through. He can feel his bones bending under the pressure he is forcing, a slow arch inwards before the bones break with a snap. Small pieces of bone chip off, barely enough to make a difference but noticeable all the same. They dust before they can reach the floor.
He releases his wrist with a startling quickness, almost like he didn’t think he would go through with it.
In any case, it’s too late to turn back now. He grabs the scarf from his lap and makes a makeshift sling. It’s a shabby job, a bit loose, but it’ll have to work.
Bones set, and a long wait ahead, he pulls his sweatshirt underneath him in a makeshift pillow and lays down. It’s not comfortable: his wrist hurts, and he’ll definitely get a crick in his neck.
But this is his life now. He might as well get used to it.
His wrist is healed. It’s a bit crooked, but it’s healed. If his hypothesis is correct, then it’s been at most three months.
He breaks his wrist again.