[ She can hear them calling her name, but it comes to her as if she is deeply under water, the sound and meaning of it distorted, deflected by the rain of needles that emanates from the depths of her; her symbiote. She and her symbiote are well matched creatures, it converts her greatest weakness into her greatest strength. Breathes in her anxiety and her pain and sorrow and exhales back out a weapon.
She makes a sound: a wheeze, a gasp, not quite a scream.
For all that what is happening hurts them, she is in the center of it and the fevered sensation of sickness and dread is twisting her into knots. Her mind struggles to support this vast hallucination and remain lucid at the same time, failing by terrible inches every moment she cannot break the spell.
Hands reach up from the bloody pool they now stand in, each one mutilated in a different way. In the center of them all is a pair of hands she knows entirely too well, bound in violet silk. The flesh beneath horribly bruised, all too clear that the bones are broken beneath the crush of their pretty wrappings.
Grisly chunks of scalp and stained blonde hair start to rain from the ceiling.
Her shadows howl with laughter, stalking and clicking their teeth, slashing their claws at all three of them with a catlike playfulness. When one makes contact with her, she recoils with another of her labored, breathless, wheezing sounds. She stumbles to the floor before the both of them. Trembling and sinking into the gore of her own imagining.
And the voice continues with its sonorous toxicity: The sudden and the gradual, the painless and the painful. To yield but four ways to die and there are no others. Even after the voice stopped speaking, I listened for it to speak again. After hours and day and years have passed I listened for some further words, yet all I heard were the faintest echoes reminding me. There are no others. There are no others. ]
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She makes a sound: a wheeze, a gasp, not quite a scream.
For all that what is happening hurts them, she is in the center of it and the fevered sensation of sickness and dread is twisting her into knots. Her mind struggles to support this vast hallucination and remain lucid at the same time, failing by terrible inches every moment she cannot break the spell.
Hands reach up from the bloody pool they now stand in, each one mutilated in a different way. In the center of them all is a pair of hands she knows entirely too well, bound in violet silk. The flesh beneath horribly bruised, all too clear that the bones are broken beneath the crush of their pretty wrappings.
Grisly chunks of scalp and stained blonde hair start to rain from the ceiling.
Her shadows howl with laughter, stalking and clicking their teeth, slashing their claws at all three of them with a catlike playfulness. When one makes contact with her, she recoils with another of her labored, breathless, wheezing sounds. She stumbles to the floor before the both of them. Trembling and sinking into the gore of her own imagining.
And the voice continues with its sonorous toxicity: The sudden and the gradual, the painless and the painful. To yield but four ways to die and there are no others. Even after the voice stopped speaking, I listened for it to speak again. After hours and day and years have passed I listened for some further words, yet all I heard were the faintest echoes reminding me. There are no others. There are no others. ]