[Hell, WI] Sweet Silence
They weren't calling. They weren't calling and they weren't answering him. Everything was quiet, so quiet. He couldn't stand it. It stung like a bullet..
He'd always had direction before. There was always something to go off of, always. And now there was only the drip of the sink and the drip of the last candle, along with the memories of the woman he killed and the woman he didn't.
He didn't think he did, at least. It was getting so hard to remember.
"I wouldn't kill her, I loved her."
He repeats it for awhile, until he believes it again. And then it was easy to believe she'd been taken. She wasn't dead, but she was...somewhere else. But no one was talking to him anymore. Even the dreams were quiet, pulsing numbers making up the atmosphere entirely.
With the shades drawn and the clock missing, it was nearly impossible to tell the passage of time.
He consulted his walls again, all those notes he'd taken before it went quiet on him. He knew it all, he remembered it all- what use was it? He knocked over the table, clawed at the writing, kicked in the long-dead television. It didn't even make him feel better.
He continued until he passed out.
He opened his eyes to new words. Antinora. 1+14+20+9+14+15+18+1 = 92. Four syllables. 92/4.
His path was clear.
He'd always had direction before. There was always something to go off of, always. And now there was only the drip of the sink and the drip of the last candle, along with the memories of the woman he killed and the woman he didn't.
He didn't think he did, at least. It was getting so hard to remember.
"I wouldn't kill her, I loved her."
He repeats it for awhile, until he believes it again. And then it was easy to believe she'd been taken. She wasn't dead, but she was...somewhere else. But no one was talking to him anymore. Even the dreams were quiet, pulsing numbers making up the atmosphere entirely.
With the shades drawn and the clock missing, it was nearly impossible to tell the passage of time.
He consulted his walls again, all those notes he'd taken before it went quiet on him. He knew it all, he remembered it all- what use was it? He knocked over the table, clawed at the writing, kicked in the long-dead television. It didn't even make him feel better.
He continued until he passed out.
He opened his eyes to new words. Antinora. 1+14+20+9+14+15+18+1 = 92. Four syllables. 92/4.
His path was clear.