(no subject)
One Remus Lupin has been missing from the Hotel for a good week or two, now.
But here he is, stumbling into the doors of the Hotel. He feels ill, sick, monsterous for the things he has done. He's covered in blood (blood that is hardly his own, splattered upon his face, dripping from his hands, his clothes) and sweat. His head is pounding, as though it were willing itself to split, and his heart is racing.
He doesn't quite register where he is running, just so long as it is away from the blood, the cold cement, those lifeless, lifeless eyes...
He's hoping that, soon enough, he will just forget the nagging, growing snarl in the back of his mind, the sinister laughter that echoes, and be fine. That he'll wake up and find this hotel, the basement, the werewolf all some horrid, childish dream.
But here he is, stumbling into the doors of the Hotel. He feels ill, sick, monsterous for the things he has done. He's covered in blood (blood that is hardly his own, splattered upon his face, dripping from his hands, his clothes) and sweat. His head is pounding, as though it were willing itself to split, and his heart is racing.
He doesn't quite register where he is running, just so long as it is away from the blood, the cold cement, those lifeless, lifeless eyes...
He's hoping that, soon enough, he will just forget the nagging, growing snarl in the back of his mind, the sinister laughter that echoes, and be fine. That he'll wake up and find this hotel, the basement, the werewolf all some horrid, childish dream.