002 || dream
OOC NOTES: TRIGGER WARNINGS; PLEASE BE ADVISED - GORE AND OTHERWISE DISTURBING IMAGERY BENEATH THE CUT. MORE GORE AND VIOLENCE LIKELY IN THE COMMENTS (will be updated as needed). Dream is written prose-style but action tags are more than welcome. This dream is OPEN to all!
Simon walks through a door, and he finds himself in a darkened, unfamiliar room.
He squints, trying to make out shapes in the darkness, cautiously moving forward one step at a time, then another, hands out in front of him to fend off any obstacles. What sort of room is this? It’s hard to tell; the room is completely quiet, save for the sounds of his footsteps against the tile floor and a slow dripping sound emanating from somewhere in the distance. But the air of foreboding inside the room - that’s almost palpable, like a heavy cloud of steam settling in, washing over Simon as he treads forward, forward ...
... Until his hands brush against something and he draws to a stop. It’s about waist high, warm and wet and sticky, and Simon’s heartbeat quickens with the fear that he might just recognize what he’s come across, even in the darkness.
He stands frozen, for a moment, or an hour, or half a day, uncertain of whether to investigate further or turn around and run, run far away as fast as he can. And as he stands there, deliberating, something reaches up and firmly grabs ahold of his wrist.
He can’t move, can’t cry out, and in the next second, the room floods with light, harsh and cold and bright, and Simon can see he’s in a hospital operating room, not terribly unlike the one he’d broken into in Saint Lucy’s in Ariel City. The entire room is sterile white, blinding in the sudden light after the long period of darkness; Simon squeezes his eyes shut out of instinct.
Whatever’s got hold of his wrist tightens its grip, and Simon carefully opens his eyes once again to investigate. The thing he’d brushed into was an operating table, and there’s a girl with long brown hair laid out on top of it. She’s thin; she’d look fragile even if she weren’t split open the entire length of her torso, dissected like some rudimentary science experiment, tissues pulled open and organs exposed in pools of blood left to drip on the otherwise pristine floor.
And she’s still alive. Her hand is the thing that’s clamped down on Simon’s wrist, and she gazes up at him with desperate brown eyes and an expression of absolute terror.
“Si ... mon ... ” she gurgles, barely above a whisper. Blood trickles out the corner of her mouth, and Simon’s heart stops, sinking downward, out of his ribcage. “Help ... me ... ”
“River!” he shouts, panicked and shocked, and a thousand angry hands descend upon him, tugging him away from the table, away from his sister. “No!”
Simon walks through a door, and he finds himself in a darkened, unfamiliar room.
He squints, trying to make out shapes in the darkness, cautiously moving forward one step at a time, then another, hands out in front of him to fend off any obstacles. What sort of room is this? It’s hard to tell; the room is completely quiet, save for the sounds of his footsteps against the tile floor and a slow dripping sound emanating from somewhere in the distance. But the air of foreboding inside the room - that’s almost palpable, like a heavy cloud of steam settling in, washing over Simon as he treads forward, forward ...
... Until his hands brush against something and he draws to a stop. It’s about waist high, warm and wet and sticky, and Simon’s heartbeat quickens with the fear that he might just recognize what he’s come across, even in the darkness.
He stands frozen, for a moment, or an hour, or half a day, uncertain of whether to investigate further or turn around and run, run far away as fast as he can. And as he stands there, deliberating, something reaches up and firmly grabs ahold of his wrist.
He can’t move, can’t cry out, and in the next second, the room floods with light, harsh and cold and bright, and Simon can see he’s in a hospital operating room, not terribly unlike the one he’d broken into in Saint Lucy’s in Ariel City. The entire room is sterile white, blinding in the sudden light after the long period of darkness; Simon squeezes his eyes shut out of instinct.
Whatever’s got hold of his wrist tightens its grip, and Simon carefully opens his eyes once again to investigate. The thing he’d brushed into was an operating table, and there’s a girl with long brown hair laid out on top of it. She’s thin; she’d look fragile even if she weren’t split open the entire length of her torso, dissected like some rudimentary science experiment, tissues pulled open and organs exposed in pools of blood left to drip on the otherwise pristine floor.
And she’s still alive. Her hand is the thing that’s clamped down on Simon’s wrist, and she gazes up at him with desperate brown eyes and an expression of absolute terror.
“Si ... mon ... ” she gurgles, barely above a whisper. Blood trickles out the corner of her mouth, and Simon’s heart stops, sinking downward, out of his ribcage. “Help ... me ... ”
“River!” he shouts, panicked and shocked, and a thousand angry hands descend upon him, tugging him away from the table, away from his sister. “No!”