a flashback he won't admit || dream 07
Effects: Feeling drunk, unstable and highly amused. Slight feeling of shock involved, too, but there's not enough to make it dominate over any others.
He's alone in a blank apartment. There's a bed, a television and he knows there's more to it, but he's not interested. He's staring pointedly at the TV, a small smile gracing his lips as he smelled a strong sense of alcohol. He knew he'd finished another bottle, and he thought he saw something, something making him edge closer to the TV and place a hand against the flat surface of the screen. He did, standing slowly, eyes fixated on the static flow flickering in shady lines.
He watched the screen, the sound of faded voices and picture that remained slow and unsteady filled the room. It was different. Something was different. He pushed his hand lightly and watched as the screen melted away under his fingertips. A quick sense of this is wrong, weird, fucked filled his head and he snapped his hand back to cradle it against his chest.
He didn't believe it-he thought it was a trick of the light. A trick of the alcohol he had already drunk an hour before. A trick of something.
So he tried again, this time with more purpose, and he stared as the TV ate his hand, up to his wrist, up to his elbow, up to his shoulder. He couldn't feel anything on the other side, but he was too far gone in his own amusement.
He couldn't stop laughing, and suddenly, he had to pull back. He stumbled to the bathroom; it was small, an ugly lime green and pale white, but he didn't care about the surroundings. His hands gripped onto the toilet's bowl and he pushed himself forwards, and he heaved. The smell of bleach and vomit mixed into one, and as soon as he was done emptying his stomach, he let go and heard himself fall against the floor.
And he was laughing again.
He's alone in a blank apartment. There's a bed, a television and he knows there's more to it, but he's not interested. He's staring pointedly at the TV, a small smile gracing his lips as he smelled a strong sense of alcohol. He knew he'd finished another bottle, and he thought he saw something, something making him edge closer to the TV and place a hand against the flat surface of the screen. He did, standing slowly, eyes fixated on the static flow flickering in shady lines.
He watched the screen, the sound of faded voices and picture that remained slow and unsteady filled the room. It was different. Something was different. He pushed his hand lightly and watched as the screen melted away under his fingertips. A quick sense of this is wrong, weird, fucked filled his head and he snapped his hand back to cradle it against his chest.
He didn't believe it-he thought it was a trick of the light. A trick of the alcohol he had already drunk an hour before. A trick of something.
So he tried again, this time with more purpose, and he stared as the TV ate his hand, up to his wrist, up to his elbow, up to his shoulder. He couldn't feel anything on the other side, but he was too far gone in his own amusement.
He couldn't stop laughing, and suddenly, he had to pull back. He stumbled to the bathroom; it was small, an ugly lime green and pale white, but he didn't care about the surroundings. His hands gripped onto the toilet's bowl and he pushed himself forwards, and he heaved. The smell of bleach and vomit mixed into one, and as soon as he was done emptying his stomach, he let go and heard himself fall against the floor.
And he was laughing again.