Broadcast Mind / memory
[Darkness. You can barely see in the dimmed light; the clearest thing is light, gleaming off of.... doorknobs? But there's a hand in yours, small and cool, and the faintest scent of roses. It makes you feel safe. It keeps you from panicking as you feel around in the darkness, some of it so deep it feels like it's watching you, breathing steady. Wherever you are, it smells old-- like rotting books, or dust, or old oil paints. Every door you open leads further into that darkness.
There's a turnip. You're a little confused by it--] What're you doing here? [--but that confusion is nothing compared to the one that follows when it replies.]
What are you, a retard? There's nothin' to do in this stinkin' place.
[You're not used to vegetables talking back. Is a turnip even a vegetable? Whatever it is, you're not going to stick around and be verbally abused by food.]
You can't get out by yourself, [it calls after you.] You'll see what I mean soon enough.
[You push on, through doors and doors and doors, all leading deeper into that darkness. As you burrow further into that trap, as you leave and return and leave and return, the panic begins to take hold, despite her hand in yours, despite the rosepetal scent-- is it just you or is this place getting smaller? The scent's heavier now, more cloying-- not hers, but His. You begin indiscriminately moving through doors, a constant chorus of creaking and slamming.
And when you finally step blinking out of the labyrinth, you're so relieved that for a moment you don't even realize that your hand is empty.]
There's a turnip. You're a little confused by it--] What're you doing here? [--but that confusion is nothing compared to the one that follows when it replies.]
What are you, a retard? There's nothin' to do in this stinkin' place.
[You're not used to vegetables talking back. Is a turnip even a vegetable? Whatever it is, you're not going to stick around and be verbally abused by food.]
You can't get out by yourself, [it calls after you.] You'll see what I mean soon enough.
[You push on, through doors and doors and doors, all leading deeper into that darkness. As you burrow further into that trap, as you leave and return and leave and return, the panic begins to take hold, despite her hand in yours, despite the rosepetal scent-- is it just you or is this place getting smaller? The scent's heavier now, more cloying-- not hers, but His. You begin indiscriminately moving through doors, a constant chorus of creaking and slamming.
And when you finally step blinking out of the labyrinth, you're so relieved that for a moment you don't even realize that your hand is empty.]