Make horror pretty, tie it up with words.
Just needed a place to dump something. Move along, these aren't the bodies your looking for.
This place inside had feeling. And it hurt. The twisting acidic bile of fear and rage. Frothing at the boundaries of my self, dissolving away my will to repress. Deny. Ignore. Survive. If you don't speak, they cannot focus on you. If you do not move, they cannot pinpoint you. If you are nothing, then you will not hurt. You will not feel.
The screaming of words is garbled. My ears strive to hear, to understand, to make sense of the visual my eyes see. Her shirt was white. I knew it was white. Not that perfect eggshell white. But the buttery not-quite-white white. Now it was rust and red. Only when she turned away from me did I know that it was the same shirt. Fluids soaking into the fabric. Short hair tousled and sweat soaked. Falling. Screaming. Raw. My throat was raw. I was screaming. I was being pulled. Small hands. Not adult hands, pulling. Wrenching me from under the table. Dragging me from the room. Run. The voice said. The face that swam into focus was familiar. His mouth formed a word. Run. So I ran. I ran from the moment and I run from the memory. I hide in a little box in a wall. A vent that I'm just big enough to fit in.
I cower from the world. I hide inside my space. I don't want out. I'm comfortable and warm. Why would I want to deal with harsh reality? Why would I want to face a memory that wakes me choking on screams? Why would I want to be more than nothing? With nothing, there is no feeling. No cold. No crying. No hurt. Let it all crawl down the ventilation system and get lost. The fans will cover the noise of my self screaming.