Narrative
Who: Lara Croft(raidit).
When: Funny enough, these were those nightmares before the events. Then, they just repeated themselves, a little more enhanced.
Where: Lara's subconscious :|
Rating: R
Summary: The asylum seems to pull all the right strings for Lara's mind. The nurses and the cold don't help.
Warnings: Kai's failed attempts at gory images, perhaps. Do not leave her bored during Christmas dinner and amongst little noisy kids. ALSO, some spoilers for Underworld, because I like to twist the dagger a little deeper.
She didn’t need to open her eyes to realize where she was.
She knew the feeling brushing her shoulder blades like the palm of her hand. That luxurious carpet that was more of a relic than an utility and should be exhibited in a wall, framed for everyone to see the hunting that it portrayed, and not to suffer under the dirty rubber of her boots, the scratching metal of her weapons that she liked to drag around when she arrived home, the prickling of the glass or china of whenever something fell, the blunt splinters of the wood of the cases she brought home when she had a bit of a spoil in an expedition of hers. It was something that made Allister cringe in despair, and for a while, he had refused to walk over it, sidestepping around in a bit of too much carefulness that she’d ever display, before he succumbed and finally ran across the room… only to realize what he’d done and let out a whimper.
She was the lying in the center of the manor’s living room. She opened her eyes, and in the back of her mind she missed the familiar sound of Winston’s urging, telling her to get up.
Her eyelids lifted. Above her was the glass ceiling of the manor, and between that and her own body, the large chandelier of the Fourteenth century that her mother praised so much, crystal and iron aiming at her with the force of gravity like daggers and spears, looming and waiting like the guillotine that she carried on her shoulders, a willing threat with which she had a love/hate relationship. The very same way, her butler, her two assistants, the hacker and the archaeologist, were standing on the black old braces, burning her irises as if they were the light sources themselves.
She knew she couldn’t move. And then, in a slow but sure approach, green fire started licking at the glass and stone, seeping into the clothes and limbs of the men that had been her support through the last years, the skin of their accusing expressions melting and dripping wax-like over her own tears.
The chain broke, and the razors of that menace fell and punctured her body. The carpet under her felt soggy, clammy and sickening while her agonized screech spilled into the air.
~*~
She was on that very same spot.
She was standing alone in the large living room of the manor, and in spite of the fire that illuminated some of the corners and edges that surrounded her, and dipped others in shadows and secrets, she was cold.
The air felt like cold concrete, caging her in her place, and even the cold steel of her guns brushing her thighs couldn’t overcome the aching on the top of her cheeks, the biting at her ear. She wasn’t even sure if it was the air that kept her in her invisible trap, or if she was made out of the same stones that fueled her passion for the ruins she came to treasure.
She couldn’t move again. Not even open her mouth, not even breathe as she watched the portrait of her parents above the fireplace turn to dust, crumbling on the rich marble of the floor like newly-formed ash.
Behind the would-be canvas, within the rich frame, there was no wall. A gust of wind blew through the room, through her body, - and she couldn’t even shiver in that lock she found herself in - and the ash scattered and clung to her skin.
Against the remaining warmth of her body that was almost fading away, the ash turned liquid, tasting of blood and snake poison between her parted lips and the tip of her tongue.
~*~
She was facing herself.
There was an ice shard in each of her hands, and she felt the déjà vu hit at the circular walls of her head and scream at the back of her eyes. Her eyes weren’t black, her hair wasn’t the shade of dark red wine, her skin wasn’t tinted of gray.
Yet there she was, watching her reflection twist the blue daggers through the guts of Winston and her father, and the black blood that dripped from their stomach.
The more she shot at the bullet-proof glass between them, her voice hoarse and burning at the roof her mouth, the more bullet holes tore her own body apart.
~*~
When her mother climbed down from her portrait and sat on the border of the leather couch she was laying on, she didn’t scream.
When she leaned over her to kiss her forehead with putrid lips and the stench of decomposing flesh filled her nostrils, she didn’t cry.
She yelled, however, when her bloodied arms cradled the half-dead body of Amelia Croft, and felt her heart still beating against the tips of her fingers and the broken ribs. She didn't make a sound when the woman dug her nails on her neck, not even when she bit at her shoulder and tore it.
It was when that whisper crawled into her ear and wove a web around her lungs, suffocating her slowly.
“You killed me.”
[aaand for someone who's curious about it. I don't need to warn you about the heavy spoilers here, aye?]
When: Funny enough, these were those nightmares before the events. Then, they just repeated themselves, a little more enhanced.
Where: Lara's subconscious :|
Rating: R
Summary: The asylum seems to pull all the right strings for Lara's mind. The nurses and the cold don't help.
Warnings: Kai's failed attempts at gory images, perhaps. Do not leave her bored during Christmas dinner and amongst little noisy kids. ALSO, some spoilers for Underworld, because I like to twist the dagger a little deeper.
She didn’t need to open her eyes to realize where she was.
She knew the feeling brushing her shoulder blades like the palm of her hand. That luxurious carpet that was more of a relic than an utility and should be exhibited in a wall, framed for everyone to see the hunting that it portrayed, and not to suffer under the dirty rubber of her boots, the scratching metal of her weapons that she liked to drag around when she arrived home, the prickling of the glass or china of whenever something fell, the blunt splinters of the wood of the cases she brought home when she had a bit of a spoil in an expedition of hers. It was something that made Allister cringe in despair, and for a while, he had refused to walk over it, sidestepping around in a bit of too much carefulness that she’d ever display, before he succumbed and finally ran across the room… only to realize what he’d done and let out a whimper.
She was the lying in the center of the manor’s living room. She opened her eyes, and in the back of her mind she missed the familiar sound of Winston’s urging, telling her to get up.
Her eyelids lifted. Above her was the glass ceiling of the manor, and between that and her own body, the large chandelier of the Fourteenth century that her mother praised so much, crystal and iron aiming at her with the force of gravity like daggers and spears, looming and waiting like the guillotine that she carried on her shoulders, a willing threat with which she had a love/hate relationship. The very same way, her butler, her two assistants, the hacker and the archaeologist, were standing on the black old braces, burning her irises as if they were the light sources themselves.
She knew she couldn’t move. And then, in a slow but sure approach, green fire started licking at the glass and stone, seeping into the clothes and limbs of the men that had been her support through the last years, the skin of their accusing expressions melting and dripping wax-like over her own tears.
The chain broke, and the razors of that menace fell and punctured her body. The carpet under her felt soggy, clammy and sickening while her agonized screech spilled into the air.
~*~
She was on that very same spot.
She was standing alone in the large living room of the manor, and in spite of the fire that illuminated some of the corners and edges that surrounded her, and dipped others in shadows and secrets, she was cold.
The air felt like cold concrete, caging her in her place, and even the cold steel of her guns brushing her thighs couldn’t overcome the aching on the top of her cheeks, the biting at her ear. She wasn’t even sure if it was the air that kept her in her invisible trap, or if she was made out of the same stones that fueled her passion for the ruins she came to treasure.
She couldn’t move again. Not even open her mouth, not even breathe as she watched the portrait of her parents above the fireplace turn to dust, crumbling on the rich marble of the floor like newly-formed ash.
Behind the would-be canvas, within the rich frame, there was no wall. A gust of wind blew through the room, through her body, - and she couldn’t even shiver in that lock she found herself in - and the ash scattered and clung to her skin.
Against the remaining warmth of her body that was almost fading away, the ash turned liquid, tasting of blood and snake poison between her parted lips and the tip of her tongue.
~*~
She was facing herself.
There was an ice shard in each of her hands, and she felt the déjà vu hit at the circular walls of her head and scream at the back of her eyes. Her eyes weren’t black, her hair wasn’t the shade of dark red wine, her skin wasn’t tinted of gray.
Yet there she was, watching her reflection twist the blue daggers through the guts of Winston and her father, and the black blood that dripped from their stomach.
The more she shot at the bullet-proof glass between them, her voice hoarse and burning at the roof her mouth, the more bullet holes tore her own body apart.
~*~
When her mother climbed down from her portrait and sat on the border of the leather couch she was laying on, she didn’t scream.
When she leaned over her to kiss her forehead with putrid lips and the stench of decomposing flesh filled her nostrils, she didn’t cry.
She yelled, however, when her bloodied arms cradled the half-dead body of Amelia Croft, and felt her heart still beating against the tips of her fingers and the broken ribs. She didn't make a sound when the woman dug her nails on her neck, not even when she bit at her shoulder and tore it.
It was when that whisper crawled into her ear and wove a web around her lungs, suffocating her slowly.
“You killed me.”
[aaand for someone who's curious about it. I don't need to warn you about the heavy spoilers here, aye?]