If You Must Scream

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My first thought when I come to is that I have to call Simon.

My second thought is the realisation that I can't call Simon because I can't move my arms, for whatever inexplicable reason.

My third thought is that everything hurts. My face, my chest, my limbs... I think I feel the sticky trickle of blood in various places all over my body-- my nose, in particular. The acrid tang of blood stings my chapped lips as it runs down my face and drips off my chin. And breathing is more difficult than it should be; like someone's shoved a length of cloth up my painful nose. My mouth falls slightly open to compensate for the lacking intake of oxygen.

My last thought is that I should open my eyes, in the hopes that maybe what I see will explain why the fuck my hands are tied and my nose feels broken.

The only problem with that last one is consciousness is a slippery bastard. I fight desperately against the ropy weight of unconsciousness pulling at me, wrenching my eyes open. (A task made even more difficult by the two lovely black and swollen eyes I'm sporting).

The world is too dark. Not just normal, night-time darkness, either. Like the sun collapsed in on itself, taking with it any and all light that could cut through the inky black mirk. The miasma feels alive, somehow. Watching. Waiting. Hungry.

Gritting my teeth, I strain against the cold metal of whatever's binding my hands, reaching fruitlessly for the mobile in my pocket. The metal only digs into my wrists, and I feel new trickles of blood ooze out and pool in the sweaty palms of my hands. Fuck.

"Fuck," I growl aloud softly, echoing my thoughts. My mind races wildly, grasping frantically for escape ideas.

Something cracks not far off, and I freeze, waiting with bated breath for something to appear through the gloaming. It almost sounded like a bone snapping. Maybe a tree branch broke? Whatever it was, muttering obscenities while tied up in the middle of the woods was probably not my best move.

A hand, colder than the touch of Death, grasps my bare arm. Snarling, I whip my head around to face whoever it is, only to find... no one. No one stands beside me. No hand grips my upper arm-- only a tendril of dark smoke wreaths about my skin.

"What the fu--" My words are cut off by my own scream of pain as my arm cracks, the black smoke swirling tighter and tighter around it. The bone splinters, and the jagged edge of what was once the lower half of my humerus rips through my skin, exposing itself. White-hot, sickening agony courses through my every atom. Tears stream uncontrollably down my cheeks, the stinging of the saltwater against the small cuts on my face muted by the horrible, unbearable arcs of pure fire flaring from my arm. The sight of my own bone, so glaringly, starkly white against my red, red blood, sends me over some sort of edge. Leaning over (okay, maybe falling over), I am violently sick on the rotting grass beneath me. My stomach heaves and heaves, until there is nothing left to come up and I am left dry-heaving over a puddle of my own vomit. Blackness creeps into the edges of my vision, threatening to choke out the dark world again.

Before I can even try and allow it to do so of its own accord, something slams painfully into the side of my head, and I thrown head-over-heels into a blissful, painless state of unconsciousness.


Author's note:

To compensate for my alarming lack of updates lately, I'm going to start adding one piece of fanart onto every chapter. If you have some you want to show the world, DM it to me and I'll include it (I will tag you underneath it so everyone knows who made it). Fanart does not need to correlate to the chapter.

Enjoy, and don't forget to like, comment, and share!



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