on and on and on and on [closed]

[johnny_truant]

[[cw: claustrophobia; also egregious liberties taken with formatting]]


I know it all. I know everything:
the little secrets that you keep.
I'm gonna haunt your dreams at night;
you'll have to hide those kitchen knives.



I̻͙͛ ̞̰̋ͦ̋̚s͖̮̯t͂̍í̗͉̮̼̻̊̑͒̔ͦl̤͌̓l̻ͣ̾̿̆ ͎̯̑g̫̠̈̀̏͒̊et̠̦͔͈̓ ͋̽n͍̱͖̠̥͋ͫ̓i̪̜̩̝̱ͣͫͪ͛̂ͨͬğ͙̝͊ͧͮ̚h̲̹̲̪̘͙ͣͭͣͣ̚t͇̠m̰̯̱̝͈͉̹aͨ͗̀̿̚r̽e̟̞̭̠̎̇s̺̅ͭ̂.̩̘̲̥͍̋͑̅̈́͗̔̚

Johnny's running, it doesn't matter what from, only that he keeps running, doesn't stop, doesn't look back, Orpheus and Eurydice but she's not a longlost love she's a m͖͉͖̏͒̽̂̓͒̚ọ̜͕̖̰̝̹̏͋ͪ͛́̂͆ṇ̝̲̫̱̯͇s͎̱ͯte̦̙͉̻͚͎͍ͭ̐͛̆͆r͉̙͔͖͇͇̋ͦͪ̐ͧ and she's coming for him.

N̲̩̣ͪ̑͛̈ŏ͖̭͈̟̃̔̾̏̾ ͔̤̙̙̻ͤ̀̀͂ͦ̇̚ͅǒ͓͔͔̪̿͒ͣ̃n̞̪̹̮̝͂̍̚ẹ̭̖̮̺͇͍̒ͫͯ ̮̱e̗̪̥̍ͩ̅̋̄v̹̪͍̪͓̤̗͌̈́e̪ͯ̌͐r̥̝̭̪͊ͨ̃̒ ̮̮̩̠r̤̺̖͚̰͚͂̓͗͋e̻̭ȁ̑̐̿ͣl̼ͣ̑͊ͥ̏ly̬̘̞͇̻̮͐ͮͮͧ̽̾ ̎ͩg̯͇͇̲̰̙ͧͩ̾̉ͬē͕̗̣̪͙͖̙ͭ̐̇ͧt͖̅̏͗s̔̾̌̒̎ ̟̖̝͓ͩ̆̄̊ŭ̬̞̰̣̽̉̓ͫs̋ͬ̎̓ͪ̑̊e̠͚̭̼̎͂d̹̙ͭ̃̒͊̿ͪ̇ ̦͓͕̻͈̟͑t̩̮̺͙ͯͧ͐͒͂ͅó̤̤͎̭ͪ̄͒͐ ͉̦͕̣̮̯̂̽ͯͣn͚͍͛i͈̻ͦ̔̚g̬̟̤͖̺̿͋̏̆̾h̗͍̜̘ͦ̓̂͗ͨ̚t͎͕̩̪̯̓̎̇ͫm̞͎̹͓̪̠̩͂̓ͥ͂a̳̿̈r̥͕̤̫̝͕ͪě̬̖̝̖ͮ̇̇͐ͧs̙.̻̰͖̪̙͙͋

Echoes bouncing off the walls. The tunnel warps around him, dirt, brick, vile rotting wood, bending and creaking and twisting to narrow the passage up ahead, making it harder to move, forcing him down, hands in the dirt, crawling now, scrambling and desperate. She's very, very close.

F̟̹̙ͅͅȏ͇̙̈̈͐r̰̓ ̮͖̺̩̻̠͗ͨ̈͗ă̝̬͍͔̾́ ̉̉͋w͎ͭ̇h̼̟͉̠͕̻̲͑̽̾̓͗i̳͎͚̹͎̎͑ͪͯ̽ͫͫl͔͉͙̥͚̽̓̏é͒ ̙̻ͧͥͨ͌̏ͥ̿ẗ̲́͛̏ͤ͆h͔̠̙̊̾̏̒̈ͣe̺͎r͚̯̣̙e͙̥̦͓̖̓̑̅̍ ͎̠͇̬͈̤̲ͮI͓̳̞͛̾̔͌ͅ ̝t̅͑̓̾̑̏ͣr̬̻̐i͙ͯ̂̽̆̇̒e̩̻̩̦̘̪ͮ́͛d̞͗̌͂ͥ̒̒͊ ̻͇̥̖͓̘͉̄͐̍̏͊̌̔ẹ͎̠̼̫͇̥̏͐ͣ̆v̼͙̐̓ͣe͕͕̞͔͈̪̋̀ͦͭṙ͓̦̗͕ͮͅy͔̼ͥ ̙͙͚̥͔̱̾̿ͯp͕͚̱̟̋͋ͩͪi̞̠̪̤͖͂̓̅̽̃̓̍ͅl͓̩͇̯̤͚̟ĺ̌̓̋̒ͫ ̟̟i̗̻̗̻̞̞͒ͧͪ̓͐m͎̫͚̩̬͓ä͋ͤ̓̓g̪̭̚ỉ͖̯̭̠͉̐̌͐̌ń͓͖͓̩͍ͧ͗̏̆ͤa̳̜̖̻̹͑ͥͬ͊̽̍b̬͎̱̲͙̳ͣ̍̒́l̹͉̦͇̓̇ͫ͆ͤ̊̊e̼̲̪̬͕

He's heard this refrain before, or maybe seen it? Typeset before him from his very own fingertips. That stupid story he never should have told. It keeps catching up to him. Again and again. Can't get away from it. It's in him now. The house, the abomination of it, it's in his blood and bones, the tingle in his hands when he reshapes architecture like a goddamn monster, exactly like the thing that is chasing him, chasing himself. It's an ouroboros and there's no escape, inevitably, that's the way the thing works, after all. Escape would defeat the purpose. Maybe dreams are punishment for his lifetime of fuckup. Maybe they're reminders that nothing will ever change. Maybe maybe maybe.

S̯̲̙̯̘̜ͮͧ̒̇ͫ̏l͓̩̜̝̭͉̤̂̎̑ͧ̎ͫe̻ͨ̑̽͋ep̦̲̫̱̘̅̎͊͊̆͗'̩̳̤̠̰̩̍ͥ̈́̽̍̏s̭͕̬͇̃̋̀ͅ ͇͙̠͉̩̩̽̎͒̂ͤͯb̞̹̔ê̜̹̖͕͒́̅e̖̞̙͍ͦ̈̾̒ͪͦñ͋̈́͆ͩͥ̾ ̣s̭͍͎͓͋̌̂̐͂tͬ͊ͤͤa̎̿̋ͪ̑ͤl̬̲̪͎̟ͮ̈̀̑̄k̳̮̯̓̈́̄̍ͯ̋̐i̳ͤͫ̂n̘͙̜̘͕͍ͥg̃͋͗̾ ̥̾m͈̭̳̗͇̓ͬ̈́̄ͅe̘̫̣̽̾̍̑ͫ ͧͬ̔̓ͣf̠̞͚̽̍̃o̤̩̩̓ͣr̹̩ͬ̍ ̠̣̩̣̙̌̽͐̔͒tͪͨ͋̍ö̭̼̝̪́͊̃o̫̯̞̾ ̗̻͎ͬ͐̔̋̀̓̑l͇͓ͬo͕͖̼̤̹̜͊ͦͮͯ̇nͦ͊g̬̤̪̪̝͕̲̊͂̄͋ ͙͕̥̣͗t͔̤̦ͦ͑̑̉ͤ̚o̳̖̞̣ͦͭ̄̆ ͈̊́͒r͕̭͉̝̹ͭ͛̓ͭe̒ͩ̑ͣm̠̲̤̪̯̄̌ͩ̉̒̃e̘̜̦͔̪͈ͅmͫ̃͛̆̏͊͆bͮͦē̉ͮ̓r̻̜̟̙͓ͬ͂̈́.̻̣̂̄͊

Johnny runs writhes in the dirt, the corridor so tight now that it's pressing around him on all sides, oh god oh god, too small, too close, can't get a hand free to change it, can't breathe at all.

But still here. Still alive, for a certain definition of life. Dreamed up life. Pinioned and trapped in his little enclosure, worm on a hook, fly in a web, the tail of the snake. Devouring himself.

Things settle. He's scared, but not panicking. He's not sure he's still being chased. Maybe he's already caught. Maybe she wasn't behind him so much as all around, housing him. Now she's trying to crush him. He's still breathing, in fact his breath is all he can hear now, hot and loud and heavy, but he can't shake the sensation of being smothered, wrung out.

And there's something else now. Something familiar. A little shift in the atmosphere. Hard to parse. Everything's more tangible now. Not a proper dream. He recognizes it all too quickly, too easy with all the traces left in him, sense memory lighting him up like a goddamn beacon. Oh no, no.

This is not better.

He's here.

Comments

[antitimelord]

Johnny's approaching personification of terror is a vague thing, in the way of dreams. It's not even Zagreus' dream to be vague, and even with subtle parasitic connections to Johnny's mind it's next to impossible to follow his chimeric fears precisely. Johnny doesn't know his own mind, so how can anyone else be expected to? What Zagreus does see, however, has him intrigued again the instant the vision stabilises into something regrettably familiar. Again he has to ask, this is Johnny's nightmare?

No more cold observing here; Zagreus responds to the apparition with gleefully territorial aggression, a net of dreaming influence meant to corrode and dissipate. Notably he does not remove Johnny from the quicksand floor, but at least he's no longer being pushed under.

[johnny_truant]

She's gone. It takes a few moments but she's gone, or contained, or pushed back - flickering and fading and melting away before his eyes, like film burning up. He feels a pang of remorse, no no, this isn't what I wanted, but he's still too panicked to come fully to his senses, still trapped in the press of the floor. Things are warping around him, but he's still here, pinioned at the center of it.

He can breathe a little easier, at least, with her pushed away; this all feels horrendously wrong but he has no choice but to seek assistance, and isn't that always how it goes?

"Help me," he begs, feeling the pull still, terrified that at any moment he'll be swallowed into the suffocating void. "Please!"