It's making no sense. They ignore it, their near-silent grunts of effort subsiding into a low, agonized hiss when something solid and crumbling insinuates itself between the two thrashing bodies, splitting them into two once more. They glimpse the barest impression of brick, mortar, wood, rebar, all contorting in formless unison, like the limbs without hands that grasped them, lifted them, breathed life into a head already occupied.
They tumble end over end into nothingness, their hands clawing for purchase, for a grip, but there is only the frictionless rush of cold, desolate air as it goes streaking through helplessly snatching fingers, whistling over the contours of their face.
The dark stretches in front of them, endless.
They land heavily. They lie still.
Their bones ache. Everything aches. Their head pounds a dull, arrhythmic tattoo that sends a low, throbbing agony stabbing into their teeth, behind their eyes, shooting down their spine.
They roll over, palms pressed to ground, but they cannot see what lies beneath them. They are standing on nothing, but it is a solid nothing, and so they use it to rise unsteadily and cast their gaze for the thing that lurks with the walls.
no subject
They tumble end over end into nothingness, their hands clawing for purchase, for a grip, but there is only the frictionless rush of cold, desolate air as it goes streaking through helplessly snatching fingers, whistling over the contours of their face.
The dark stretches in front of them, endless.
They land heavily. They lie still.
Their bones ache. Everything aches. Their head pounds a dull, arrhythmic tattoo that sends a low, throbbing agony stabbing into their teeth, behind their eyes, shooting down their spine.
They roll over, palms pressed to ground, but they cannot see what lies beneath them. They are standing on nothing, but it is a solid nothing, and so they use it to rise unsteadily and cast their gaze for the thing that lurks with the walls.