Tim W█████ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
postictal) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
applesaucedream2015-08-12 10:13 am
postictal) wrote in applesaucedream2015-08-12 10:13 am
deeper and deeper we go, where there is no light [open to multiple]
[Takes place after the events here.]
They drift without purchase and run without purpose.
Something is missing.
They are not whole. But they are and they must be; they can see themselves, they can hear the warped susurrus of their thoughts as they run without running, spun and torn from the body that is not theirs, except for the times where it is.
But where is it. Where are they.
It is too dark and they run, sluicing through forest and trees, searching for the splash of red on brown and black that is their friend, or even the slash of black and the pale glow of white that would denote the thing that follows them, the thing that they hate. But there is nothing. Simply black, endless, a formless landscape stitched over the murmur of a ragged-torn mind. Trees loom, jagged. Always those burned-black sheathes of wood and leaves, stretching ever upward, obscuring all light, branches to sky.
They run in a blur of gray and white and black, their form ashen, their face bright and smooth, dark eyes staring.
There is something ahead.
There is something ahead, and they slam into it, feral and frantic and afraid.
L̙͖̦̫ͩͬͦ̏̀o̸͕͇̒ͨͦ̉o̰̺̠̳̮̤͗͑ͯ́k͖̯̑̏̔̇͂ͬ̉ ̷͈̉͆́̋̇̓̊b̋̃͒ͬ̅ͯ͆ë̗̩̖̺̹̎͐͒̓̿̈h̘͂ͦ̄̍̄̐͆i͙̳̤͛̌ͥͧ̈́̃n̖̠d̯̺̥̗ͪ́̆ ̯̺͈̟ͫ͆̈̃ͫ̏̇ỹ̹̣͙̂ͪ̅͟o̗̯̟̗u̬͉̼̼͓͇͑͢ͅ
[ooc: Tim's other self has currently been detached from his body and is now roaming about the dreamspace - mostly in the interest of avoiding the cats, who are curious as to what they're about. They'll come into your dreams. They'll come into anyone's dreams. Or you might end up in theirs. It's up to you, really. They're not likely to be pleased about it either way.]
They drift without purchase and run without purpose.
Something is missing.
They are not whole. But they are and they must be; they can see themselves, they can hear the warped susurrus of their thoughts as they run without running, spun and torn from the body that is not theirs, except for the times where it is.
But where is it. Where are they.
It is too dark and they run, sluicing through forest and trees, searching for the splash of red on brown and black that is their friend, or even the slash of black and the pale glow of white that would denote the thing that follows them, the thing that they hate. But there is nothing. Simply black, endless, a formless landscape stitched over the murmur of a ragged-torn mind. Trees loom, jagged. Always those burned-black sheathes of wood and leaves, stretching ever upward, obscuring all light, branches to sky.
They run in a blur of gray and white and black, their form ashen, their face bright and smooth, dark eyes staring.
There is something ahead.
There is something ahead, and they slam into it, feral and frantic and afraid.
L̙͖̦̫ͩͬͦ̏̀o̸͕͇̒ͨͦ̉o̰̺̠̳̮̤͗͑ͯ́k͖̯̑̏̔̇͂ͬ̉ ̷͈̉͆́̋̇̓̊b̋̃͒ͬ̅ͯ͆ë̗̩̖̺̹̎͐͒̓̿̈h̘͂ͦ̄̍̄̐͆i͙̳̤͛̌ͥͧ̈́̃n̖̠d̯̺̥̗ͪ́̆ ̯̺͈̟ͫ͆̈̃ͫ̏̇ỹ̹̣͙̂ͪ̅͟o̗̯̟̗u̬͉̼̼͓͇͑͢ͅ
[ooc: Tim's other self has currently been detached from his body and is now roaming about the dreamspace - mostly in the interest of avoiding the cats, who are curious as to what they're about. They'll come into your dreams. They'll come into anyone's dreams. Or you might end up in theirs. It's up to you, really. They're not likely to be pleased about it either way.]
no subject
He recoils, letting it connect, riding the momentum back into a wall that wasn't there before. Actually, make that a door. He smirks, raw and dangerous, as the door opens on impact and they fall, not through, but down, for maximum disorientation. Down, deeper, into the dark and the cold.
tw: attempted strangulation
Or has it tilted long before now?
They are being pulled or they are falling, they cannot tell. They just know the dark grain of the wood has fallen away, everything has disintegrated from sight, leaving them with nothing but the icy black stretch of void as they spill into it.
They use the thing's clothing as handholds. They cling to it, hands scuttling up its front until they reach the delicate surface of its neck.
They squeeze.
I'll see that tw and raise you some serious suicide ideation
Everything is unfolding so simply here, like it was always meant to. Like he'd been told. This is where he was always destined to end up.
Still, the body will fight, and as they sink deeper, slow toward some unknown landing, Johnny struggles, switching from eager to vicious in no time. He lashes a hand across the creature's face, dealing no damage, but a tendril of twisted wood and brick and steel whips out to follow the motion, tearing them apart again. Johnny lands unsteadily, picks himself up, staring into the void, searching for that little spot of white.
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.
no subject
"Come and get me," he snarls into the darkness. He can't tell, doesn't care, whether it's a taunt meant to trap his enemy, or a legitimate request. Either way he's impatient. "Come on."
no subject
They crouch low, one palm to the smooth nothingness at their feet as they gather themselves like a great raptorial cat balancing all its weight on its haunches. They rock, a slight, subtle shift of weight on their feet from one leg and to the other, until they surge forward, source of the noise pinpointed.
This time, they duck out of the way from it before their bodies meet in a clash of wild and reckless weight, roll smoothly, cutting a wide arc around it to hit it from the side in a tackling pin.
no subject
no subject
thing.
They lever the full weight of their knee into its center of mass, practically fully on top of it, knee driving into its chest in a vicious spike of pressure.
no subject
He shifts as it presses him hard into the floor and wills that the floor should rise up around him, beat the creature back, crush it for good.
The floor ripples beneath them but it does no such thing. Johnny's eyes blink wide as he realizes the structure is entwining him, both of them, holding them in place. The creature is not being forced back but is now fastened atop him, perfectly poised to wring his neck.
"No!" he rages, twisting one hand free and trying to shove the creature off his chest. Creaking strands of wood wind around his waist, holding him down. He lets out a strangled scream at the betrayal, even though it had to come, he should have known.
The house belongs to no one, Johnny Truant.
Least of all you.
tw: strangulation, claustrophobia
Their hands are tight around its neck, that delicate instrument.
It is not a great effort to compress fingers in a slow, inevitable, crushing grip as the walls curl around them and enfold them in the very same. Even if they succeed, if they crush it, grind it, extinguish into little more than a dead smear in the formless wood and icy dark, they know they would soon suffer the same. This body cannot hold itself together beneath that unrelenting pressure shackled around them, however harsh and powerful it may be.
But perhaps it does not matter.