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postictal[warning: this thread deals with some very heavy topics, including drowning, acrophobia, blood/gore, lots and lots of body horror, disturbing imagery, emotional trauma, emetophobia, buckets of self-loathing, derealization, anxiety/paranoia, drug overdosing, suicide ideation, and probably more. Individual tags will have more specific content warnings. Read carefully, friends.]
Between darting over the dense carpet of dead leaves, weaving around jagged, crooked, wrong trunks that stretch unknowably and distantly and away, Tim wonders how has he been here and for how long? Time doesn't breathe how it used to, it's staggered and burning itself into loops. Maybe he was here before. Maybe he was gone. Maybe one day he got out, and it just wanted him back.
Maybe he never left at all.
no eyes no eyes
The tangled branches overhead form a ghastly arc, knobbed and knotted, skeletal, that reaches too far above his head to give him any form of enclosed comfort. It’s not the trees themselves he hates; it’s their potential, it’s the way they jut up like bars, like back when he had a room with a window a million years ago; it’s the horrifying stillness gapped between each bark-clad column. It’s because he knows how it watches, unwatching, unfathomable, limbs reaching for some sempiternal point beyond the scope of sight, comprehension, anything. The parts of it, the pieces of it, the thing that Tim can't perceive or see properly, that makes the camera stutter and fuzz like the static in his mind. He sees it, he knows it's there, he doesn't know what it wants, he never did, it just reaches, seeps toward him -
Duck between the trees with their blackened, scorched bark. Run, boy, run faster, keep running, it'll catch you either way but running lets you forget. There's a camera strapped to his chest and he doesn't know if it's still recording, or still working. He doesn't look at it. He doesn't look at anything. He runs, faster, faster, run; little broken toy made of stumbling limbs and warm organs and blood and heat and ragged panting breath, who can't escape its own packaging.
The crackling snap of another pair of feet hitting leaves whips his head around so harshly he feels his neck crack. No no no no. There's nothing else here, nothing but breaking trees and the crumbled wreckage of Tim's own head, and the thing waiting with arms, no arms, outstretched to reel him in.
Between darting over the dense carpet of dead leaves, weaving around jagged, crooked, wrong trunks that stretch unknowably and distantly and away, Tim wonders how has he been here and for how long? Time doesn't breathe how it used to, it's staggered and burning itself into loops. Maybe he was here before. Maybe he was gone. Maybe one day he got out, and it just wanted him back.
no eyes no eyes
The tangled branches overhead form a ghastly arc, knobbed and knotted, skeletal, that reaches too far above his head to give him any form of enclosed comfort. It’s not the trees themselves he hates; it’s their potential, it’s the way they jut up like bars, like back when he had a room with a window a million years ago; it’s the horrifying stillness gapped between each bark-clad column. It’s because he knows how it watches, unwatching, unfathomable, limbs reaching for some sempiternal point beyond the scope of sight, comprehension, anything. The parts of it, the pieces of it, the thing that Tim can't perceive or see properly, that makes the camera stutter and fuzz like the static in his mind. He sees it, he knows it's there, he doesn't know what it wants, he never did, it just reaches, seeps toward him -
Duck between the trees with their blackened, scorched bark. Run, boy, run faster, keep running, it'll catch you either way but running lets you forget. There's a camera strapped to his chest and he doesn't know if it's still recording, or still working. He doesn't look at it. He doesn't look at anything. He runs, faster, faster, run; little broken toy made of stumbling limbs and warm organs and blood and heat and ragged panting breath, who can't escape its own packaging.
The crackling snap of another pair of feet hitting leaves whips his head around so harshly he feels his neck crack. No no no no. There's nothing else here, nothing but breaking trees and the crumbled wreckage of Tim's own head, and the thing waiting with arms, no arms, outstretched to reel him in.
