Ahem. So I had another infamous bathroom idea. (I walk into the room and get story ideas. Don't hate on my magic bathroom.) I have absolutely no idea what the freak this is. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: This is a work of morbid horror. Not for the faint hearted. There are no cuss words. It's just plain creepy, in my opinion. I may change the rating (higher or lower I cannot say), rather like how I just changed my shirt. Who knows?
Claimer: Despite the possible thoughts of fanfiction the word 'disclaimer' brings to mind, this is mine. Yeah.
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“You know they won’t accept you back.”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“What?”
“You know what I mean.”
Shaking. Movement. Light. A flash—silver hair, chiseled face, singular steel iris. Metallic taste to go with the metallic image.
A nod; brief, concise, to the point.
He understands.
“Society doesn’t accept anyone.” Tugs at the hood; black felt rough on his bloody fingers. Everything is hazy; no sunlight. Bare bulb. Pain.
“That’s a lie.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like lies.”
“Unless you’re the one lying?”
Drip.
“Of course.”
Shift. Cloth at feet; monster in sight. Grasping, eagle’s talons attached to ivory throne arms. Ivory, but not ivory. Chipped. Yellow. Old. Dead.
“You’ll let me go?”
“Did the pharaoh let Moses go?”
“No.”
“He did, yeah. He did.”
“He sent an army after him.”
“You asked me to let you go. You never asked to be left alone. Dimwit.”
Shame. Heat.
“Just let me go.”
“Who said I was ever holding you?”
His gaze jerks to the concrete wall behind Monster. Stain. Rust?
“What?”
“You could leave right now. The door is open. You’re free.”
“I don’t know how to get out.”
“That sounds like a personal problem to me.” A smile. Too white for his age; too white for his sickly parlor. Wrong. “Leave.”
Shift. Door.
“You’re a very odd person.”
Shift. His face—confused.
Drip.
Monster shifts now.
He runs.
“Bye, Sampson! I’ll see you around when they bring you back! They hate tainted things, you know.”
He’s down the hall when he starts to retch.
Drip. Drip.
He can’t escape. It’s following him. She’s following him. They’re following him. The dogs are sniffing at his ankles; ghouls.
There is no escape.
///
Yes, Sampson does need some drugs.
Thoughts?
And, yes, I am seriously disturbed. Why?
Eh.
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