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estdeus_innobis[Wednesday, September 17th (day 479)]
[The Sacred Whore, morning]
It takes too long to realize I'm not dreaming and I'm upright in the bed, sweaty sheet clinging to my legs and breath coming in ragged gasps, before the forest finally fades away. It's daytime now, I can see the light coming from under the door to the shop, I can feel the change in the air from when I fell asleep, and I'm home.
It was just a dream. I was just--
The floor shakes. I'm opening the back door, for the air and the light and some feeling other than being trapped in a tiny box filled with useless things and shadows on the wall, when the bricks start crumbling. The basement wall is crumbling. I can't see it, no, but I feel it just fine. I feel it coming...
No. No. I'm dreaming. Or I was. Or--
It's dark outside. The clock on the wall has it just after twelve and it's dark outside, and not a star in the sky. I slam the door closed, against the night and the trees that weren't there yesterday. The lock clicks into place and I'm not alone.
On the stairs. The first step and I can feel the wood under my own hands for a moment, before I grab hold of the door frame and shake my head and -- please, I'm dreaming -- push it away. There's nothing in the basement, I tell myself. (The second step.) Nothing, nothing at all, just bolts of cloth and boxes of things I should have gotten rid of ages ago and-- And--
The third step. The fourth step. The floor is shaking again, the floor or me and I can't really tell. It's behind the wall, I put it there myself, rolled tight in a thin metal tube, behind the wall and bricked up and forgotten like Fortunato's bones. A whiff of brick dust in the air and I'm dizzy.
The fifth step. The sixth. I run back to the door (the seventh and the eighth, closer now) but it's locked. I locked it. My fingers slip against the metal and the bolt doesn't budge. Splinters in my hands, streaks of blood against the wood. Crawling, slithering on the landing and it leaves a trail too, I know, but it's black in the dark and the paint on the wall blisters, cracks.
I turn to the door to the shop -- I can't -- and it's too late. Sink to the floor, eyes closed as the door opens and the silence pours in. But I won't, no, I won't look, silence and darkness and then hot breath on my neck as the shadow falls over me, I won't, please don't make me, I can't, you're not me!
Time passes. The door opens and closes again. I don't hear it. I'm alone and I don't hear anything at all.
[Closed]
[The Sacred Whore, morning]
It takes too long to realize I'm not dreaming and I'm upright in the bed, sweaty sheet clinging to my legs and breath coming in ragged gasps, before the forest finally fades away. It's daytime now, I can see the light coming from under the door to the shop, I can feel the change in the air from when I fell asleep, and I'm home.
It was just a dream. I was just--
The floor shakes. I'm opening the back door, for the air and the light and some feeling other than being trapped in a tiny box filled with useless things and shadows on the wall, when the bricks start crumbling. The basement wall is crumbling. I can't see it, no, but I feel it just fine. I feel it coming...
No. No. I'm dreaming. Or I was. Or--
It's dark outside. The clock on the wall has it just after twelve and it's dark outside, and not a star in the sky. I slam the door closed, against the night and the trees that weren't there yesterday. The lock clicks into place and I'm not alone.
On the stairs. The first step and I can feel the wood under my own hands for a moment, before I grab hold of the door frame and shake my head and -- please, I'm dreaming -- push it away. There's nothing in the basement, I tell myself. (The second step.) Nothing, nothing at all, just bolts of cloth and boxes of things I should have gotten rid of ages ago and-- And--
The third step. The fourth step. The floor is shaking again, the floor or me and I can't really tell. It's behind the wall, I put it there myself, rolled tight in a thin metal tube, behind the wall and bricked up and forgotten like Fortunato's bones. A whiff of brick dust in the air and I'm dizzy.
The fifth step. The sixth. I run back to the door (the seventh and the eighth, closer now) but it's locked. I locked it. My fingers slip against the metal and the bolt doesn't budge. Splinters in my hands, streaks of blood against the wood. Crawling, slithering on the landing and it leaves a trail too, I know, but it's black in the dark and the paint on the wall blisters, cracks.
I turn to the door to the shop -- I can't -- and it's too late. Sink to the floor, eyes closed as the door opens and the silence pours in. But I won't, no, I won't look, silence and darkness and then hot breath on my neck as the shadow falls over me, I won't, please don't make me, I can't, you're not me!
Time passes. The door opens and closes again. I don't hear it. I'm alone and I don't hear anything at all.
[Closed]
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