08-19-2008, 12:46 AM
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It had been over a week since the sickness had taken him over. Ahren had dreamt fitful things, woke screaming in the middle of the night, panting, wrenching. He didn’t realize what he had been doing or where he was. It was like the heroine withdrawal, only this time, he was not safe. The noises from the other room, as faint and ragged as they were, they kept him up at night. He would hear voices that bore into his skull and made him mad, but he could do nothing to stop them. Instead he curled up as far away as he could and pinned his ears, kept his hands on his head until the throbbing, pounding pain went away. Often times, this was not for hours. He remembered very few things. Having people bring him food and water, or speak to him. He remembered Poe’s voice, and didn’t know if he had spoken to her or not (if she had been there at all). Sometimes he was sure he was hallucinating, and other times he wasn’t so sure.
The door opened, and the blonde, on his side, did not turn to face it. Not until one of those remarkably familiar voices crept into his ears and made vicious regret leech through his bloodstream. He looked terrible—covered in his own dried blood (he had cut his wrists breaking the belt that had held his arms together) and dust, he barely looked like himself. Both eyes tried to focus, but one was blind and the other was blurry. “Corona?” He croaked, voice remarkably dry and unused, like an old cassette.
It had been over a week since the sickness had taken him over. Ahren had dreamt fitful things, woke screaming in the middle of the night, panting, wrenching. He didn’t realize what he had been doing or where he was. It was like the heroine withdrawal, only this time, he was not safe. The noises from the other room, as faint and ragged as they were, they kept him up at night. He would hear voices that bore into his skull and made him mad, but he could do nothing to stop them. Instead he curled up as far away as he could and pinned his ears, kept his hands on his head until the throbbing, pounding pain went away. Often times, this was not for hours. He remembered very few things. Having people bring him food and water, or speak to him. He remembered Poe’s voice, and didn’t know if he had spoken to her or not (if she had been there at all). Sometimes he was sure he was hallucinating, and other times he wasn’t so sure.
The door opened, and the blonde, on his side, did not turn to face it. Not until one of those remarkably familiar voices crept into his ears and made vicious regret leech through his bloodstream. He looked terrible—covered in his own dried blood (he had cut his wrists breaking the belt that had held his arms together) and dust, he barely looked like himself. Both eyes tried to focus, but one was blind and the other was blurry. “Corona?” He croaked, voice remarkably dry and unused, like an old cassette.