White walls, a tall white ceiling, a white floor, white, white, white all around pulsating in a light that burns brightly, yet flickers on and off in a quickly pulsing pattern. Bright, then dark. White, then black. Nauseating, yet almost like a heartbeat, though it is merely a mockery of one, for its owner has none. It is interrupted only by neon orange lines that spread through the floor, up the walls, all the way to a central point in the ceiling where they coalesce and drip, drip, drip down into the a ball of snapping, electric ether suspended in midair, loud and echoing in the otherwise empty room.
The ball of energy croaks and snaps and screeches, too much hatred fed to it from its source that lies motionless on the floor, eyes shut tight, mouth opened in a soundless scream that instead reverberates out of the orange tinted lightning ether ball. It is an agonizing screech, something ripped out of a silent, aching throat and amplified through its ether. And there on the floor, at the center of the orange lines and powering this creature up and giving it shape, lies a poor, broken doll.
And the only thing he knows is pain.
Pulling from within himself, an aching, intrusive screeching scraping at his veins that takes and takes and takes and takes everything it can find, something acidic, something sick and satisfying that mixes at the bottom of his stomach in a concoction of pure hate. Hate for the world that birthed him, hate for lights behind his eyelids, hate for himself, for every second of this torture that he's forced to stay alive for, death a mere, unattainable dream so far in the horizon and already snatched out of his hands by a smiling doppelganger in a mirror.
Agony exits not in sound, but in clear, transparent tears trailing down his cheeks and falling onto the pristine floor. The screeching ball of ether roars and rips thunder out his veins, using him to exist, to live, to destroy and kill. A harbinger of death. An angel's thanatos.
DID SOMEBODY ORDER A FUCKED UP DREAM
White walls, a tall white ceiling, a white floor, white, white, white all around pulsating in a light that burns brightly, yet flickers on and off in a quickly pulsing pattern. Bright, then dark. White, then black. Nauseating, yet almost like a heartbeat, though it is merely a mockery of one, for its owner has none. It is interrupted only by neon orange lines that spread through the floor, up the walls, all the way to a central point in the ceiling where they coalesce and drip, drip, drip down into the a ball of snapping, electric ether suspended in midair, loud and echoing in the otherwise empty room.
The ball of energy croaks and snaps and screeches, too much hatred fed to it from its source that lies motionless on the floor, eyes shut tight, mouth opened in a soundless scream that instead reverberates out of the orange tinted lightning ether ball. It is an agonizing screech, something ripped out of a silent, aching throat and amplified through its ether. And there on the floor, at the center of the orange lines and powering this creature up and giving it shape, lies a poor, broken doll.
And the only thing he knows is pain.
Pulling from within himself, an aching, intrusive screeching scraping at his veins that takes and takes and takes and takes everything it can find, something acidic, something sick and satisfying that mixes at the bottom of his stomach in a concoction of pure hate. Hate for the world that birthed him, hate for lights behind his eyelids, hate for himself, for every second of this torture that he's forced to stay alive for, death a mere, unattainable dream so far in the horizon and already snatched out of his hands by a smiling doppelganger in a mirror.
Agony exits not in sound, but in clear, transparent tears trailing down his cheeks and falling onto the pristine floor. The screeching ball of ether roars and rips thunder out his veins, using him to exist, to live, to destroy and kill. A harbinger of death. An angel's thanatos.
It's taking everything he has.
Someone, please, let it end.
Someone,