Turning Tides

Turning Tides: Chapter 9

YALL THOUGHT I WAS JUST GONNA END THERE? [cackles]

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Kimblee first woke up screaming and laughing.

Or trying too, at least.

Blood was pouring from his lips as he jerked, vision clouded with the red haze as wailing and crying from the stone rang out in his ears. Taunting laugher and echoing noise resounded from everywhere as strong hands struggled to pin him down.

There was more yelling and a sharp pain was stabbed into his arm.

That only made it worse as he jerked his arm away, tearing something and white-hot pain shot up his shoulder.

His hands instinctively moved together, but before his fingertips could even touch, his wrists were wrenched apart. He jerked again, trying to free his arms from the hands grasping his wrists.

Hands that dragged him down as he separated himself from the millions of anguished souls.

Every touch, every hand on him made him want to vomit.

He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, and all he could hear was torment mixed in with yelling and laughter. A stark white grin stretched too impossibly wide was seared into his mind as he was stuck again and again with needles and his neck was warm and wet with blood.

His struggling was becoming sluggish and still, he screamed out, clawing and fighting the hands that grabbed him, that pulled him down, down into oblivion—

After one final stab, he fell still and his struggling stopped, eyes falling closed again.

And then nothing.

The second time his eyes opened, it was much calmer. His mind was sluggish, hazy. He was drifting and felt as if he was floating. Drugged and barely awake.

A heavy weight was resting against his leg and the faint glow of light under a closeddoor cast deep shadows that sent a tremor down his spine.

Shadows— turn the light out, he'll come back— it hurts. Oh god— it hurts! It's tearing, biting, ripping, slashing—

He couldn't breathe— couldn't remember how to breathe—

He jerked weakly, sluggishly realizing that he was bound down at his wrists and legs, and a weak spark of panic shot through his mind. But then something stuck him in the arm and then darkness consumed his vision again and he was drifting once more.

The third time he woke, he woke to voices. Muddled shouting and hushed tones— a voice that was steadily raising and he was certain that it was Edward.

No. That wasn't possible.

Edward was alive, and he was dead. He traded his own self, his own soul, and the souls in Pride that agreed, to pay whatever Edward had to for his brother. Edward wasn't allowed to be dead—

A blurry form hovered into his line of sight and he faintly realized that there was a warmth holding onto his hand. He was still bound, he hazily realized, eyes unfocused and by gods, he must still be drugged. Drugged so much that he could barely remember anything, barely register anything else aside from his previous train of thought.

There was muffled noise, someone said something but he couldn't tell what— gods his ears were ringing and he could still hear the symphony of torment from the stone.

He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer and then darkness engulfed him like an embrace again.

He remained in and out of consciousness, never fully aware of what was going on but throughout his wakings, there was always... something— someone?— nearby.