Ignite (ElliexFemale!Reader)

V

Its been a while. over a year i think? if youre still here i appreciate it. mwah.

                                       *

I hate listening to the rain; The taps against my window are enough to remind me that no one's knocking against the glass, no one is coming to see me. It's just the taunting drops as they collide with the pane, fleeting to the bottom knowing that that'll be their end. They'll meet with the others, merge into a puddle before they evaporate as though they never existed. They allow themselves to fall and then break their perfect form, creating a mess at the floor, or the window sill if they're lucky. Regardless of how hard or how far they slip, it all ends the same.

My pen runs out of ink but i still have so much to say. Writing distracted me from the harrowing feeling in my stomach, heart frequently taking impolite residence in my throat, encouraging the contents of my stomach up with it. Its been a few hours, my skin is still flush with life, i have no urge to eat the flesh of my fellow survivors. The infection hasnt come for me - yet - and neither has sleep.

The moon hangs morbidly in the sky. No stars tonight, just its serpentine shape in a slanted smile. Am i being mocked? The moon shoudlnt be smiling, she is in complete solidarity too. We are both lonely. Perhaps though, this is a good way to surrender myself to the infection, as to not hurt any others.

I need to try to sleep.

Subconsciously i feel as though my limbs start twitching, a sign that my humanity is departing my blood cells and making room for the inevitable . Although i look at them and they are still, solidified by fear maybe?

I toss the leather bound book to the floor, pull the thin linen tighter over my shoulders. No fever, just thoughts burning holes in my mind. Maybe the ashes of my brain will fall out of my nose, my ears, from being disintegrated by the images inside i cannot seem to force out, like a bad smell lingering despite the windows and doors being open.

My skin feels fine, not sticky or churning into the colour of sour milk, or spewing sweat in an attempt to release itself from what i swallowed earlier.

I need to try to sleep.

Tomorrow i will wake up, perhaps the small piece of consciousness left in me assuming im roaming to try and find another pen, to allow everything to find its place on paper instead of inside of me. But instead, my legs will force me to the closest thing with a pulse and want nothing more than to stop the sound of the thrumming inside of their living chests, and to quench my thirst with a hunger larger than whats left of me, and ill sink my teeth in and -

Im going to be sick again.

The self flagellation will not stop; i just cannot keep it at bay.

I slip out of my bed, allowing my skin to basque in the cold and flick the lock on my door. That way, perhaps someone will hear the distorted murmurs of my voice and understand what has happened before they have to see me.

Head hits the pillow, i need to try to sleep.

*

Slow, steady bangs. A rhythm i feel is so familiar, but is muffled as though my ears are covered by gentle hands. They continue. I try to think. The rhythm get faster, but the sound remains consistent.

My eyes begin to part, thoughts all intwined with one another. I cannot think straight. It is still dark.

The banging continues, and i realise my ears are covered. My arms lifts itself, as if it knows what to do and