Sinister - Larry Stylinson

Part Six

He's cold, trembling; shivering beyond the point of self-control. The kind that starts in your stomach and quakes out into your limbs, has your teeth chattering loudly and you can't help it.

He's cold, though it's 80 degrees.

His heart is galloping, and he's running. Running to the edge of some blurry tree-scape, where the tree's stand close together. Off some distance behind him a voice is bellowing some incoherent slur, and he quickens his pace, though he doesn't know how he manages it.

He makes it to the edge, and he can barely see- what exactly is he doing here again? He's breathing raggedly, the grass curls away to bare dried pine needles and moss. And more importantly, a mass.

It's a bloody, disfigured mass, a woman; or what used to be. Her head is lolled to the side, completely mauled, caved in on itself and producing copious amounts of blood. Already, creatures and maggots are crawling about her flesh, and he's positive he's going to be sick.

Yet he's seen this very image many times, he wretches onto the ground beside her, before looping his hands underneath her twisted shoulders and begins to drag her between the trees.

He breathes, spastic, nervously, as though the trees are silent on-lookers, deeming and judging quietly, glaring down at him. He hears that same voice bellow out loudly beyond, and he quickens his pace, further into the oily black abyss.

He's crying, drags her further into the forest, descending a steep slope, stumbling pitifully. And when his foot catches an unearthed root, his feet swing out beneath him and he crashes backwards, rolling downward this descent.

He hits the bottom, and is spluttering in a mossy bed, when her body comes cascading after him, and just as a limp rag-doll, rolls straight onto his chest, suppressing his breath. Her mauled face limply hanging over his, and he lets out a guffaw of a noise, terrified- a shriek of utter horror.

And then he's upright, heart galloping in his chest, peering around the dim bedroom he had fallen asleep in to pass the time when Louis' had sentenced to it.

He gasps for breath, presses a sweaty palm to his forehead and leans forward, letting out a long pent up breath.

That had felt so familiar, so real.

It had to be, he could remember the feel of her weight on his chest, the feel of her still hot blood painting his exposed skin.

His stomach threatened to bottom out, and decided that leaving his room might be the best option.

--

Louis was pacing when Harry emerged from his room with an incredibly disheveled look on his face. The man looked at him, studied him with a brief expression of solace, but then he goes back to pacing, with his index finger pressed against his lip in extreme thought.

"What are you doing?" Harry inquires, rather chipper for the look on his face.

"Thinking." Louis replied without hesitation, nor glance up at him.

And Harry is instantly making his way to the man, wrapping his arms around his waist to still him and presses his lips against the fleshy space beneath his right ear. Louis tenses, his brain still in overdrive. "About what?"

His voice awakes the need and desire to relieve whatever was eating at Louis. And he let out a little breath, leaning back into him. "Everything, really." was all he could mutter out.

"Mmm, want me to help?" He sighs against his skin, spinning the smaller man around to face him, and he grins down at him. But not wickedly- brokenly. As though he's tormented by something, and the look in his eyes is dull, bloodshot and helpless. He looks exhausted.