Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 7 // The Face of Madness (C.STRAY)

THE TRUTH COMES SECOND - SEMIFINALS 

The light of day brought him to that place between sleep and awake.

He felt as though he was moving his arms, but he never physically brushed anything; he was frozen in the gelatin of sleep and some dizzying scent of cider. Vertigo struck him while his eyes were closed. It kicked him while he was down, took advantage of the dark. The kicks were cold, too, striking him all over and leaving goosebumps he couldn't rub away in their wake.

Struggle, he struggled - he wanted the bumps gone, and gone, and gone, but he was

frozen frozen frozen

It was too cold.

frozen frozen frozen

It stole from him. It stole the strength.

frozen frozen frozen

It bent down to his ear, licked its lips, and parted them in a cold breath so invasive that he could almost feel himself growing lightheaded, and then, just as he thought it'd bite that ear of his off, it said-

frozen frozen frozen

Carrick's eyes flicked open.

His breath left him with caution and in a slow shake, trembling in the minute-long exhale he forced himself through. It was torture, forcing himself to stay there, but could he really even get up? He didn't want to. The ceiling wasn't made of stone, but white plaster, and that scared him. The room wasn't shrouded in shadow and depth, but of simple light, and that scared him.

He wasn't cold, and that scared him.

Drowsiness still plagued him, and he went to wipe away the sleep from his eyes but when he did he had some trouble raising his arms. He tugged again, tugged loose of familiar sheets. They were soft and warm and had those creases he loved tracing when he couldn't sleep so well. He almost went to following the stitches right then and there, for the comfort was so close, but he forced himself to a pause, forced his breath to a halt.

I know these blankets.

A fluttering sound to his right made him forget the sheets, a flinch shifting his body from something so light. If Wilden were awake, he would've pointed a finger and laughed, not in that chastising way, but in that "look at you, with your guard down" sort of way. It wasn't a lie.

Slowly, he let his cheek fall to the sheets, turning so that he could see the white curtains flapping against the window frame, curling and getting twisted in themselves whenever the slightest breeze blew in. He only realized how hot his cheeks were when the air cooled it, and for a long while, he lay there, listening to the tinkle of chimes outside and the occasional hoot of a kid chasing his friends.

It was familiar. It was peace.

The familiarity, in fact, was what made him sit up in the first place. A new perspective flooded his eyes- the chip in the door, he knew that; that stain on the wall, he knew that; the pictures on hastily built shelves, he knew them.

The second bed a few feet from him, he knew that.

A special sort of pain struck him then, for even though he knew this place, he didn't want to admit that it was his home, that he was home. It was a tiny gasp that started it, but soon his eyes were blurring up with heat, and he was rubbing away at them furiously. I'm home. I'm with ma. I'm with the twins.

I'm with him, even if he's not here no more.

It was easier for him to slip out of his own bed after that, easier to place his feet in the grooves his little shoes had made years ago in the floorboards. He walked over to the other bed, saw similar grooves made by someone else, but didn't dare step on them. They weren't his to step on.