Cry Of Monsters.

Chapter Three

The ceiling fan creaked and whirred incessantly as the doctor assessed the paperwork of the fidgeting man in front of him.

"How have you been, David?"

David shrugs, biting the tips of his fingers from the hand that was propping up his head.

"I've been better..." He keeps his gaze strictly on the ground, the doctor hums in confirmation. Things slowly quietened until only the shuffling of paper could be heard. It irritated David. He grinds his teeth absentmindedly, his fingers numb and trickling with blood.

"David?"

He snaps back out of his daze to feel his eyes burning from not blinking, the sour taste of blood on his lips. "I've been thinking... Something that may get you settled in here." David raised a brow, he'd been here for a week, and things hadn't been going well. It could almost be described as damn right difficult. The layout of the building was almost impossible to navigate and he was getting worse every day. "I'm in contact with another young man who I believe would do you some good to talk to." David's face contorts with unwillingness, but the doctor simply smiles. "It could help. You won't know unless you try." David sighs begrudgingly, taking the stack of papers off his desk and nodding to appease the man in front of him.

"Alright. Alright. I'll try." He huffs, thoughts weighing heavy in his mind. It was futile, and he knew it. However,, it was overwhelmingly clear how much he needed the doctor off his back. So far, this had been their second 'session', and it was inherent that David kept up a wall, almost as if to keep the doctor out - a defence. The doctor smiles at him, as if to instill him with a sense of optimism. Needless to say, it didn't work and David still felt as irked as before. The doctor dismisses him and David breathes a sigh of relief, retracing his steps back to his room. He shuts his door and stares at the papers in his hand questioningly. He hesitates.

David reaches for the pen on his desk and bites it uneasily. Wa she really going to do this? How should he start? What should he say?

My name is David Leatherhoff and He crosses it out, tutting and throwing the bitten pen to the side. He shakes his head, tutting and shuffling to his bed, laying down to close his eyes. "Damn pathetic." he huffs to himself, tucking his arms behind his head and chewing his lip.

Thumping like a rhythmic drum bores into David's mind, setting him on edge and provoking his breath. His heart pounds heavily in his chest, almost matching the pace with the pulsation of the dark room he seemed to be trapped in. Shadows seemed to prowl around him, the tremoring chalk lines and sprawled out messages overcoming him as he turns around.

IF?

"If?" David retorts. He speaks, but his voice is empty, as if he had never opened his mouth at all. His lips prickle and burn, a stinging sensation much like several needles working into his flesh, and his throat closes up. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a door in the same style of the shoddily drawn white lines like a grade school project. He makes his way over, steps echoing uncomfortably on the hard ground that seemed to oscillate, resonating with the ambiance of heavy beats that suffocated him. To his surprise, the door opens. The lights are non-existent until he steps in and the door closes. It momentarily blinds him and his eyes begin to water. He wiped at his cheeks subconsciously with his fingers. David recoiled instantly. He brings his hand up to his face, and takes a shuddering gasp. Black blood leaks from his empty sockets, yet he can still see. He looks around frantically, the space around him now looking remarkably like a public restroom. He tries to speak, but his mouth would not open. He rushes to the sinks, peering into the mirror as his breathing quickens until it feels like one big breath at a time.

His skin is grey, eyes black and voidlike, mouth sewn shut, embroidered with the taunting word dead. He swallows hard, but chokes, and then he sees it. A hand. It's enclosed around his neck, vise-like and growing tighter by the second. The pounding in the air grows louder and louder until it's splitting his skull open, and he's spluttering. Lightning jars the lights to flash off for a moment, and he can see a silhouette of his fear stricken self in the reflection. When the lights return, David wishes he could scream. He was there, inching out of the mirror, a bloody cavity in his chest. The doppelgänger's hand slips around David's neck, draining the air from his lungs and making his vision go black. The everlasting thunder of noise grows louder still, becoming a part of him as he sobs out in anguish.

David cries out, sitting with a start at the knocking at his door. He runs a hand through his sweat slicked hair and is reassured his voice works.

"Just a second." He manages to croak out, shivering from the cold sweat and the vivid nightmare. He stands, stumbling towards the door. He opens it up to find a man in blue scrubs stood there.

"Sorry to wake you. Are you David? I have a letter for you." He holds out a white envelope, which David took with tremouring hands.

"Thank you." David replies graciously, knowing the man wouldn't understand the sincerity in his voice. He shuts the door, setting the letter down and rubbing his face with a sigh of trepidation. Was a peaceful nights sleep too much to ask for? Just one night where he felt like he wasn't being mocked... Having calmed down slightly, he sits heavily on the bed, and opens the envelope.

Hello, my name is Simon Henriksson, and my doctor advised I write to you in accordance that it might help me. Honestly, I have no idea how, as I'm already partaking in a therapy, though that isn't really working either. I don't really know what I should be writing, or even if you'll respond but.. Well, It'd be nice to have someone to talk to. I sincerely hope I'm not bothering you by doing this, and I don't want to pressure you into replying. In honesty, I'm not expecting an answer and I wasn't too keen on the idea anyways... - Simon H.

David reads the scrawled out writing, struggling on some parts where the spacing was almost absent. The handwriting was a strange concoction of cursive and shaky words laid on a slant, disregarding the lines they sat on. David rolls his eyes, supposing he should reply since he was the one who was supposed to write in the first place. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, stretching lethargically. The dull pain in his muscles had not left, but on the days where it was at its worst, the cup of unknown pills soothed his aches. Today was most definitely one of these days, and he stands up, wincing and groaning. "Holy shit." He grumbles, steadily making his way to the door. He staggered down the corridor, finding his way to the commons room and heading to the desk. He smiles weakly at the lady who asks for his name, and a brief exchange of communication gets him what he needs. A feeling all too familiar, he remembers, from somewhere clouded in the back of his mind. The lady asks if David required a cup of water, but he just wordlessly shakes his head, and swallows the drugs. Out of the corner of his eye, he notes the lady is a pretty girl, of a similar age to him. Short, blond curls ordained her face, and she looked at him with baby blue eyes and big lashes. He doesn't let this stick with him, as he takes a moment to remember his surroundings, and hastily makes his way back to the familiar corridor - though somewhat ironic due to the maze like quality of the building.

'Hopefully, the drugs will kick in soon' David thinks, flinching as the nerves in his body burn. He felt ill, too cold, yet too hot. He was starving, yet could not bring himself to eat. His eyes were heavy, and dark, but he felt too anxious to sleep - too restless. He lets himself reach for the pen, and furrows his brow. "Fuck it, why not?"