Cry Of Monsters.

Chapter Four

Ink stained his fingertips, but that's to be expected. He'd just detailed the last of his reply, a signature. David stands, swallowing thickly at the dull ache in his legs. It felt like every inch of him had been pummeled with a baseball bat. His sweaty hands reach for the doorknob, and opens the door, leaving his room.

Over the last month or so, David had learned to navigate the Rehab a little better, and now knew the difference in the corridors that lead around the place. He'd been managing - well, just about, but things were still the same. He walks down a once unknown corridor, stopping at a desk, and handing in the letter.

"Thank you, David." The man stood behind the desk squinted at his nametag, but David wasn't bothered. They didn't pretend to care, and took no effort to know. He prefered it this way. Creeping nausea overcame him, as his stomach cried in pain. Dejectedly, he sighs, and nods at the man before turning away, retracing his steps until he reaches the turn off to the commons. David takes a left, and cuts through the commons until he reaches an open plan cafeteria. The stench of the food makes the nausea worse, but he feels so weak he knows he can't last much longer. Eventually, he decides on a basic sandwich, and eats it slowly.

His stomach begins to cramp up, and he feels the sickness getting worse. He stands, abruptly, and stumbles out of the room, leaving the tray of food behind.

'If I can get back to my room, I'll be okay.' He thinks, clutching his stomach as unbearable pain overcomes him. His legs feel weak, and he struggles to walk. He loses his footing, and falls.

When David opens his eyes, everything is different. The room is black. He stands, shakily, and looks around, cursing. "Not again!" He scowls, face contorting in anger. He takes a step forward, feeling his body jerk and sway, uncertain of his weight. The room - if it could be called that - seemed to spin and warp around him, but he continued forward. Most often than not, he wouldn't get to leave until he saw what he wanted him to see. He grew nervous, most of the time these abysmal depths didn't seem to have any indication of what was there, or what wasn't. He could easily be walking into death at any moment. No floor, or walls in sight. However, he must have come to a new area, because dispersed within the blackness, were dots. Reluctantly, he follows the trail of red, not for the first time in his life, and his skin prickles with the cold heat of sickness.

He sees them, writhing and twitching in a way nothing human could. Beaten and bloody on decaying flesh and the smell, the smell, it's disgustingly horrific. He chokes on the upcoming bile, and stumbles backwards. No gun. No axe. No safety. He turns to sprint, but they close into him, hissing and moaning in pain, and he screams as they limp towards him. Their hands are on him now, cold and clammy like death, dragging, ripping, biting into him. They're ripping him apart with their nails, the sound of tearing skin and blood hitting the blackness. He tastes the metal on his tongue and it's all too much, the pain, the pain.

God. It hurts.

It feels like they're eating him alive now, taking his flesh and consuming him. A wound is open at his stomach, and they're ripping at his organs, spilling them out onto the ground like a buffet on display. He can hardly move. They're all around him now, biting at his achilles tendon, his organs on the floor, his face. He lets out one last gross sob, feeling the blood pooling and sticking to his clothes and drowning him until it fills his mouth, his nose and blinds him. He's choking and he can't breathe.

The hands are gone. It feels like an overwhelming nothingness surrounds him. There was no noise, no groaning, no longer was he crying. Simply, silence. And darkness. There was no way to tell if it was darkness he was seeing, or his eyes had ceased to work, but it didn't matter. He couldn't move, and the wetness was still on him. But he felt nothing, he saw, he heard and tasted nothing. It was like he was the only being in existence, and space was compressing him. He had no heartbeat, he tried to swallow but there was no response. Just a vague whisper in the unknown reaches of somewhere that his mouth was dry. Whether it was his mind, or the space, he did not know. Life did not matter. Death did not matter. Nothing mattered here, wherever here was. Only right now. Whatever that may be. The nothingness. A void. He might go insane if he can feel anything at all.

Or maybe he is going insane, because he can hear it now, a murmur.

"David"

And then it's gone. The emptiness resumes. He never realised how much it swallowed him up until he knew of another, more important thing. Something else. Whatever it might be, he latches onto it. A conscious movement, though he still cannot move. He takes a deep, unmoving breath, and relaxes.

No, no. He can't. He won't. He won't. He lashes out, he screams, he focuses every part of his being on the... the thing.

Voice. A voice! Oh so familiar and tantalisingly close, there's a ringing in his ears, and he moves every fibre of his being into turning sound into image. Associating it with a face.

Yes, a source of mistrust, laced with hope, a longing to recover.

Yes, a pathetic spiral downwards, but a urge to climb back up.

Yes. He will. He will regrow. He's burned, and from the ashes he will regrow, stronger. Not without hardship but with promise of better things, a new beginning.

Yes.