𝙳𝙴𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝙿𝙾𝙽𝚄𝙼 » 𝚂𝚂/𝚁𝙻

{𝐜𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝐨𝚗𝚎 » 𝐥𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝐫𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝐰𝚊𝚝𝚎r}

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Close your eyes and answer me this:

How much do you know about the concept of a human being?

To what degree are you familiar with the bases on which we all, as animals, function, percolating through life alongside our genetic mutuals, following the long path through inhale to exhale, esse to cessation? How well are you acquainted with the sound of laughter, or the taste of tears? How often do you feel affliction in the nerves of your tearable skin; soundness in the deepest center point in your head just before falling asleep?

Do you know love? Do you know anger?

Do you know fear?

Fear, in particular, is a powerful phenomenon. Fear makes a majority of our decisions. It hits us in ways that things such as anger cannot; twists us further than love ever could. Adrenaline, in only most cases, is a very intramural ordeal. It's often described as something intangible; something you only know exists if you've had it pulsing through the veins of your own consciousness.

Fear, if relevantly presented, is the sound of flustered footsteps. The feeling of a heartbeat drumming madly on one's own throat, the beatific pelting of Celtic drums. It's the smell of cold air; the taste of lightning. The awareness of devastation. The sensation of agony. The sight of a long hallway — one you recall too well. A corner that you remember being thrown against. Weeping at. Bleeding on. A lock you know exactly how to pick without making any noise other than one single, inaudible—

Click.

A door swings open, belaboring the wall and damaging its own hinges with the force of a surging waterfall, while, just as stealthily, the water stampedes through it. And he himself — the water — has something momentous to effectuate. He's on a mission, in complete despair, just like the waves upon fusillading waves that he embodies. Downcast is what he's become. Forlorn is what all his muscles succumb to turning as he retches in as much air as he can muster, his eyes dripping with the sickly gleam of fresh anguish. But, throughout all this, he's still quick. He can still dodge further misfortune. He knows this. He's sure of it.

He scrambles through the dark room, choking on his own sobs as he rummages for a very specific bottle. His mother must have packed it off somewhere before she left the home and likely died. He'd like to think that she's dead, at least. But in the ruins that this home has become since it became abandoned and never sold, in regards to both her and what he's looking for, it's hard to completely tell.

It's the thirty-first of October. Over here in the world without all the histrionics and witchcraft and gore, children are in the streets, all dressed up in gruesome costumes and, in many cases, dressed up like him. He marvels at their innocence. They're lucky it's only a costume, and they should be substantially indebted of it today.

He throws open a closet door, violently scuffling things aside as he tears through the shelves. He thinks he's going to hyperventilate. Either that or die of suffocation; at this point neither is completely certain to become reality. His hand brushes against a cardboard box, resulting in a familiar clinking sound of clean, smooth glass against itself. He yanks it down, setting it on the floor and searching desperately through it.

His fingers land on a thin blue bottle. Rectangular and tapering in shape, he recognizes it immediately as the one he needs; the one he's been missing for all this time. The one he hasn't had to look for until just now.

Tucking it into his robes, he disappears.

His feet land somewhere on the grass of the bleak world he knows much better than home. He sprauchles briefly — his oxygen levels are messing with his balance — and, upon regaining his unsure footing, begins to run.