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[31 Jan 2008|11:30am] |
You never want to hear "You should see the bathroom..." whispered over and over again while pulling apart the laundry room, finding words written in brown rusty blood behind it. Arriving too late to see someone cave in, then die, the way their eyes are filled with hatred, not fright for passing. Or pain.
Just that they hate you so much. That you should've been there as well to die with them.
A large house, on a hills, trees littering the property. There was more to it, but the ending, the scraping (Why do I hear sound lately?) of the washing machine. Black and white tiles, and ichor dripping out of somewhere.
The kitchen was no better. A party, perhaps? People getting a little crazy, becoming base in desires. Ripping, shredding, collasping in upon themselves like paper folding into a crumbled ball. Pulling up the sink, seeing folded... things. Hacked, bent, no blood. Seeing words written under the mess, through the bodies without having to remove them to be able to read them.
Never made it to the bathroom to see how bad it was. I couldn't stay sleeping. I forced myself away, gasping, not caring that it was 5:30 and that the alarm was not going to go off til 7. Awake for a while, unable to stop shaking so so much. My shoulders were hurting.
It felt like a dark court, the back of the house to somewhere that would open up with ghastly spiderwebs for decoration, bulbous creatures trying to lure you in to screw in hideous ways. Feeling as if there'd be a long table, and the back of the house, where the mess was, was going to be dinner. Ruined.
Brown, rust, black and white. I rarely have colorful dreams. Rarely is there sound, just the knowledge of what was said. Blood is always a color though. Life seeping away, sometimes caused by me. No... Always caused by me. Either by my own want or arriving too late to save them.
Never did make it to the bathroom...
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