[ Where are they? I know I wrote them into the story again. I promised. I know they have to be here.
Alan remembers that being one of his last conscious thoughts before everything went to hell and he was dragged along with it. What else was he doing before the whole world went black? Casey was somewhere, and Alan needed to find him. The cultists were dead. He wore bloodstained flannel. The woods seemed to be reacting, recoiling... recoiling from the looming darkness?
And then the path lead him to a bridge, but as soon as he set foot on it, the pressure in his head increased. He fought, he wrestled with it, tried to keep his fragile hold on his sanity, but in the end, it all failed. He fell, head striking the ground hard, and all went black.
He doesn't remember being dragged from where he was found and brought to a holding cell in the sheriff's station. He doesn't remember the agents depositing him onto a bed inside the cell. He doesn't remember anything but the hell inside his head. Even unconsciousness doesn't spare him from harrowing, horrifying nightmares.
It's black inside his mind, and he's lost in the dark. Not just lost: blind. Fumbling for an exit that doesn't exist. A face, terrifying and evil appears before him: blood around his mouth and on his teeth. Scratch. He bares his teeth and lurches closer to Alan.
Alan jerks on the bed inside the cell, but the nightmare isn't over yet. I'm better at being you then you ever were. I'll take your life, take everything you have. Everything you ever wanted. Friends? They're mine. Love? That's mine too. It's all mine. You'll have nothing by the time I'm done.
Bared teeth come closer, and Alan feels a sharp pain, as if teeth have connected with flesh. The nightmares have turned Scratch into a monster that relishes the taste of blood and the feel of flesh. Not a silly vampire from a dramatic novel. The pain increases as the teeth sink deeper. Alan screams, and in the cell, his eyes fly open.
The Koskela brothers laugh at the man locked in the cell. They laugh as Alan gasps, hands flying to either side of his throbbing head. He doesn't know what time it is, doesn't know how long it takes for his panic to fade into something less sharp, less cutting. The pain in his head doesn't go away, but eventually, Alan regains enough of his senses to be able to sit up in the cell.
Where are they? Where are they!? He can't- he can't have gotten them too. Did he change the story? Did he take them out, when I wrote them in? ...Are they dead? God, please tell me they're not dead.
Time seems to continue slipping on by with Alan still being unaware of the passage of time. It feels like hours, and maybe it is. He's dimly aware of the men in the cell next door pacing around, grumbling, sometimes throwing jabs at him. None of it seems to matter. Alan doesn't move from where he's sitting.
Sometimes other voices register in his mind. Voices he doesn't know. The sheriff, maybe. But there's other voices, new ones: a man and another woman. The man sounds friendly, but resigned. The woman sounds tense. On edge. Alan can relate.
Then there's the sound of a creaking door and approaching footsteps. Alan still doesn't lift his head from his hands. Whoever's coming, it can't mean anything good. Is "good" even a concept in the world anymore? Everything feels like horror and death, corruption and loss of control... and blood. So much blood. The blood has soaked into Alan's flannel shirt, and the metallic smell is enough to make him sick. Maybe he'll never forget how nauseating the scent of clothes soaked in blood can be.
Someone's approaching. The steps are resolute but not heavy. Somewhere between light and heavy. Where are they?
Slowly, so very slowly, Alan's head lifts from his hands. He sees someone standing at the bars, hands curled around them, and forehead coming to rest against them. Wait. He sees a flash of red hair, and his breath leaves him in an instant. He knows that voice. It's the voice he hears in his mind sometimes. Memories. Dreams? What's the difference between a memory and a dream? ]
.... Jesse?
[ She's here. She's safe. Relief washes over him in spite of himself, and for a moment, he forgets about everything that led him here. He forgets he's in a cell covered in blood. Forgets the pounding in his head. He smiles, and it probably looks unsettling, given his rough appearance, but at least it's a smile. ]
It was definitely the flannel. [ The comment earns him a few more derogatory words from the men in the cell next door, but he ignores them. He's just glad to see her: the closest thing here to a friendly face. ]
no subject
Alan remembers that being one of his last conscious thoughts before everything went to hell and he was dragged along with it. What else was he doing before the whole world went black? Casey was somewhere, and Alan needed to find him. The cultists were dead. He wore bloodstained flannel. The woods seemed to be reacting, recoiling... recoiling from the looming darkness?
And then the path lead him to a bridge, but as soon as he set foot on it, the pressure in his head increased. He fought, he wrestled with it, tried to keep his fragile hold on his sanity, but in the end, it all failed. He fell, head striking the ground hard, and all went black.
He doesn't remember being dragged from where he was found and brought to a holding cell in the sheriff's station. He doesn't remember the agents depositing him onto a bed inside the cell. He doesn't remember anything but the hell inside his head. Even unconsciousness doesn't spare him from harrowing, horrifying nightmares.
It's black inside his mind, and he's lost in the dark. Not just lost: blind. Fumbling for an exit that doesn't exist. A face, terrifying and evil appears before him: blood around his mouth and on his teeth. Scratch. He bares his teeth and lurches closer to Alan.
Alan jerks on the bed inside the cell, but the nightmare isn't over yet. I'm better at being you then you ever were. I'll take your life, take everything you have. Everything you ever wanted. Friends? They're mine. Love? That's mine too. It's all mine. You'll have nothing by the time I'm done.
Bared teeth come closer, and Alan feels a sharp pain, as if teeth have connected with flesh. The nightmares have turned Scratch into a monster that relishes the taste of blood and the feel of flesh. Not a silly vampire from a dramatic novel. The pain increases as the teeth sink deeper. Alan screams, and in the cell, his eyes fly open.
The Koskela brothers laugh at the man locked in the cell. They laugh as Alan gasps, hands flying to either side of his throbbing head. He doesn't know what time it is, doesn't know how long it takes for his panic to fade into something less sharp, less cutting. The pain in his head doesn't go away, but eventually, Alan regains enough of his senses to be able to sit up in the cell.
Where are they? Where are they!? He can't- he can't have gotten them too. Did he change the story? Did he take them out, when I wrote them in? ...Are they dead? God, please tell me they're not dead.
Time seems to continue slipping on by with Alan still being unaware of the passage of time. It feels like hours, and maybe it is. He's dimly aware of the men in the cell next door pacing around, grumbling, sometimes throwing jabs at him. None of it seems to matter. Alan doesn't move from where he's sitting.
Sometimes other voices register in his mind. Voices he doesn't know. The sheriff, maybe. But there's other voices, new ones: a man and another woman. The man sounds friendly, but resigned. The woman sounds tense. On edge. Alan can relate.
Then there's the sound of a creaking door and approaching footsteps. Alan still doesn't lift his head from his hands. Whoever's coming, it can't mean anything good. Is "good" even a concept in the world anymore? Everything feels like horror and death, corruption and loss of control... and blood. So much blood. The blood has soaked into Alan's flannel shirt, and the metallic smell is enough to make him sick. Maybe he'll never forget how nauseating the scent of clothes soaked in blood can be.
Someone's approaching. The steps are resolute but not heavy. Somewhere between light and heavy. Where are they?
Slowly, so very slowly, Alan's head lifts from his hands. He sees someone standing at the bars, hands curled around them, and forehead coming to rest against them. Wait. He sees a flash of red hair, and his breath leaves him in an instant. He knows that voice. It's the voice he hears in his mind sometimes. Memories. Dreams? What's the difference between a memory and a dream? ]
.... Jesse?
[ She's here. She's safe. Relief washes over him in spite of himself, and for a moment, he forgets about everything that led him here. He forgets he's in a cell covered in blood. Forgets the pounding in his head. He smiles, and it probably looks unsettling, given his rough appearance, but at least it's a smile. ]
It was definitely the flannel. [ The comment earns him a few more derogatory words from the men in the cell next door, but he ignores them. He's just glad to see her: the closest thing here to a friendly face. ]