Henry Townshend (ex_receiver272) wrote in edgewoodstate, @ 2008-03-08 02:22:00 |
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Entry tags: | henry townshend, sarah connor |
Who: Henry and OPEN
What: i can haz sleep nao? No? Dang. I needed that.
When: Evening
Where: Library
Warnings: Disturbing imagery, possibly language in future. Rest TBA.
The stench of blood was heavy, overwhelming to the senses. The building's walls were familiar and yet foreign; dirty, rusted, abandoned. The floor creaked in protest as feet cautiously made their way across, attempting to avoid the crimson trail they followed.
Room 303.
"No," was all that escaped the hoarse, dry throat. Eileen's room. This was Eileen's room.
As feet carried him inside, his eyes began to water and nose flared from the stench's increasing intensity. The room was completely covered in blood, some of it already dried and brown, but the area still around the woman in the center was rich, was red. "E-Eileen!"
20121.
He fell to his knees beside her fallen figure, hands reaching out, attempting to pull her limp form towards him, praying to whatever god would listen that she wasn't dead... but there was no answer. There was no pulse, there was no breathing. It was when he heard the faint sounds of steps, feeling the rising panic in his chest--it was Walter, had to be Walter--and--
With a sudden jerk, Henry's head lifted from the table. It was just a dream... or memory. He couldn't decide which anymore, all of it seemed to fuse together, seemed to blur at the lines as of late. The brunet could only release a sigh, rubbing at his heavy-lidded eyes. Warily, he then glanced down at the books he had been thumbing through. All of them focused on demonology... and none seemed to include the Valtiel Walter had mentioned.
Henry was hesitant to believe him, but there had been something in his eyes, something in his manner that reminded him of that little boy he once saw by the lake, by the place he had first been chased--but was there anything he could do? He wanted to help, he was always altruistic, but he didn't know anything about... that, whatever that was.
"Maybe there's nothing that can be done," he murmured to himself, closing the book he had been dozing on.