Alan Cyprus Dale (todaysweather) wrote in genome_project, @ 2011-12-03 00:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | december 2011, solo |
Who: Alan Dale
What: Losing it
When: Saturday December 3rd, around 3 AM
Where: Dale residence, Alan's room
Rating: High
Warning: This scene contains graphic, disturbing content. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH BLOOD AND GRAPHIC VIOLENCE PLEASE!
The room was unrecognizable.
It had started to slowly change, little by little, right in front of Alan's eyes. Despite the darkness of burnt out nightlights, Alan watched helplessly from his bed as his bookshelf swayed slowly from one side to the other. He trembled as it lurched violently forward and then back into place again. Copies of Journey to the Center of the Earth and The Old Man and the Sea swam by Alan's head as if in a terrible hurry. Why were they in such a hurry? It must have been time to leave. And Alan dared not look down at his wooden floor. It shook as if a 7.5 earthquake was in progress, and stalagmites burst up in places before slowly melting back down to the ground.
"Caves," Alan said in a low, frightened whisper. "A cave?"
The air around him was full of noises, sounds he had never heard before in his life. They were screams of people or animals or air conditioner wires. Alan couldn't tell. All the sounds blended together to form one, eerie and terrifying noise. It made Alan's eardrums pop, and he covered his ears with his palms with a sob. His eyes closed suddenly, but he opened them up again quickly when he realized that the sounds only got worse and louder when his sense of sight was turned off. His mouth would not stop moving, though sounds or actual words rarely came out. Though, if one was to guess, it seemed as if he was constantly mouthing the word "Stop" over and over and over again.
His hands felt like icicles against his cheeks, and he was shivering despite being under his covers. Why was it so cold? Why wasn't his mother putting more wood into their fire? Did she want them to freeze to death?
"No," Alan answered himself. "No." He shook his head as if to make his point. The bitter cold was difficult to ignore though, and Alan's mind searched wildly for a way to make the cold go away. "Running," he said desperately, and looked around the room. There was no place to run, at least not with the building stalagmites on the floor. No where for him to do any type of activity that would drive away the cold.
Then, Alan gasped. A rogue stalagmite broke free of the changing surface of his room and began to pop up at odd, twisted angles by the foot of his bed. "No." Alan swallowed. "Can't."
Despite his fear of the ground, Alan threw his covers off and slid off the bed. His feet touched the ground, and a shock of pain ran through him. He tried not to make a sound, save for the groan and slight whimper that he couldn't help. He'd hurt himself on a stalagmite. That's why his feet twinged so much.
A strong wind took his mind off his aching feet for a moment, though he was again reminded of the cold. "Winter," he breathed. "Winter." He remembered one of his favorite books of all time. The words of it no longer were fictional to him. They were very real. He had to warn someone and quickly. In an instant, he had crossed the room and picked up his permanent marker from his pencil holder. Almost blindly, he began to write on the walls. Every piece of wall space he could find, he wrote on. He wrote on his pillow and on his bookshelf. He wrote on his armchair and on his closet. Wherever there was a free space, he wrote, until his hands cramped and his fingers seemed to twinkle like distant stars.
For a moment, Alan breathed heavily as he looked around the room. His feet throbbed, and his hands did not feel like his own. He had to do something. He had to fix himself before his mother or Mary Ann saw him. What would they think if they saw him like this? With hands that were not his own? With feet that throbbed from the stalagmites he had brought to this room. Would they even know what to do with him?
But Alan knew. Alan knew that the only way to make the pain go away was to cut it away. He turned and spotted his pencil holder on his desk. His scissor was standing erect within, as it always did. Perfect. He would fix this. He wouldn't give his mother or Mary Ann anything more to worry about. Reaching over, he pulled out the scissor and opened it to its widest. Then, as delicately as if he was playing the violin, he made the first incision across his wrist. It hurt, he had to admit, but it wouldn't hurt for long. Deeper and deeper he cut, until he was satisfied. Then, it was time for the other hand. His bloodied hand dripped and trembled as he held the scissors in place.
His vision was getting blurry now. This was probably a good sign. It won't be long now, he thought with relief. The drip-drip drop of blood on the floor of the cave echoed like the sounds of classical music in his ears, soothing, almost refreshing. He remembered his conversation with Lucy Ramsey about music, and he grinned. Everything would be okay soon. Everything would be fine. He took a breath and let the scissors drop to the floor. His wrists were both equally dark and reeked of the stench of his blood. But Alan was feeling better already. In fact, it was time to sleep. Lightheaded, he laid down on the floor of spikes, and it was comforting to him now instead of frightening. The sounds began to slowly fade away into the darkness that embraced him like a dear, old friend.
And the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was the writing on the wall of his warning to everyone.
"Winter is coming."