Re: The stairwell to the eighth floor, 12:03 AM.
He only wished he were a junkie. If he were a junkie, then there would be no voice in the back of his head, no other side of him that refused to disappear -- He would be only himself.
But who was he anymore, really?
His vision became blurred then. He blinked rapidly, trying with everything he had to keep his vision clear, but there was no satisfaction in his trying. He reached for the tiled counter of the island, but his hand slipped on something that felt suspiciously like a small puddle of water, and he lost all of his balance. He fell to his knees, a distinct blend of screams practically leaking from his ears. With his jaw set, he clamped his fingers to his head again.
It felt like bugs biting at the inside of his body, scraping at his flesh and bone until they were free from the prison of his form. After a few seconds, he realized that the screams were coming from his own mouth, bloodcurdling and horrified.
His palms slapped the patterns of the floor and his fingers bent inward at them. If only he could hold onto something, if only he could get some sort of grip on his sanity. "Too late," the monster crooned from deep within his chest.
He knew it was.
Bones snapped and the seams of his clothes ripped and howled, falling to sweat-stained shreds against the whole of his exposed back as he felt his spine lurch outward. The world became infinitely smaller, it became darker. A candle fighting against a hurricane to keep itself illuminated; that's all he was. The entirety of his body was on fire, it sent searing pains through every inch of his anatomy. He felt sick to his stomach. He felt himself writhing against the cold, hard floor of the kitchen, tears in his eyes.
And in the dead of night, in that single moment of silence, the monster roared.