bastard john snow. (![]() ![]() @ 2011-06-13 21:38:00 |
![]() |
|||
![]() |
|
![]() |
|
![]() |
Entry tags: | ! narrative, john collins |
WHO: John Collins.
WHAT: JOHNCEPTION.
WHEN: After this and this.
WHERE: John's room, mostly.
STATUS/RATING: G/Complete!
It hit him in a flash—a sudden, splitting pain that shot through his temples and eyes and down his neck, into the bones of his spine, into his ribs and his lungs and circling back into his throat, left him breathing in shallow, fiery breaths. His head throbbed. His vision went white.
Something cracked, deep inside his mind. An iron wall that closed off another iron wall, and another, and another. The slim, seamless side of a well constructed box.
John felt himself crawling desperately around the floor by his bed, the carpet scraping his fingers and palms a moment after his hands ran against it, sensing everything like a strange, physical echo. His fingers fumbled onto his phone and the pain shot through him again, knocking him half-senseless back to the ground, where he let out a keening moan that grew in shadows of itself, each groan a pitch lower than the one before—and then it was not a groan but a growl, and he was biting desperately into his lip to try and regain himself, to shock himself back to consciousness.
The wall strained in reply. From deep, deep inside, a noise slid out like wisps of steam, testing and tasting the air before a great hiss escaped and knocked recklessly, gleefully, around the spaces of his mind. And a word came out, a whisper that grew and filled his chest, made him cough desperately into his hand, trying to take air in and choking again on john, john, john, john, johnjohnjohnjohnjohn
He found himself conscious again, gasping for air, standing with one foot over the edge of Victory Hall's roof.