warning: violence
One shouldn't be so at home in the decline of their mind, and you think for a moment that this could be funny somewhere else. Through a television screen or Alice's looking glass, anywhere but here. The way it occurrs to you only at times like this, what you might have been. The dreams and the people that you let slip through your fingers. The thought strays away when the sound of glass breaks, because it doesn't belong here, it can't. The separation from self is comfortable, but it can't stay for long, fear doesn't let it.
Fear isn't even a word large enough to constitute the strange clarity that overtakes your mind. This must be the peace that people speak of in their last breath of life. The first hit is a surprise, something that brews up snake venom anger like it is supposed to. But he is angrier than you, stronger too, and there's not much that can top that. Your face stings and with it comes an ill-fitting surprise, the indignation that betrays you a moment before the closed fist catches you next and sends you in a slumped spiral to the ground. The floor beneath you is cool tile, the temperature is a relief from the fever of panic that flares at last. You don't want to look up, as if eye contact might set the monster off again. "I'm sorry," you say softly. "Let me explain."
But there will not be any explanations. Speak no evil. The sharp toe of a shoe catches you in the ribs, sending words and air free. There's blood in your mouth, and somehow you can concentrate on that when you curl in on yourself to try and block yourself against the other kicks, but they land where they can. Your calves, your side, your shoulder. Everything ceases except for the pain, and the silence is deafening. Until there isn't silence, there's a hiss of leather, the click of metal. Opening your eyes, the lights are out, but there's a lamp on the small table nearest you, and you want light more than anything right now. Climbing slowly onto your hands and knees, everything hurts. Through experience, you know it will hurt more later, but just reach for the light. Just get to the light. If you're hurt, if they know that you are hurt, it will stop. It always stops, it will stop. Reach the light, just crawl.
Claws catch the back of your shirt and rip it open down your back. The air is cold against your skin, but when the belt buckle comes down, everything feels hot. Searing heat as the swings of metal and leather come again and again. Faster with the dragon's fury, he must be breathing fire somewhere behind you because your skin is so hot. Somebody in the room is begging please, please, please. So fuzzy and distant, you don't recognize the voice as your own. Finally, you reach the table's legs and begin to haul yourself up with a blind scrape of fingers for the lamp's dangling lightswitch. Suddenly, the room is dressed in a lovely yellow gown of light, but it is short lived when your grip slips from the table's edge, too slick with blood to hold onto anything.
It was never like this, as bad as it has been, it has never been like this. Maybe you'll die because you begin to be afraid that it won't stop, especially when the lion pulls you up by the tatters of your shirt. When the fabric slides away, he has your arms and he is seething for air. He has to support you, your feet feel like jello and there's so much blood beneath your feet when you look down. The lion is apologizing to you, the lamb, now. Something about how you always do this, you always want to leave. He kisses you, but there's too much blood in your mouth, and with notable disgust, he shoves you back against the table. The lamp breaks at your back, the glass barely stings in the dark when you fall back to the floor, unable to hold yourself. Its all dark now, darker than shadows, the blissful arrival of unconsciousness. Or maybe death, you think, maybe at last.