mette thinks you're a liar, liar, pants on fire. (lyve) wrote in invol_rpg, @ 2012-11-12 20:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! log, ! plot: horror, mette skoglund, richie ducharme, ~ horror: ivi |
IVI – LOG. DAY 4.
WHO: Richard Ducharme & Mette Skoglund.
WHAT: Richie beats George Cooper at his own game, is welcomed back to the world of the living, and patched up (shoddily).
WHEN: Day 4 (Monday), the wakeup.
WHERE: The infirmary.
STATUS: Complete & horrifically long.
He has been thinking about it since the first night: how to tap into it, how to use it to their advantage. It’s why he didn’t sleep well (how do you sleep in dreams?) and why he ended up thinking, ruminating, on the subject, staring at the wall and listening to the uneven-staccato breathing of his companions (he doesn’t know what else to call them). The fairground swarms with Vols like bees, buzzing activity, there’s a bat in his hand, and he swings and takes a crack at some shuffling human with his jaw hanging on a thin web of skin and tissue, smacking it right off and so it hits someone else in the face, but he doesn’t really care because he’s feeling the very fabric of the dream under his feet and if he finds the loose thread – Richie woke up, groaning, and almost immediately, there was a cracking pain against his skull where someone had taken a bat – simultaneously, small slashes began to appear on his skin like little red grins, though they etched themselves slowly, taking their time so that the burn lingered. Bruises bloomed on him like tropical purple flowers, fading into green, dark blue. When he breathed, he felt it rattle and the excruciating pain of his ribs shifting when they were desperately crying for him to not inhale. Richie had no idea where he was; for a wild moment, he thought he was back at the house party, and he felt his panic building up again – but no, no, the dream was over now. He opened his eyes, his vision hazy, focused on the unforgivingly bright lights of the – what was this place even called? – area where they had laid out all the sleeping students, his knuckles bruised, his mouth dry as a desert. |