some enchanted evening, when you find your true love when you hear her call you across a crowded room then fly to her side and make her your own or all through your life you may dream all alone! 🎶
The singing might be the most, and the least disturbing thing down here in the basement, upon being locked in with the Groom, too panicked to remember the way back, too tired and injured to find another out. The singing that would send chills down his spine before he even know who (what) lurked down here, possibly worse than anything that roamed the upper levels except for the swarm god itself. There's a reason nobody would follow him down here, and he was too exhausted, too tired, too scared to understand this very basic concept.
The singing. If it were for somewhere else, it might be soothing — not quite pretty (at least not by common standard), distorted by the weird echoing down here, thrown back in some places and swallowed whole in others, just like the light was sucked up there entirely. Maybe that was even what this was — them, watching in some twisted sense of amusement until they would grow tired, until they would leave or bring to an ultimate end what dragged on for too long.
That one, however, is an ill hope, one that dies slowly inside his chest, curled up to rot. Maybe he would have actually stood a chance to survive this nightmare — leave, harmed, but breathing. If he hadn't decided to run down the stairs, to come here where nothing could offer a hiding spot, where his breathing would prove unnaturally loud, where the air was stale from too much copper, where singing would fill the air.
He remembers the radio of his mother, and how disturbing it would sound if the settings weren't quite right or if a storm would interfere with it's wavelengths. It's a hazy thought, gone within a single heartbeat, no more than the rambling most of this asylum's inhabitants would provide. He wonders if he's going insane. He wonders if he already did. He wonders if it shouldn't be more merciful to lose his mind entirely, lose the ability to make a clear thought. With thinking came the future, and he knows just well what that is holding out for him, with the wood biting into his back and splinters drawn into the rare flesh of his hands, of his neck, drawing thin pearls of blood, a mockery of a rich girl's jewels.
And the singing. Something that would haunt his dreams were he not sure there are no more dreams to come, not unless something different happens. Like the Walrider causing enough havoc upstairs to have the fucking roof fall onto his head and give a more merciful fate.
He wants to scream, just to not hear the damn singing anymore. He doesn't. Of course he doesn't — how is he going to, with the bleeding mess that sits uncomfortable in his mouth, barely any use to anything except for the pain that shoots through his skull. It's better now, actually — he found the will to just bite down, rip it off himself just to get over with it, more than once within, but of course, there was no such thing happening. Had he been capable of it, he'd have bitten the fucker's fingers off instead. Hurts like hell, too, he can tell that much for sure.
But the song. The goddamn song. Somehow, that is the worst by now. Somehow, that makes him want to hope for a sudden loss of hearing. It drives him insane (if it didn't already); the slow, painful mockery of it worse than the wounds inflicted, and the knowledge he is going to die, and not going to die quickly, or nicely, or painless.
Or maybe he isn't. For all he knows so far, the shadows live, move, watch, and for all he knows, they had an interest to keep him alive so far. He isn't sure which alternative is worse — to die, or to live.
If it only made him shut up. If he would only stop singing those goddamn songs, out of place and out of time.