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@impxled
“Feeling well today, Mr. Gluskin?” What a formality. Murkoff had a sick way of making sure their patients were under control; get a woman to check in on him every now and then. Only male nurses should be let in with Eddie. It would keep the hazard down. She was the head of the nurses, she should be able to make that decision herself, but it was what Murkoff wanted. She did what they asked.
If Miles had the choice ( haha! ) who would he rather kill him? Chris Walker, Eddie, Frank or Trager?
Chris. It’s the quickest one. And probably least painful. No torture, for sure. And not having to listen to much babbling, either.
impxled replied to your post: impxled replied to your post:
oh you two, always trying to get away haha. it’s funny tho because THERE IS NO ESCAPE
ahaha this is. obviously. a game! something to. get over the long times when you’re gone! clearly hahah who would think of escape —
darlingwaylonpark2536 replied to your post: impxled replied to your post: ...
whispers c'mon Miles we’re out of here! Let’s leave Eddie’s sad ass behind and go!
help me
You've made the right decision darling. Overall the human race is in it for themselves are they not? It's best you and I stick together, I can protect you. Adore you as only I can. You giving up her life will not be in vain and to sweeten the deal i'll even let you watch me take her apart.
He’s not a good person. He’s never pretended to be — if it’s been between himself and anyone else, he’s never been one to give someone else an advantage. It’s been like that since he can remember — how many people has he screwed out of their jobs, their relationships, just to get a little bit further? He’s selfish and an asshole and he knows it — everyone for themselves, and if you can’t find a way to pull yourself out of the dirt others threw you, well, that’s too bad, your fucking problem then. Whatever it took to get himself further up on whatever metaphorical ladder it was now, for whatever it took.
Of course, that has never meant death for anyone. Even less torture — the mere thought of throwing someone to the wolves, literally, like that made his stomach turn.
It’s you or him. What do you care, anyway? He got you into this situation in the first place — he should have to pay for it.
It whispers in his mind, a soft voice he doesn’t recognize as his own. And what different would it be to have someone die in his stead, much rather than ruining their lives in other ways? Because that he did already — anything to get a story, anything to lever himself above other people.
There’s something else, too. It’s more silent, something telling him that he cannot trust the other — he’s gonna use you as bait and when you’re out of usefulness, you’re going to be taken apart just the same — but it’s shoved aside. He knows he can’t trust him, but there’s the hunger for survival — for maybe getting enough of a distraction together that he can run, or even just breathe for another day, a desperate cling to life and this sphere of being.
A terrible fear of what comes. Either after the lights go out, or immediately before. If he can push it off.
It’s not even the worst, though. It’s something else, something dark and rotten that has itself curled tightly around his insides and squeezes, something that might or might not be buried within any human — the deep fascination for violence that every single one carried to an extend. The same thing that made you stare at an accident whether you want or not, the same thing that makes you swallow up murder on TV or news about all the horrible things that happened over the world. It’s a hunger he knows, to a degree, for it’s what he earns his money with — nobody wants to hear about how nice things went. People wanted blood.
And it seems, the longer he stays in this cadaver of a place, this impossibly loud tomb, the more the feels it becoming more. The more it grows and —
The worst is, it’s not just the prospect of life, even if only for a few more hours, that makes him consider this idea more than he should, but also that last sentence. The idea of watching, being on the other end of it....
— he is turning into the same monsters that already occupied this place.
impxled replied to your post: impxled replied to your photoset: ...
of course i’m not gay look at all the women that flock to me mm? silly girl.
well, i surely feel less gay the longer i listen to you.
impxled replied to your post: Your Miles could rock being a vintage housewife.
hums while stitching a special dress together.
special? ... not like human skin special right?
@impxled | mini starter call
This place did things to your head, definitely. To some more, to some less, to some quicker. It's hard to stay sane when you are surrounded by madness and death, mixed up with memories half drowned in the back of a mind and too much alcohol. It's easier to succumb to the things that sit in the dark. It's easier to surrender, and what was the saying? In a mad world, only the mad are sane. To live, you have to die.
He followed both instructions to the dot, and here he is now, (are they now) a thing of terrible duality, not willing to stay, not wanting to leave. Dead, but living. Insane, but sane.
He is (they are) more than they were before, and especially one thing — growing bored. Not yet willing (or able?) to leave just now, days after, with a body still unstable to move for long (there's ooze dripping out his wounds still, black, like spilled ink, runs down his chest, stains everything it touches forever and ever) and wandering.
Nowhere in particular. Just wandering around, minds still clashing, trying to make one whole out of two separate. They will succeed, ultimately, or wither and die, both of them. It is too soon to say. The thought does not scare; neither does anything else.
He wants (they want) something to fill up the void, the void of time and mind, something to entertain, if only for a moment. He does (they do) not need to hide anymore, either, so his (their) steps are clear, and easy. Humming. Interrupted from whispers, loud in the silence, trying to startle whatever — whoever — else is left.
Most ran, or died. Might be just him (them them them).
Come. Play. Entertain. Come come come come come. No need to hide.
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.
