#statement of...

[should-have-spiraled]

There are two of them when he wakes. The Distortion's hand is on his forehead and Gerry is pressed up against his side as the body sits off to the side.

The both of them are solid, and real, and there, and they barely seem to be moving or breathing, waiting for any sign of Micheal to be okay.

@distortedwritings

Michael grumbles something softly and snuggles into Gerry. He's barely awake, barely coherent. But distinctly alive, even if his mind is in tatters for the time being.

After a minute or two, he finally wakes up enough to notice what is going on. His knee-jerk instinct is that this is a lie, a falsehood shown to him to hurt him, which only makes his eyes fill with tears.

[should-have-spiraled]

Sorry, Goldie. Good luck.

[The Spiral has an iron grip over Michael. That much is true. So much so that his ties to the Eye are weakened. And it does not feel good.

It starts behind his eyes, as the kind of pain one would expect at the beginning of a Migraine. But it gets worse. And worse. Until it feels as though his eyes are being ripped out of his skull and his vision is blurry.

The light hurts.

Everything hurts.

Michael's mind is racing, begging for knowledge and screaming with curiosity. And yet he can do nothing about it.

His head spins and he can't see straight. He can't think properly. He's warm, too warm, and cold, and he swears he's mumbling useless strings of facts to himself.

Nothing feels right and he feels as though he's dying, hungover, feverish, and high all at the same time.

This is Beholding Sickness, and it's not going away for quite some time.]

"mmmmgh notagain.."

[should-have-spiraled]

i SuPpOsE yOu HaVe MeT mY "sElF"

@the-es-mentiras

One of many. A pleasure as always, other Michael.

[should-have-spiraled]

well. You’re certainly something. [a voice hummed, the owner of it leaning against the wall.] do you normally supernaturally break into people’s houses or are you still leading the ropes of your powers?

[everything in the flat seemed normal…ish… walls painted a pinkish-beige, hard-wood floor covered by a patterned rug… all the usual stuff. The only really ‘off’ thing was the packet of ground beef on the coffee table, and the iron-smell that seemed to permeate the whole place.]

@liquid-bonez

Michael stumbles through another door. This time it was an accident. He had just been trying to leave his room. Beholding sickness is finally fading, though he's still a little out of it, getting used to being a mixture of the maddening unknowable spiral and the desperate to know all eye.

He stands up, brushes some loose curls out of his eyes, and looks around.

"I don't intend to make this a habit, no. I need to talk to my partners about it, get some pointers." He says, making a face as the smell finally sets in.

"I'm sorry to have intruded."

[should-have-spiraled]

Oh Michael! Your turn!

[Michael tries to get out of bed. It doesn't work.

Static rises to a crescendo and he can feel himself start to panic. It's just a panic attack, right? He's used to them, he has had them thousands of times before.

But this one is the worst. His head spins, he can't breathe, can't think. It's loud, his skin is crawling, he wants to scream, to cry.

But nothing comes out.

Instead, he sits there, staring at the wall.

He doesn't notice the freezing cold that creeps up from his feet, to his knees, to his fingers, up his arms, and crawls to the top of his skull.

He doesn't notice the door opening.

He doesn't notice when he stops breathing.

He only feels his body become light, floaty, and all the pain and thoughts and worries fade away.

And just like that, Michael Shelley is gone.

When @distortedwritings finds Michael, it's too late. He's sitting on his bed, staring forward, unmoving, unbreathing. He takes his last breath right there in front of Gerry, who is forced to watch helplessly as the life leave's his love's eyes.]

Perhaps we will be kind and bring him back! Who knows! Ciao!

.

[should-have-spiraled]

A door creaks open near Micheal while Gerry is out, and something bright pink and ever-changing pokes what he thinks could be its head out. “There you are!” She exclaims in a glitchy voice. “Come on, he won't stay distracted for long!”

Michael grumbles and sits up from his blanket cocoon.

"Hm? Oh- is this that 'chance' the Distortion was talking about?"

He stands and brushes himself off, pulling his hair back out of his eyes. He looks exhausted and like he's struggling mentally. A perfect candidate for the Spiral.

[should-have-spiraled]

you

Will serve better as you

Are now for it

Little Lamb

a tangible existence from before birth and after death to prove that the fractured fragments of memories are not delusions

not false

not the creaking of a door

not the choking of a lie

you serve it better remaining as

Michael Shelley

something it can piece together

and understand

oh wonderful. anotherone. greaat.

what i was supposed to be.