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03.05.2013 , 06:22 PM |
Trigger Warning: Self Harm and general bad situation (and writing! Is bad writing a trigger for anyone?)
Taking place before
Gingerly, he lifted the hem of his t-shirt. Grey fabric gave way to pale, soft skin. He trembled and jerked at his reflection: a black bar stamped into his stomach, little green lights flickering against the metal.
It wasn't real. It was fake. It
The thing was warm to touch and it moved, a hard lump that dug into his belly. A small, surgical scar ran under the bar, red points sticking out from either side, like the legs of some alien parasite.
He wanted to get up and run. Run away from the tiny, blank walled room. Run away from the hum that kept him awake and night and the sound of footsteps just outside his door. Run away from the crawling skin and the metal, creeping underneath and inside him, filling him up with fake poison and turning him into a
. He wanted to move, to at least leave the bed but his legs... His legs were present, still fully attached to his body. He could feel them - feel hot and cold, pressure and pain - but they only twitched when he wanted to move.
There was something that itched along his spine and it too was hard to the touch. More cybernetics: bits of metal and plastic jammed into a dying body to make breathe again. His fingers curled around the bed sheet as he just thought of how much he wanted to die. What was the point of living as this half-made, half-saved, crippled abomination? Why live as something that heard through metal ears, that ate using a metal stomach and could not even walk?
He felt weak and dizzy. He put his head in his hands and felt those damned metal prongs poke against his flesh. He knew - what a terrible, sickening knowledge - that somehow those blocks in his ears went further into his head. That metal and wiring was boring into his brain and trying to fight this spinning. He wanted nothing more than to spiral down into the darkness and be rid of that ever-present light, that eternal humming and the blasphemy that he had now become.
He dug his fingers into his scalp as the spinning worsened. The pain brought a clarity he had not known before. Trembling, he leant back, supporting himself on one arm. With the other, he pressed against the black bar, taking its measure. The scar was still new, still fresh. There was a tear and a pop. Pain hit him like a blow. The city lights came back, their flashing neon blinding him. The stench of fried, overcooked meat made him wretch and the noise... he was deafened. He looked down, seeing a strange mixture of bed and city street. There was blood on his hand. It ran downs his legs and soaked the bed sheet, before pooling into the gutter and running of toward...
He screamed and his eyes screwed shut. His back was pressed against the bed, heavy weights on his arms, pinning him in place. Something held his head down as he thrashed and fought. There was a pressure against his collar. It gave way easily and calmness flowed into his veins. Crying and shaking, he drifted into an uneasy, warm darkness, trying to think of anything but
Story Master Thread
"Forty-seven percent of all players are women..."