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demcnsinmymind · 19 days

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@dyslexic-fool sent 39. Heartache - One Word Writing Prompts - Accepting!

who needs a short drabble when you can make this thing a freaking novel?????? All the Lasha feels.

Unlike all the others, Sasha's vanishing is a slow one.

Little by little. Bit by bit.

Like an infection. Spreading ever so slowly, digging deeper and deeper into her. Scratches, letters no longer just etched into her back, but seeping into her very essence. Mind. Lungs. Muscles. Bones. Her whole body. Taken over. Failing. Breaking apart.

It starts when she has trouble breathing. Probably just from all the moisture and mold down here, it's gonna be alright.

The blood she's coughing up begging to differ.

Then she has trouble walking. He does too. His feet are fucking killing him after god knows how many hours or even days of walking down corridors and stairs that don't make any sense. It's gonna be alright. Just a little bit further. You can do this. Keep walking.

Her weak knees and continued stumbling and tripping making it obvious that this is happening. That this is unstoppable.

For a while, he's doing the best he can with it. Walking slower at first. So it's easier for her to keep up with him. Then helping her walk. Supporting her. Keeping her battered and exhausted body upright. Tries to carry her next, when she keeps falling down. And he hates to admit it, but he's too weak to carry her. Can barely walk himself.

They need to stop and rest, he knows that, too. But still. He keeps them walking. Just a little while longer. The exit's gonna be there any minute now. You'll see.

Soon enough though, it's not just her back that's hurting anymore. Or their feet. His feet. Or his head from the lack of water. Or his eyes from the lack of sleep. It's his heart that's starting to ache too.

Because hers is a slow vanishing.

And he's getting to watch it live and in color. Slow motion. Getting slower still.

Crawling.

And he knows that keeping her going like this is just....cruel at this point. Every gasp that escapes her. Every sob and every whimper...drives that point home. Like a knife diving right into his chest. Every single time. Stab. Stab stab. More pain. Aching right along with her. Because even he has to admit that keeping her walking at this point is bordering on torturing her. A selfish thing to do. Just for his own sanity. Because - that he knows too- stopping...that will make her vanishing a definite fact.

A certainty.

But one he has to submit to eventually. For her sake.

Getting them stranded somewhere in the middle of this never ending tunnel. Stuck. Even more hours that make no sense. Is it even hours, still? Does something like that even exist in here anymore? Maybe it's been days. Or just a few minutes. Whatever the measure, he can feel her getting weaker and weaker...and weaker with each passing of it. Not just that, but she's getting colder, too. Like a corpse at this point. Even with his jacket wrapped up tightly around her small figure.

He tries to keep her in good spirits next. Be there. Comfort her. Because what else can he do now? Keeps talking and talking, not just to the camera, but to her. About the most random shit. Laughing, chuckling, smiling and whatever he can do to try and keep their spirits high.

Hey, remember that time Matt went skinny dipping in that filthy motel pool and the receptionist dragged him out and threatened to sue his skinny ass. Hey, remember Houston's terrible Hamlet reenactment. You know, I never told you but I really liked when you stayed over and forced me to just watch a movie with you. Remember that stupid twist in there? You got so mad at me for 'not getting it'. And he keeps talking and talking and talking even when he knows, no, feels that she's out of it by now, doesn't respond anymore, doesn't seem to even hear.

He keeps it right up anyway, because slowly but surely, it seems like the state of his sanity's directly tied to just that one single fact now. Her. Still being with him. Right by his side. Listening or not. Just living and breathing. Against his neck at first. Then his shoulder. Then his chest. Then his lap. As she crumbles in on herself more and more. Falling asleep at last. After days of not being able to at all. That's a good thing. It's not her dying. Just falling asleep. A deep sleep by the feel of it.

Breath shallow, but steady against him. Not stirring in his arms which he's keeping around her like an iron cage, falling silent. Just watching her. Pale face still speckled with blood. Looking so tired. The sight of her has him on the verge of breaking, breaking, breaking all over again, but not quite yet. Not yet. Never. Because he still has her to look out for. To keep encouraging. To keep going. To cling to. So that's what he does.

I need you to do this with me. I can't do this alone.

He told her, not too long ago. Somewhere over there. No...there. A shaky sigh. Eyes traveling up at the ceiling instead. Red from crying and lack of sleep, but narrowing. A mixture of desperation and determination.

You're not taking her from me, too. Not her.

He's telling the building now. All around him. Making noises. Ominous, but distant. Almost subdued by now, down here. Like it's just watching them. Waiting. After having taken so much already.

Matt.

Somewhere back there in complete darkness.

On the ground like that. Covered in blood. Head and limbs at a weird angle. Eyes wide open and unblinking. That had almost been enough to crack him the first time. But not quite yet. No, not yet. Not after T.C. either. In that bathtub. In a rush of blood. Or Houston. One second he's behind them, then he's just....gone. All of them. Gone. So suddenly. So abruptly. So...violently.

But everything has been slowing down to a crawl now. Ever since Matt fell. And she's still here now. In his arms. Hasn't been taken so abruptly. Not letting her go. And even though he's starved, thirsty, exhausted and at the absolute bottom, Lance is still an optimist at heart. And he's starting to think that maybe, this is just it.

Her vanishing is a slow one.

Crawling.

One that he can still halt. Hold on to. Suspend.

Just enough for them to be found. Or for him to find the exit. Soon. It has to be down here after all. Kenny said the tunnels connected all the buildings together. So soon enough...they'll pass a threshold. The threshold. Where this fucked up building ends and the others start. Normal ones. And they'll get out of here. And he'll get help for her. She'll be helped. By people who are physically strong enough to bring her to safety down that last mile. Carry her right out of here.

No. Fuck it. He'll carry her himself. Tomorrow. They're getting out of here. She's getting out of here. And he most definitely is.

All he has to do is rest. So fucking tired. Get his strength back. For her. For them. They can do this. Anything happens? He'll be woken up anyway. By more screaming. And running. That's the way they've all been taken, right? And who knows.

Maybe it doesn't want to take her. Maybe it is done playing with them now. Maybe it got what it wanted with Matt. And T.C. and Houston. A thought in itself that almost fucking breaks him, too. His mind. His soul. His fucking heart. Making him cry all over again, cling to her harder.

But hey, at this stage...he'll take anything. If them having been chewed up means that at least she gets to make it out of this alive....let it be this way. A horrifying, but necessary sacrifice to one fucked up fucking monster. He can take it. He will take it.

They will get out of here. Away from it. Take their chance.

This time, it's exhaustion.

Sleep. Taking him abruptly. Without warning.

Arms still wrapped around her small figure in his lap. Going limp. For just a second. Or a minute. Or an hour or however long. Just a second. He'll keep telling himself for years to come. Just a second and she's gone. In a cloud of smoke and nothingness.

Taking the last remnants of his sanity right with him.

It's the first time he experiences true and unfiltered, utter heartache. Heartbreak. Waking up. Not finding her. Needing her. Suffering. Instantly despairing. Screaming her name over and over again only to find himself.... alone.

I need you to do this with me. I can't do this alone.

That's what he'd told her and in a fucked up way...he, or they or it, whatever this fucking monster is...it seems to have heard the message. Acted on it. Twisting it just like everything else it does in here. Time. Corridors. Tunnels. Halls, his mind and even.....people.

Her vanishing, a slow one.

But never quite a full one.

Its twisted form of mercy on him. The only survivor now.

Because even now, in this room, at night, she's still there. Keeps coming right back to him. In the corner sometimes. Words upon words upon words framing her like a halo on yellow walls. A true testament to his state of a failing, shattered mind. Staring at him with bloodshot red eyes, past tear stained cheeks. Front of her white robe stained red from the blood coming out of her mouth in a steady flow.

Ice cold hands and fingers digging into his chest and stomach next. When she's right behind him in the excuse of a bed, making it creak from the weight of two people who shouldn't even be here. She most definitely shouldn't be and he knows she's not, but still.

It sounds real. The way she's making the bed creak with each shiver and shake from her body. Her sobbing. Coughing. Crying. Begging for her mom. Shouting into his ear, asking him all these questions he keeps asking himself over and over again, too. Why'd you lock the door, Lance? Why did you keep shooting your stupid show even when we started dying? Why did you tell me we'd get out of here when we're still here, will always be here because of you? Why did you let them take me? Why did you fall asleep. Why...

Icecold fingers digging deeper and deeper into the skin covering his stomach, oh the beauty of the pain of starvation, and his chest, oh the beauty of true and gutwrenching grief and heartache.

Just like in those tunnels, her hands on him, her body against his, her dying breath in his ear is gone each time that he wakes up, turns around to look at her.

Alone and in a bed, room, building, time he does not belong in.

But right now? In this very moment? Despite the pain, the terror, the guilt?

It's an act of punishment, of mercy from it that he'll gladly take. That pain the only true reminder of what once was, could've been. Should've been. That she was there. That she was real. That they all were real. In 2003. Despite what everyone, what Friedkin wants him to believe.

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