dressedinmelody: headshot of Alize from King of Bandits: Jing, neutrally describing something. (if you don't)
[personal profile] dressedinmelody
[It's a dark, echoing place. There are confusing patches of light, like dim, distant windows, and you feel like it must be a building, that there must be walls somewhere, but at the same time the darkness stretches on so far as to feel infinite.

There is a feeling of being alone. And small.

And threatened.

But you have to go on, have to keep moving. There's no telling what will happen if you stay still.

"Gramps?"

Buckle shoes clop on the invisible floor. The darkness doesn't seem to recede at all.

"Jenever? Bailey?"

The sensation of threat grows. The knee-length dress you're wearing does nothing to protect you.

"Perry? Tiswin? Destinee!"

But you can't help calling out. There has to be someone...

"Gibson? G-guys, this isn't funny!"

Clink.

Something small bounces off your shoe, skittering across the darkness with a light, hollow sound. You stop-- not frightened enough to freeze, not yet. Something is wrong, something large is about to break, but you don't know what it is yet, and all you can muster is a vague sense of unease.

You bend over and casually pick up the item, holding it up to examine it in the not-light. It looks like a mouthpiece, the kind used with saxophones.

Your heartbeat is suddenly pounding in your throat. The feeling of dread spikes.

There are bodies.

They're scattered in stark white relief across the darkness, hollow (
literally) and empty of the life they once held. The chiaroscuro edges of furniture and stairs begin to pick themselves out as you whirl, finding forms everywhere, huddled together in frozen terror and sprawled in interrupted flight, desperate to find a face that you don't recognize, someone that you haven't known all your short life, to find anyone who survived, they can't all be dead, only a monster wouldn't spare the little ones, why didn't Gramps protect them--

But there's no comfort to be found. There is nothing but Death here. Silent, heavy, choking Death, everything snuffed out. Like a conductor's caesura, abruptly slicing the sound of life in two.

And whatever caused it
is still here.

You turn to the door, but it's too late: it's
there, towering in the doorway and blocking your only escape, staring you down from behind the featureless helmet. The facelessness makes its gaze all the more terrible, and you sink to your knees, no longer able to stand.

Even as you wait (
for judgement) to die, there is a boiling, sickening anger setting in deep in your bones -- you want to kill this thing, want to kill it with your bare hands if you have to. You want to make it feel pain for everything it's so casually taken away from you, all its careless cruelty--

--and you know that if you do you will be the same as it, and it
laughs, the sound horrible and mirthful and evil, and you know that it knows. And you know that no matter what you do, you cannot win.

There are friends nearby. You can't look away from
it, but you can see them falling, out of the corner of your eyes-- friends never meant to be a part of this world, collapsing in the dark shadows; crumbling to hollow notes. Joining the bodies already on the floor. It makes a terrible kind of sense in the back of your mind: this space is Death, and everything within it succumbs just from being there. It delivers Death, so it is immune, and you--

(
you are no better)

You want to go to them, to help, to warn them away, but your legs won't work and you can't turn away from
its face. You are fixated and frustrated and helpless, and the anger is climbing, bubbling under your skin as they continue to die. It's laughing again (it was always laughing), knowing that it's winning. And suddenly you don't care about sinking to its level-- if you have to lose, if there's no way to win, then you're going to damn well take it down with you, make it feel all the hurt and pain you're suffering--

you know you have the power to do it--

you're the only one who does--

everyone else is dead, it won't matter now--

the power climbs up your chest and throat, welling like an air pocket, almost choking you in its haste to be set free--

But before you can open your mouth and sound the first note,
it reaches up and removes its helm. You're left facing a tired old man, human as any other, weary and sorrowful beyond even his advanced years. His eyes catch yours and he makes no move to defend himself. Sadly, regretfully, he says,

"I only wanted to save the widows."

You struggle with yourself (
now you're it), but it's far too late to stop. It's always been too late to stop.

Your lips part and before you can take it back the first note of the Song spills forth.

Behind you, Gramps' corpse begins to laugh.



(back at the Hakubas', Alize wakes up.)]
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dressedinmelody: headshot of Alize from King of Bandits: Jing, neutrally describing something. (Default)
Snap // Melody // (Alizé)

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