Tim W█████ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
postictal) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entranceway2017-02-04 11:57 am
postictal) wrote in entranceway2017-02-04 11:57 am
Entry #89
[The world is dark, and it's quiet. Suffocation's an unpleasant way to go, and everyone knows it. The heat and the pressure crawls up into the back of your throat and your eyes feel like they'll burst, your .hea'ds poudning., your breath high and tight and ragged in your lungs that scream for deeper breaths, for air, and that's when everything else begins to pulse in an unfurling of phosphenes and scalding colors across the backs of your eyelids.
You get dizzy. The panic, assuming it hasn't set in by then, claws its way up your esophagus as your jaw parts, throat straining to take in air that doesn't exist with a high-pitched, dragging wheeze.
Unfortunately for Tim, it seems the panic settled in early; cloying and unbearable and tearing away at what little composure he still had. He'd switched on his device at some point, though his oxygen-starved brain can't possibly latch onto what that reasoning might have been, not now. Possibly a cry for help, hastily stifled. Have you seen this video before? It's possible that you have. It's possible that it's gone up already, only for the hitching slide of time to roll things back. Déjà vu. It's a hell of a thing.
When you've begun to suffocate, perception of reality - already muddled to a gross fault and exceptionally poor to begin with, for one unfortunate Mr. Wright - tends to be one of the first things to go.
The subject of the video is pressed somewhere in the corner of the room, practically wedged there, curled around himself with his hands sunk into the fabric of his shirt. Words stream from him in a perpetual rise and fall, a breathless litany, high and sharp with a cresting panic:]
Not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway. 'S not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway, it's not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway it's not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway -
[His voice breaks. He buries his face in his hands.
He's seeing something in the corner of his eye that's not there, regressed to the state he always regresses to when that thing creeps into his memory, nothing more than a scared and trembling little boy huddled in a windowless hospital room, and it's keeping him pinned until his air runs out. And that's looking to be - soon.
Very soon.]
You get dizzy. The panic, assuming it hasn't set in by then, claws its way up your esophagus as your jaw parts, throat straining to take in air that doesn't exist with a high-pitched, dragging wheeze.
Unfortunately for Tim, it seems the panic settled in early; cloying and unbearable and tearing away at what little composure he still had. He'd switched on his device at some point, though his oxygen-starved brain can't possibly latch onto what that reasoning might have been, not now. Possibly a cry for help, hastily stifled. Have you seen this video before? It's possible that you have. It's possible that it's gone up already, only for the hitching slide of time to roll things back. Déjà vu. It's a hell of a thing.
When you've begun to suffocate, perception of reality - already muddled to a gross fault and exceptionally poor to begin with, for one unfortunate Mr. Wright - tends to be one of the first things to go.
The subject of the video is pressed somewhere in the corner of the room, practically wedged there, curled around himself with his hands sunk into the fabric of his shirt. Words stream from him in a perpetual rise and fall, a breathless litany, high and sharp with a cresting panic:]
Not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway. 'S not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway, it's not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway it's not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway -
[His voice breaks. He buries his face in his hands.
He's seeing something in the corner of his eye that's not there, regressed to the state he always regresses to when that thing creeps into his memory, nothing more than a scared and trembling little boy huddled in a windowless hospital room, and it's keeping him pinned until his air runs out. And that's looking to be - soon.
Very soon.]
[video]
[Everything reaches that Game Over, one way or another. But Zacharie's with Tim on not sounding amused. He's honestly rather tired.]
[video]
No reason to speed up the ending.
[video]
I suppose not. You should save your energy amigo.
[He won't say help is on the way because it may not be. Zacharie's not one to believe in false hope.]
[video]
[Four more miles to go. Or whatever the saying is. That's not his thought to have. He just has to...close his eyes until his lungs stop working, his heart gives out, and his brain dulls.
It shouldn't be long, right?]
You, uh. You too.
[video]
Thank you, dear friend. I will see you soon.
[But it'll be a bit before he actually shuts off the feed.]
[video]
He called him "friend." Not even bitterly or ironically. Just - just 'cause he could, even after Tim doomed him to a lifetime of having to suffer at that thing's twisted mercies. Can't even be called mercies.
He can't answer that. He doesn't have an answer.
He simply waits for the film to run out, the tape to...
(no more tapes)
He waits for the feed to cut.]