They

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At first, there was nothing.

Then he woke up.

Dazed, his eyes glued shut against the oppressive darkness, he pushed backwards, straining against the rough ground beneath his feet, seeking. When his back met the wall, he nestled into it, his spine cracking loudly as he slumped into the hard angle. Curled into a half-fetal, vaguely pensive position, he began to collect the shattered remains of his thoughts.

(why why am i here)

His hands met his head again, tracing the base of his skull, as if seeking something. Even with his eyes shut, and his mind barely working, he noticed that the back of his neck was wet.

(blood its blood what...)

He scarcely dared to open his eyes. In a nearly paradoxical dichotomy, he both knew and did not know what lay around him, in His Room. Yes. He had seen His Room before, knew that there was no peace to be found here, no solace, and most importantly, no remorse.

(this is My Room)

Groaning inwardly at the pain in his head, he added the thought to his list of Important Thoughts. So far, it numbered only two:

1.(this is My Room.)
2.(They are here).

He didn't know who They were, or what They wanted, but he knew that They were here. His brain, perhaps affected in some way, assigned some importance to the word. They. His scrambled mind began to attach other qualities, before he could stop it:

(oppresiveanonymous)

(no stop stop)

(dangerous)

The last one popped up, unbidden. It scared him the most of the three. It was a gut reaction, primal, comparable to the ingrained flight or flight response of animals. In his fragile state of mind, he couldn't remember his own name, but he knew that They were bad. Very bad.

And They were here, right now.

He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, and attempted to force his mind to reorganize itself. Nothing. The blur of thoughts continued. He noticed, after a long pause, that he felt nothing. The sensory input from the outside had been lost in the maelstrom of disorganized mental activity.


Suddenly, a pinprick. A thought? No, a feeling. Something had gotten through. He felt like an unmasked dancer at a masquerade ball, revealed, surrounded by a writhing mass of implacable emotions and anonymity. The pinprick returned, bigger this time. A feeling of dread began to further cloud the already stormy activity of his brain.

(bad this is bad i know what it is i know but i dont want to i dont please)

Then, the door opened. The complete darkness was split by a blinding ray of pure light, searing his eyes through their lids. Reflexively, his hands went to his face, and he burrowed closer in to the hard wall. Filled with terror, his jumbled thoughts became incomprehensible.

(nononononoTheareMhereyRoscaredom)

But when he heard the sound, Their sound, his mind ceased in activity almost completely, leaving only one thought:

(They)

It echoed, as if shouted, in his head. His hands went to his ears quickly, as if to prevent its escape. He knew it was too late, anyway. He knew. And so did They. He could feel them, approaching him.

His last conscious thought, before he blacked out from sheer terror, wasn't his own. Either he had picked it up, somehow, from another, or it was Their thought. As They carried him off, his final thought sparked, and like a small candle in the wind, died quickly. It was:

(hello mr. anderson its time for your treatment)





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