Chapter Text
For when the mortal in me looks at the sky, my soul screams: Praised be O'Lord.
And it sings: Praises for O'Lord, who in mercy shall save us all.
And recites: Praised be our O'Lord. Whom hands protect us from the deceit.
Glorious are his angels. For they watch us never resting.
Glorious are his angels—
For they may protect you.
And the mortal in me who hears it, prays for O'Lord. Rewinding.
Protect you protect you protect you protect you protect you protect you protect you protect you protect you protect you protect you protect you —
From all the pain.
From this cruel world. O'Lord.
It hurts.
His arms. His eye. His head.
Running in and out, every breath. Dying would better. Swinging from one vein to another, an electric dragging pain in his wrist.
It stings. He's trembling.
Ears ringing with the static noise as his view blurs with black and white dots dancing around, he closes his eyes again, grunting. A migraine.
Heavy cold metal and wood adorned with a comfortable sew filling the pillow which his back rests in. That chair, he recognized.
Dread crawls inside his stomach. And he groans.
What happened?
Slowly, he opens one eye at time, blinking to adjust. The cozy warm light of the sun greets his side from between the curtains. And a TV squeaks statically in front of him. Sitting elegantly on the wide-edged dresser full of overturned pill bottles
Within clacking noises and whistles a image flickered, terrorizing and carved inside his eyelids like worms in dead meat.
A canary resuscitator.
Simple black and white lines and a yellow little bird inside a small box. A cage.
A chill runs down his spine and he bit his tongue. Forcing the numbness of his mind, he swung shoulders and arms, the bandages displaced as the metal wrist straps touched the skin.
He feared its touch. Scared, why he's afraid?
He pulls his elbows backward and closes his fists in an instinctive hope that his hands will get out. It's pathetic, he shouldn't do it, many times they said he— Oh it's unlocked. It was unlocked, and he's free.
That's not normal.
Confused he carefully removed his wrists, feeling discomfort at the poorly wrapped bandages. Clotted blood made a darkish brown mess, he could feel some pieces of the gauze inside, glued.
Among the loose ends and poorly fitted spaces he saw a long line that seemed to run all the way to the forearm. pinkish red, tender scabs. A knife cut maybe.
Oh
Unsteady, he rose up from the chair, weirdass chair. The tv noise rumbling around. A soft, furry rug tickled his feet and sticky goop hardened the edges.
Ugh. Ew.
He jumped far from that thing— Ah, melted pills?
Sonolência . A lost thought remains. Somnum. There's another name.
His eyes widened and brows frowned as he glanced the chair and it's surroundings. A old wood closet side by side with a book shelf and some counters in the corners. By the other side a double bed, close to the tv.
Unfazed without him, that dammed chair stayed lonely with the mess of pills by it's feet. He didn't like it.
That chair unsettled him.
A loud ring, made his heart race and he spun towards the tv.
The canary resuscitator flickered systematically with clacks flowing in the screen. His head hurts, the canary whistle fades as he turns the tv off, but if he concentrates, the bird's song would reverberate in his ears.
Ignoring the bottles of pills, he staggered dazed, only to be tripping in the double bed corner. Fuck, his pinkie.
Mumbling in pain, he noticed.
People.
No, corpses.
Jumping back, he bumped into the book shelf, recoiling internally at every book's dull thud on the floor.
Outside, the room's door did very little to mufflethe static.
" What... what the fock!? " He croaked, babbling rough. " what in the bloody hell? "
A man— a man and a woman. At least that's what he could discern. Mutilated faces, deep cuts, burns.
But, strangely, no blood.
The bed was perfectly made and clean.
The bodies had their arms crossed in some sort of sloppy hug. Next to them there was a photo. The people there, immortalized by the picture, were in the same pose.
His stomach dropped.
A wedding dress contoured the woman in the picture, her face bright in a grin, red coiled hair framed her round face. By her side her partner in white, smiled like a man who hit the jackpot, his olive skin healthy and normal instead of the grayish dull that the body in front of him had.
Heavy chest, hard pressure. Suddenly it was hard to breath. Teary, he turned his head to the side.
Dejavu.
Stumbling, the doorknob was slippery or maybe his hands were too sweaty, he struggled to leave the room. A wary feeling of danger.
Ignoring the bed, the chair, the fucking tv. Why there's static? He careens outside closing the door with a bang. Shaking his insides, terrified.
In front of him a short corridor, of the house? He supposes. It has a door on its right side. He Leans against the wall and skills torwards the door. Clacking and squishes. His head grinded.
White walls, too white, too clean. He has been in a place with perfect facades to hide something. How anguishing.
He held the doorknob, with a slight creak, opening it and peering inside. A bathroom. He entered and took a deep breath. How small this made him feel. How small it is.
A shower stall, a sink and the toilet. Ceramics squares degrading from white to soft blue. He approaches the sink staring at himself through it's hanged mirror.
He doesn't recognize the person in front of him.
Dirty blonde hair looking like a rat's nest, big dark circles under his eyes, a distant stare on his honey yellow eyes, sharp nose, hollow cheeks, cracked dry lips. He seemed like a homeless.
Sick, he felt sick. A image that didn't feel like him.
Pale like someone who hasn't seen the sun in days. Numb in hunger, shaking in fear. Felt wrong, so wrong.
Opening the water tap, he splashed his face carelessly as if this was just a bad day, ignoring the water entering his nostrils and burning it, or the pain in his eye and soaked arms starting to sting.
He felt like being pushed inside the water, hands holding him still, pressing and pulled and pressing again. Familiar but too far off for him to get. To understand.
And the flood stops. He takes his head out of the tap water, blood falling, shining, fading.
Deeply out the water, he breathes again and the sink covered in fresh red and the water goes. He reverses the hanged mirror. Leaving the bathroom with a click and a frown. Mirrors aren't for his taste.
Beige wall with peeling paint, better than white, dry black drops scattered around, claws. A cracked memory with iron smell and guts.
Reaching the end of the hall, a sitting room greets his presence, with a normalcy of peace that unrelated the corridors disgrace.
Leather Couches and a coffee table, windows giving a peek of the outside and a tv constantly flickering with it's annoying noise. The same image recalling nothing and screaming everything.
Hanged on walls the same couple smile in different photos, unaware of their fate, now only those registered memories keep their existence a testament. He ignores. Closing his eyes even to the little girl that poses with them.
Passing by the tv he sees the streets. People walk on with their lives, unaware of the corpses they don't know. And the tv creaks. The canary whispers.
" HeElp meeE... " someone cries mixed with the TV's sound.
He turn around and blood drains from his face. A small hand grips the air, iron smell with powder blocks his nose and his feet freeze.
" MamAaa... " A little girl, the girl from the pictures, crawls pathetically in the floor, just her upper body dragged by her own attempts.
She cries out loud with her melted face, blood new and old blended with her tears and slobber. Dragging herself out of the hall.
The living room, full of furniture, and yet claustrophobic, he's cornered.
" Aaagh... " she coughs choked. " uaagh.. paApa "
She crawls by the couch's side... Lost? No, her eyes are missing. Two dots of void and meat.
He stands like a statue, not daring to breath even for a moment.
" Don't leave me. "
Her dark hair was a mess of asymmetrical cuts, a puddle created itself around her, not blood, some sort of dark goop, the living room's floor is painted in it.
" PaaAppaaaa... " She screamed distressed.
Looking at her for too long was pitiful.
Oh O'Lord, do people outside not hear that? Or they do and think it is normal?
He peeked the window, smoke and havoc. Cracked sidewalks. Empty streets.
" Come here. "
He felt terrified of both questions answers.
The dark goop puddle trembled, thin elongated arms moved out of it. They wrapped the stump of her belly deforming and fusing Itself. And the girl silent in defeat went limp like a ragdoll.
Long legs formed and firmed up, a butt of a spider grew and the girl mumbled with her head low.
He quickly observed around seeing a lampshade by the tv's side . Glancing the girl again, she doesn't seem move, he reached out his arm, gripping the lamp.
" I see you. "
Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap
Chills.
It's running for him.
He caught the lampshade and swung it. And the crack noise of the light bulb echoed.
The thing hissed, a loud squealing noise that made tv static weak.
The living room with it's shattered turned over table, whistling tv, and upside down couches became the cage of life and death in his situation.
He ran, jumping up by the couch and leaving the living room, slipping some steps in the goop. Another door close to the room's entrance, kitchen, probablythe kitchen. Fuck, it doesn't matter.
Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap
" SHIIIEEEERKKKKK.. :
Shit, shit, shit. It's fast.
Glass shattered in the living room, quick foot steps like knives stabbing meat echoed in the halls.
He dashed in. The kitchen, full of decomposing half eaten bodies, open drawers and splattered blood. The walls had a new paint of it's own.
He saw a door. Didn't seem locked, he ran for it, stepping in some corpses apologizing internally to O'Lord at every cracking sound of bones and crushed meat.
With a strong pull, he opened the door, almost falling backwards. The thing grows at the kitchen entrance. With a blow the door is closed not seeing anything that could be used, he ran through the garden.
Vines and roots cut pieces of the pants off his legs, sharp rocks stabbed his feet covered in blood and the black goop. Exhaustion decayed his chest, holding the air off him. But stopping now would only get him killed.
Running and running, he jumped the fence and didn't stop running.
It's feet repeatedly echoing from the cracked streets, to the dirt and grass, to a path of earth.
Lungs burning, legs shaking, his heart raced a mile an hour. He felt as if he was going to puke.
He needed to run, to get away and hide. It can't catch him and hurt him if he's far away, he needs to run. Keep running, that's what kept him alive.
But he couldn't.
Knees on the floor, trembling like paper. He gasped for air that felt to be nowhere. It was going to catch him and was going to die like the couple on the bed, like the people in the kitchen, he would be killed, they were going to eat him, he was going to die.
They are trying to kill him again.
" ..ir.. "
He grunted, covering his mouth. His arms and legs hurt, his head hurt. O'Lord he was going to pass out.
" Sir.."
A hand shakes his shoulder.
" Mister? "
A young woman face shapes through his blurry vision.
" Mister, can you hear me? "
He muttered pathetically. They are trying to trick him again.
" Andrea, call reinforce. " Her hand was gone and her voice felt distant.
He was tired.
Well, they always liked to get him in the chase and run just fo the fun of seeing his struggles.
" Sir, please don't close your eyes. " The voice came back, fingers snapping close to his ears. " Help is coming, just hold on a bit more. "
He tried looking up. " Whe—where is, where is it—it's here? "
He let out a groan, the sun hurt his eyes. Everything hurt. The blood on his eyes just made everything worse.
A cold thing was placed on his head, a jacket? The woman voice said. " Nothing is here, other than people. Can you tell me your name? "
He gulped, processing her words. Something sticky ran down his head, more than sweat.
Name. A name, he had a name. They never called him by one.
" I, uh. My— my name.. " He tripped his words. " Ah, Jake, no he was the last one. Lisha? No not her, is... is, Ugh. "
Fuck his head hurts a lot.
A hand pressed his forehead. " Don't force yourself. " The woman spoke, he felt her fingers gently pulling some of his brown hair behind his ear. She mumbled something.
The tenderness of her voice. A calm and promising way, everything's going to be alright.
She removed her hand, but he desperately grabbed it. A shock noise came from her.
" Holy shit.. "
He opened his eyes, her face went white, her dark brown eyes widen up, mouth open. Her dark hair with some loose strands and two buns, pointy chin, round cheeks and narrowed eyes.
" Andrea, a medic kit, a lot if them. NOW! " She screamed. " He might be infected too. QUICK YOU DUMBASS! "
He saw a silhouette far. Blood on her hands, his arms without bandages, the cracked cement floor, the eyes. Why are there so many eyes?
Ah, he missed the lock point.
A thud, a needle, alcohol smell and bandages.
And everything fell into the arms of silence.
For in all days I will sing in my being: Praise for you, O'Lord.
For your kindness gives us live.
And in consolation I hope: May your arms receive another lost angel. O'Lord.