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Colors, sounds, Smells, textures. Everything is… everythinging.
Trying to focus on anything seems pointless, mostly because he's started to lose what makes the word "focus" have meaning. Instincts push his body to recoil (from someone? something? He's got no idea at this point) and it makes his skull spin.
He feels it. The snow. There is a presence.
Simon's eyes won't focus anymore, the world spins on it's axis, over and over again; every breath feels icy, throat constricting around and around and tightening—he can't breathe, something's wrong (something burns, so sick and it's clawing it's way up and out of his mouth)—and he reaches out and out and out and...
He’s climbing.
Climbing isn't close to what he's doing, but it works (he's climbing up, and up, and up, and he'll collapse before he can even reach help); the world is a dream, fever peaking and casting his actions into impossible size and they hold, sticky in his psyche like molasse that won't drain or fog that won't clear; a mist left to rot and burn that hurts and hurts and hurts and...
They both thought it would be safer to hide in another room. Because he might already know where they were hanging.
There is something, or some*one*, grieving in his heart for her, but she's alive; if only the world would stop spinning, he could look with his eyes (his eyes, his eyes, his eyes)—the colors flash and swim, synapses snapping and reaching for some way to stop it, impossible shapes burning themselves into his mind, but his throat is cold: snowy, frost-like and...
It was always going to end the same way.
He tried; he tried and he tried and he tried and he tried, goddamnit—Simon's head feels ready to burst, body aching all over as his muscles frantically figure out how to respond; it feels like frostbite, reaching into his heart and holding it in an iron grip…
“What’s going #/?”
Through the ache, adreneline wants him to run—new thing, new thing bad, new thing wants to hurt—and he obliges the instincts that run circles in his spinning head, eyes drifting from colors to indesribable shapes and the window…
As he tries to go back into his feet, he hears… someone else. He can’t quite make out what they’re saying.
Words have lost meaning, and he feels helpless.
They are arguing?
Distantly, in the last bit of intelligent rationality left in his thoughts, he knows that it won't matter.
“ $) %/ INSANE?! |( |& allergic!”
The new thing is loud. The snow is cold.
“|( fine! #/ bad trip @= %( ”
Is it snow?
“%& @) %/”
The world falls away for a long, long moment.
“ %/ remember %= @/ morning!”
Something dangerous is still close, his nervous system supplies.
“%/ |(”
Simon has to run. His skin tingles with anticipation; perhaps it's goosebumps.
One of the figures moves. Spins. Leaves a color trail behind.
He struggles to try to rise for a moment, irridescent swirls leaking from the world around the movement and curling back in on themselves; fractals spinning themselves around and around in a dizzying array of light and existance…
Comes back with…
…and existance crumbles once again, reformatting itself around the two present dangers; his throat is closing up, every breath chokes his head in a weightlessness that cannot be healthy.
“#&”
A lot of things seem to make his head hurt; he tries to reason with himself, but nothing works—he's no longer Simon, but a terrified jack mackerel about to be devoured—and he feels ill thinking about it, and it feels useless, so he simply stops trying; none of his thoughts make it past his .
He recoils so strongly he falls backwards.
Neurons firing, the world is blindingly incomprehensible; the lights are too bright, despite being off, and the world is too loud, despite the only noise being the train and the two figures near him—less figures, more colors…
NO! He won’t be taking anything from anyone!!
…colors that morph into carnivores stalking the mountains; trying to strike and hurt (his eyes, his eyes, his eyes, his goddamned eyes) and it's so damn cold and the chill stings and…
Go away!
In the sudden movement, Simon becomes himself again. Briefly, he can form thoughts that end and don't string on and on and on, the danger providing some much needed clarity, if only for a moment's notice.
He pushes it away.
The world shatters at his feet; it feels like the world is ending—oh, but it ended so long ago, didn't it?) and will never be put back together (something dark and cold holds his hand) in a way that includes Simon as a part of it's new fabric.
“|(”
Through everything, through the colors and spinning and wobbling noises and muffled breathing, he hears his own heartbeat.
Something…
Clarity. It's brief. A bigger fear than the present hunts him among the craggy cliffs of his mind.
Something was on that drink.
The world unstitches itself again, rearranging the threads to be rewoven into a new tapestry, colors blending and darkening into snowfall; the silver frost is already nipping at his heels and making his skin tingle unnaturally.
He needs to throw up, he needs to get away from them, the bathroom, he has to-
Safe, safe, safe; his mind recalls this easily as the world remakes itself in his mind—distantly, he recollects the fact that people starving to death experience a sort-of bliss as it starts to kill them (although, this is more akin to panic than bliss, it follows the same idea: suddenly, there is something guiding you to somewhere else)—and he wants to have the universe fold in and devour him whole…
Something kicks in his stomach.
…whole and complete and there is nothing that would wreck him more than the colors turning violent, dark shades of storms and snowfall through twilight skies guide him home (home, home, home, it seems to sing to him as the night goes on) and he almost wants to let it, but there is a bloody stain in his mind where peace seemed to lie in that place, and it soaks into the carpet.
In one, very specific part of his stomach.
Cold metal, cold floor, cold carpet.
Oh no.
The colors all swirl together incomprehensibly as rationality starts to leave his head, his body begins to shiver, but he's still able to scramble away—coward, coward, coward, coward—and the cold cannot catch him.
He runs.