He had to get rid of the moss
They were all wet. Soaking, even. The cliffs were prone to strange, glowing rains, and it always seemed to mess with them. Perhaps there was some way to patch it, to keep what they assumed to be their sanity through the hours to follow. They could never remember what happened, until they awoke fully dry. They never seemed to get very far in that state, at least. Inconvenient. They knew they were slipping already, so they took a seat next to their husktop and lusus, under their lean-to, ready to weather another episode. Why did this always happen? There would inevitably be repairs, afterward.
Where was he. Where was he. What were these cliffs? Why was it raining? He stood, immediately realizing something-- he was covered in more moss than ever, he needed to get it off of him, he was nauseous, where was he, why did he always wake up to find everything suddenly worse. He ripped into his arm, tearing off moss and wire alike, ripping open small wounds from where the wires penetrated his skin. Bright orange bled, he didn't care. His other arm was promptly shed as well, tearing up the skin on his left hand. It hurt. He reached slowly, for his eyes.
He had no eyes.
He had to see.
But he had to get rid of the moss. He tore into it, destroying the entire clump, ripping out the robotic eyes and rendering himself blind. He was screaming, but he could barely hear it. Clawing at his back, his feet, anywhere, the moss had to come off. It had to. He couldn't stand the feeling of it, or what it had come to represent, or his reliance upon it. It was meant to be augmentations, not a parasite, creeping over his skin and crawling into his stomach, his throat, his mind. He was still bleeding, he couldn't care. He was still crying, but what else was there to do? He never lasted long, all he could try to do was remember. And memories were nothing but more pain.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was just supposed to be a new life, a life outside of society, maybe to forge a new society. He was sobbing, falling to the ground, knowing that all too soon, he would be gone again. Why he was here now he didn't know, why he couldn't simply vanish forever, instead of being taunted by these brief flashes of cognizance before succumbing again. There was no way to escape, after all, who can escape themselves? His only hope was to try to keep moving, get away from this place, keep a hold on himself. But he was fading already.
Struggling to his feet, he tried to run, but the overwhelming pain of every step did nothing but trip him, throw him back to the ground. And he was losing his grip. He was falling back to sleep, but he couldn't, he had to stay awake, he had to remember... but he was gone already, almost bleeding out onto the floor, slipping away... And when he would awaken, there would be more moss.
Everything hurt. The sun was rising. Planae slowly rolled over, onto their back, assessing the damage. Their arms and feet were strangely bare, everything was really. The eyes were out again, of course, they always seemed to. Whatever could they have possibly gotten up to? The only explanation was an episode of true insanity, the sort of danger to society one would have to distance themselves from. Good thing they were alone, what sort of ramblings must they have been spouting? Their throat was sore, and mouth dry. Today would be a long one. They would have to be more careful, next time, out in the rain.
Where was he. Where was he. What were these cliffs? Why was it raining? He stood, immediately realizing something-- he was covered in more moss than ever, he needed to get it off of him, he was nauseous, where was he, why did he always wake up to find everything suddenly worse. He ripped into his arm, tearing off moss and wire alike, ripping open small wounds from where the wires penetrated his skin. Bright orange bled, he didn't care. His other arm was promptly shed as well, tearing up the skin on his left hand. It hurt. He reached slowly, for his eyes.
He had no eyes.
He had to see.
But he had to get rid of the moss. He tore into it, destroying the entire clump, ripping out the robotic eyes and rendering himself blind. He was screaming, but he could barely hear it. Clawing at his back, his feet, anywhere, the moss had to come off. It had to. He couldn't stand the feeling of it, or what it had come to represent, or his reliance upon it. It was meant to be augmentations, not a parasite, creeping over his skin and crawling into his stomach, his throat, his mind. He was still bleeding, he couldn't care. He was still crying, but what else was there to do? He never lasted long, all he could try to do was remember. And memories were nothing but more pain.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was just supposed to be a new life, a life outside of society, maybe to forge a new society. He was sobbing, falling to the ground, knowing that all too soon, he would be gone again. Why he was here now he didn't know, why he couldn't simply vanish forever, instead of being taunted by these brief flashes of cognizance before succumbing again. There was no way to escape, after all, who can escape themselves? His only hope was to try to keep moving, get away from this place, keep a hold on himself. But he was fading already.
Struggling to his feet, he tried to run, but the overwhelming pain of every step did nothing but trip him, throw him back to the ground. And he was losing his grip. He was falling back to sleep, but he couldn't, he had to stay awake, he had to remember... but he was gone already, almost bleeding out onto the floor, slipping away... And when he would awaken, there would be more moss.
Everything hurt. The sun was rising. Planae slowly rolled over, onto their back, assessing the damage. Their arms and feet were strangely bare, everything was really. The eyes were out again, of course, they always seemed to. Whatever could they have possibly gotten up to? The only explanation was an episode of true insanity, the sort of danger to society one would have to distance themselves from. Good thing they were alone, what sort of ramblings must they have been spouting? Their throat was sore, and mouth dry. Today would be a long one. They would have to be more careful, next time, out in the rain.
Comments