[The sounds are uncomfortably familiar, yet distinctly different from those she's seen with her own eyes. She can't help but be drawn forward; towards the crowd of people. They're misty and indistinct but she can make out at least fifty separate figures making up the crowd.
Including one that doesn't fit in at all; colorful and sharp amidst the shadowy silver figures.
She inhales sharply. For several reasons. If this man is here then-- the one that's tied down is--
Over the course of a month she'd heard bits and pieces of the story. Never this, but enough that she understands what she's seeing. Her hand comes up; balled up fiercely against her chest. She's fought off the mist before and the images it created. But this time-- she's frozen in place, a few feet behind the person who made all this.]
...this is your fault.
[It's sharp and judgmental. Anything softer and she probably would have left enough room for tears.]
I love dying and being dead....
Including one that doesn't fit in at all; colorful and sharp amidst the shadowy silver figures.
She inhales sharply. For several reasons. If this man is here then-- the one that's tied down is--
Over the course of a month she'd heard bits and pieces of the story. Never this, but enough that she understands what she's seeing. Her hand comes up; balled up fiercely against her chest. She's fought off the mist before and the images it created. But this time-- she's frozen in place, a few feet behind the person who made all this.]
...this is your fault.
[It's sharp and judgmental. Anything softer and she probably would have left enough room for tears.]