“You should, uh…”
The panic on her face is spreading, shaking her hands and fidgeting her eyes. She is swallowed by the fear, losing herself, falling to nothing but terrors unwilling puppet.
“You should leave. You need to leave. Now. Just go.”
Her feet wear paths in the cement, stride light in stature, but heavy in stress.
“Wait. I want to help you. I want to help. Just relax, its okay. Whatever it is, its okay.”
She whips her right hand in a sharp, angry arc, swiping quickly from left to right.
“No! Leave. Now. You have to leave.”
Her legs wobble, knees jelly; she has absolutely no footing. The puppet-master is tightening the string around her throat, and she’s hanging, hanging. Her eyes are losing focus, growing a slick, shiny gleam. Geezus, whats wrong.
“I’m not leaving. You’re sick. What happened? What’s wrong?”
Fingers curling in tight spirals, she forms the weak silhouette of fists. The very effort convulses her whole body. She can’t take anymore. No more fear, no more panic, no more stress. Eyes stagger back, pupils disappearing into her skull, leaving only twitching, white expanse. The first scream is ear-shattering. Violent, human, expressive, it connects directly to my soul, invoking the strongest of responses. Without a single thought, my legs carry me forward. The instinct to reach out, help, protect, throws me forward. The next scream, if it can even be called that, ignites a whole new reaction. Her face contorts wickedly, a corpse like paleness entering her cheeks. Her lips grow brighter, brighter, brighter, the color traveling down her chin in its lively, scarlet hue. Gaunt muscles in her jaw stress as she grinds her bleach white teeth, now dyed in pinks and, in places, full robin red. Legs giving way, the concrete welcomes the trickle of blood erupting from the splintered skin of her kneecaps. Running at an unhealthy, unnatural speed, the blood gushing from her maw takes odd paths along her skin. The rivers of red branch off into thinner trails, twisting and turning, curling and arcing in peculiar, ornamental patterns. The blood with a mind of its own is not singular to her skin; the pattern forms itself on the blacktop cement, expanding in a large circle. Head tilting ever so slightly, an unnerving peace takes her as her eyes close. She is still, as is the blood on her skin and cement. The wind picks up her long, raven locks, the only hint of motion. I am not me, just a basic processor slowly trudging through the confusing and frightening data before me. Its only when her eyes open again, cold, steely, red, red, red, and she stares into my existence, that my soul returns to my frozen body. There’s a certain sadness in her eyes, ancient and wise. Its hidden behind her icy rage. She is the doll and the puppet-master, a breathing marionette of the fear inside her. The words she speaks are chilling, but apologetic. A sympathetic monster.
“I told you to leave. I can’t save you now.”