11-07-2014, 12:55 PM
Bas' head moved slightly as he slept, dreams that no one could see, fueled by the strange effects of the tainted Shaolin Sleep. Inside his mind, Bas was sitting in a dark room, a single solitary light creating a pool of light. But the dark was...different. It had weight, thickness, volume, like molasses. It pressed in on the light, sharply defining the cone of light from the blackness. That cone bowed in under the pressure of the dark like tent walls bowing in and Bas felt a terror he had not known since he was a small child, hiding under the bed while one of his mom's boyfriends beat her.
If the wall of light collapsed, the dark would fall on him like a blanket, smother him as it slithered into his nostrils and down his throat like black oil, seeping into his eyes until they were black orbs. Somehow, he knew that if that would happen, he too would be nothing but a hollow skin-job, a suit worn by something else.
He prayed fervently to the Blessed Virgin, the Holy Mother, pleaded with her to intercede with her Son, to grant him the power that would protect him. But though he could sense the power he could not reach for it. It refused to come, as though he were in a cage, unable to reach out and take it.
He was in a cage. He rattled the bars, narrow and close, reaching for the sun, while demons circled the cage, tried to bite at hands and fingers that passed between the bars.
One of those faces was Pyotr. Another was the stranger he'd met on the street. Another was his brothers, still another Roman. They had all been replaced and he was next.
He prayed and strained to break the bars, pulling fingers in when a demon came close.
The world around him began to fade to mist and fear lanced through him that they would get him. But they were fading too. He looked down and he was fading, everything becoming a mist that was dissipating into nothingness, as did his fear and terror.
He became aware of light behind his eyelids, warmth a blanket covering him. And then he felt a blanket- and cushions- and he felt like he was home, home, a place that never really had existed, not like this, the home of childhood, of complete peace and security, blanketed with warmth and love and care. It was a mother's home, though not one he'd ever consciously known. He smiled and opened his eyes and was in a strange place.
He saw Pyotr sprawled in a chair, sleeping peacefully. The lingering smell of coffee was in the air. He lay there for a while, just drifting in thought, wondering what had happened last night. He vaguely remembered being on the street corner with Pyotr and the stranger, of being terrified that someone was after him. He even had a hazy memory of being afraid of Pyotr, which didn't make sense.
A memory came to him of the Holy Mother appearing to him, saving him. He crossed himself. He didn't know if it was real, but something had happened. He could still see her face, beatific in its repose, haloed in light, kind smile beaming down on him. He sighed. Even if it was a hallucination, it made him glad for it.
He did wonder, though, as he sat up and swung his feet around ont he couch, what had happened to him. He'd never had that reaction to vodka before. Then he thought about the weed he and Mik had smoked. Maybe it was laced with something. They'd both smoked it, so it probably wasn't Mik himself who'd done it. Whatever it was, he had been paranoid. Maybe PCP or something. He'd have to find out what happened. If it was deliberate, heads would roll.
His voice low, "Hey. Pyotr. Hey! Wake up."
He stood up- he was a bit shakey but not too bad- and stepped over to shake the man gently. "Hey! Wake up. Where are we?"
He looked around. The apartment looked pretty small and didn't have too much, but it was tidy. His instinct said this was a chick's place.
If the wall of light collapsed, the dark would fall on him like a blanket, smother him as it slithered into his nostrils and down his throat like black oil, seeping into his eyes until they were black orbs. Somehow, he knew that if that would happen, he too would be nothing but a hollow skin-job, a suit worn by something else.
He prayed fervently to the Blessed Virgin, the Holy Mother, pleaded with her to intercede with her Son, to grant him the power that would protect him. But though he could sense the power he could not reach for it. It refused to come, as though he were in a cage, unable to reach out and take it.
He was in a cage. He rattled the bars, narrow and close, reaching for the sun, while demons circled the cage, tried to bite at hands and fingers that passed between the bars.
One of those faces was Pyotr. Another was the stranger he'd met on the street. Another was his brothers, still another Roman. They had all been replaced and he was next.
He prayed and strained to break the bars, pulling fingers in when a demon came close.
The world around him began to fade to mist and fear lanced through him that they would get him. But they were fading too. He looked down and he was fading, everything becoming a mist that was dissipating into nothingness, as did his fear and terror.
He became aware of light behind his eyelids, warmth a blanket covering him. And then he felt a blanket- and cushions- and he felt like he was home, home, a place that never really had existed, not like this, the home of childhood, of complete peace and security, blanketed with warmth and love and care. It was a mother's home, though not one he'd ever consciously known. He smiled and opened his eyes and was in a strange place.
He saw Pyotr sprawled in a chair, sleeping peacefully. The lingering smell of coffee was in the air. He lay there for a while, just drifting in thought, wondering what had happened last night. He vaguely remembered being on the street corner with Pyotr and the stranger, of being terrified that someone was after him. He even had a hazy memory of being afraid of Pyotr, which didn't make sense.
A memory came to him of the Holy Mother appearing to him, saving him. He crossed himself. He didn't know if it was real, but something had happened. He could still see her face, beatific in its repose, haloed in light, kind smile beaming down on him. He sighed. Even if it was a hallucination, it made him glad for it.
He did wonder, though, as he sat up and swung his feet around ont he couch, what had happened to him. He'd never had that reaction to vodka before. Then he thought about the weed he and Mik had smoked. Maybe it was laced with something. They'd both smoked it, so it probably wasn't Mik himself who'd done it. Whatever it was, he had been paranoid. Maybe PCP or something. He'd have to find out what happened. If it was deliberate, heads would roll.
His voice low, "Hey. Pyotr. Hey! Wake up."
He stood up- he was a bit shakey but not too bad- and stepped over to shake the man gently. "Hey! Wake up. Where are we?"
He looked around. The apartment looked pretty small and didn't have too much, but it was tidy. His instinct said this was a chick's place.