(c) Sounds (PG-13)

by **rock and/or roll** Wed 10 Sep 2008, 10:29 pm

Title: Sounds
Rating: PG-13 (or perhaps M, just to be safe).
Author: Me (Smashed Pumpkin)
Status: Oneshot/Complete
Summary/Exerpt:
Bright white light; that's all that you can see. It's all that you will know for the rest of your life.

You sit, you stand, you sleep, you cry, you hope, you dream, you pray but eventually it will consume you and you will die in this place.

You want to be rid of the sounds. You want to know the sound of nothing, yet you know it all too well.

- inspired by the song "Quiet" by the Smashing Pumpkins.

Warnings: mental illness.

Sounds.

You sit.

Bright white light borders on every corner of your vision; it attaches itself to your pupils, your skin, your very soul. It x-rays you, leaving every thinkable part of your body, your mind, your self uncovered and exposed. Your mind plays havoc with your senses.

“Fire. I can smell fire! Please believe me!”

No one believes you.

“But, I can smell the smoke! It’s spreading!”

No one smells the smoke. But your eyes see the fire licking at the space between door and floor. The smoke infects the white room. It circulates; a toxic tornado. It stains the white walls a putrid grey. The circling mass soon pollutes your lungs. You cough, splutter, choke and cry. Dirty tears drop from your stinging eyes. Every blood vessel in your windows to the world becomes inflamed, red and angry. Your lungs feel ready to disintegrate. The smoke is invading every atom within your body. You will surely suffocate to death.

Next second, it’s no more. There was no fire. None at all. The air is fresh and pleasant. The walls the same bright white.

You can hear the voices mocking. Always mocking. They test you. They upset you. They challenge every choice you make, every word which escapes through your lips unchecked. Every tear that slips effortlessly down your sickly cheek is ammunition.

Why? they ask. Why? Why? Why?

You sit in the corner. Your legs curl up to your chest and you hug them in a futile attempt to provide your weak mind comfort. You sit in the chair. It’s soft, fluffy, comfortable and white. You sit on the bed. You climb into the bed. It’s bouncy, padded and white. You pull the covers up to your chin. Pull the covers over your head. You try to hide.

It makes no difference. It never does. You wish it did. But it never does.

They follow you. They penetrate every good feeling that collects in your mind, and destroy them with paranoid delusions. Anxiety grips your chest. You feel sharp pains beneath your soft skin. An aching feeling pulsates up your back. Your hands shake and become clammy with sweat. Your heart beats faster. Always faster.

You get down on your knees in front of your bed; arms out in front of you. You close your eyes and pray. You pray to Jesus, a long forgotten figure in your life. You pray for sympathy. Let me be. You pray for forgiveness. Let me be. It fails. It always does. You wish it didn’t. But it always does.

The voices taunt you.

Silly, silly, whispers one.

Stupid, pathetic, jeers another.

You cry and shake. Your body forms a ball as you attempt to hide from the world. Your arms slip from the soft warmth of your bed. They collide with the hard and cold floor. So clean and perfect. You can’t hide. You realise that, don’t you? You realise that you’ll wither and fade away in your safe haven, just as the petals of a rose die without moisture and sunlight.

You can’t stand the silence.

But at the same time, it’s all that you crave. You hunger for it. You desire it. You’d exchange it for anything. Maybe even life.

You want to be saved.

Checked; SP