formerfratboy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
formerfratboy) wrote2012-10-31 02:52 pm
formerfratboy) wrote2012-10-31 02:52 pm
[fearplot] you can only watch.
Nick spent a lot of time just plain old not talking about what was going on with him. He knew it didn't make sense, but he was so reluctant to burden anyone else with his problems. He didn't know why all of his old fears and anxieties had been coming back, but attributed it to the fact that so many other people on the island were talking about the terrible things they were seeing and experiencing. It was their stress rubbing off on him, he was sure of it.
But nothing he did seemed to make it any better. His days and nights both were filled with flashes of a time from years gone by, when he was under six feet of dirt and rocks and ants, when he had a gun propped under his chin because he was losing hope that anyone was going to find him and bring him out alive. In bed, Nick tossed and turned, hoping that he would just nod off to a dreamless sleep -- just one night, that was all he asked.
Sleep came eventually, but it was an uneasy one, and when he woke, he felt groggy and sore, like he'd been running a marathon in his sleep. His back hurt and his head ached with the dull ring of a headache that already overstayed its welcome. With a groan, he moved to roll over, to press himself closer to Karen, to find an anchor to safety and sanity in her.
Only, when he did, his arm made contact with something solid above him. Nick grunted and cracked his eyes open, only to see nothing but pitch black dark, the kind of dark he'd seen only once before in his life. He tried to sit up, and his head thumped against something solid. He was breathing faster now, not even thinking about staving off the panic attack that was bubbling up inside of him. Nick reached out and felt around with his hands -- solid walls on all sides of him, holding back what he was sure was endless dirt. He let out a whine of panic as he kicked out, feet connecting with the bottom wall of the coffin. Scattered to his sides were a few glow sticks, and, he was sure that if he looked hard enough, he'd find a loaded gun. Just in case.
This wasn't a dream. He knew that immediately. The nightmares never felt this authentic.
It was happening again. He didn't know why. He didn't even know how he got there. As he pressed his hands against the thick plexiglass wall above his face, his thoughts were for Karen. After all they'd been through, after all the people they'd lost, this was what was it would all come down to? Someone stealing him away in the night for -- for what? Revenge? Just to mess with him, when he'd worked so hard to get his life back together? And now this.
He'd done this before. He knew how it went when he had a team of cops and scientists on his side, looking for him. Now... now, he just didn't know.
It didn't do anything to help before, but he was frustrated, and angry, and so, so scared, and he screamed, six feet underground, and pounded his fists at the top of the box.
This was not the way he wanted to die.
But nothing he did seemed to make it any better. His days and nights both were filled with flashes of a time from years gone by, when he was under six feet of dirt and rocks and ants, when he had a gun propped under his chin because he was losing hope that anyone was going to find him and bring him out alive. In bed, Nick tossed and turned, hoping that he would just nod off to a dreamless sleep -- just one night, that was all he asked.
Sleep came eventually, but it was an uneasy one, and when he woke, he felt groggy and sore, like he'd been running a marathon in his sleep. His back hurt and his head ached with the dull ring of a headache that already overstayed its welcome. With a groan, he moved to roll over, to press himself closer to Karen, to find an anchor to safety and sanity in her.
Only, when he did, his arm made contact with something solid above him. Nick grunted and cracked his eyes open, only to see nothing but pitch black dark, the kind of dark he'd seen only once before in his life. He tried to sit up, and his head thumped against something solid. He was breathing faster now, not even thinking about staving off the panic attack that was bubbling up inside of him. Nick reached out and felt around with his hands -- solid walls on all sides of him, holding back what he was sure was endless dirt. He let out a whine of panic as he kicked out, feet connecting with the bottom wall of the coffin. Scattered to his sides were a few glow sticks, and, he was sure that if he looked hard enough, he'd find a loaded gun. Just in case.
This wasn't a dream. He knew that immediately. The nightmares never felt this authentic.
It was happening again. He didn't know why. He didn't even know how he got there. As he pressed his hands against the thick plexiglass wall above his face, his thoughts were for Karen. After all they'd been through, after all the people they'd lost, this was what was it would all come down to? Someone stealing him away in the night for -- for what? Revenge? Just to mess with him, when he'd worked so hard to get his life back together? And now this.
He'd done this before. He knew how it went when he had a team of cops and scientists on his side, looking for him. Now... now, he just didn't know.
It didn't do anything to help before, but he was frustrated, and angry, and so, so scared, and he screamed, six feet underground, and pounded his fists at the top of the box.
This was not the way he wanted to die.