Room 505, Wednesday Morning
Dec. 31st, 2008 09:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thismaskiwearKatchoo generally hated waking up in the morning, but today she hated it a little bit more; the end of another day was one thing, but the end of another year was way more momentous, and not in a good way. Pretty soon getting up and going to work was going to be necessary, but she was putting it off just a few minutes longer.
It was before dawn, and an unexpected fog was rolling in over the beach just outside the little house she'd shared with Emma. The sound, clear and abrupt but gone as quickly as it had come, of someone stirring woke Katchoo, who got out of bed and poked her head out into the hallway, trying to blink the fuzzy edges away from her vision with no success.
"Emma?" she called, her voice not a rasp for once, but clear, uncertain, and tiny in the ringing silence left unbroken by an answer. "Is that you?"
Still no answer. Katchoo's feet sank deep into the soft, thick carpet that muffled her steps as she slipped down the hallway toward the living room. She wasn't conscious of the fact that she was holding her breath, and the silence, already heavy, turned dense and stifling like the fog rolling in toward her through the open front door.
Katchoo rubbed a hand sharply across her eyes, but the whole world was still a blur as she stumbled blindly out to the porch. "Emma?" she called again -- or tried to, but the fog was growing thicker by the second and she choked on the words. Blundering her way out onto the sand, she thought she could feel the ocean spray against her face even if she couldn't hear the crash of the waves and kept going, shivering now, until she was ankle-deep in the surf.
Fingers -- icy, even in comparison to the freezing fog -- brushed Katchoo's hand; with a sharp gasp she still couldn't hear, Katchoo snapped her head around to look.
Emma stood there, her features clear and impassive for a moment before the fog began to obscure them again -- no, not obscure. Emma's face was still clearly visible, but she was fading into the fog, the color in her cheeks draining away to grey and her face changing, growing thin and gaunt. Katchoo tried to reach out to her, but her hands passed through the place where Emma's body should have been.
Too late, Chewie. The words still weren't audible, but they were easily read on Emma's lips.
Only they weren't Emma's lips any longer. The face, now wearing a rictus grin, wasn't Emma's now.
It was her own, and Katchoo's scream ripped through the silence.
. . . or maybe that was the deafening ring of her cheap-ass alarm clock.
Muttering a string of completely unintelligible yet vitriolic invective, she lashed out from under the covers with one arm, hard, and smashed the alarm clock into the wall. (For the record, it was the tenth cheap-ass alarm clock done in this month.) The day already sucked; might as well just go to work, now.
[OOC: NFI and establishy, but OOC welcome. This post inspired by a combination of reading SiP Vol. 2 last night before bed and driving through UNEXPECTED EVIL ZOMBIE FOG this morning.]
It was before dawn, and an unexpected fog was rolling in over the beach just outside the little house she'd shared with Emma. The sound, clear and abrupt but gone as quickly as it had come, of someone stirring woke Katchoo, who got out of bed and poked her head out into the hallway, trying to blink the fuzzy edges away from her vision with no success.
"Emma?" she called, her voice not a rasp for once, but clear, uncertain, and tiny in the ringing silence left unbroken by an answer. "Is that you?"
Still no answer. Katchoo's feet sank deep into the soft, thick carpet that muffled her steps as she slipped down the hallway toward the living room. She wasn't conscious of the fact that she was holding her breath, and the silence, already heavy, turned dense and stifling like the fog rolling in toward her through the open front door.
Katchoo rubbed a hand sharply across her eyes, but the whole world was still a blur as she stumbled blindly out to the porch. "Emma?" she called again -- or tried to, but the fog was growing thicker by the second and she choked on the words. Blundering her way out onto the sand, she thought she could feel the ocean spray against her face even if she couldn't hear the crash of the waves and kept going, shivering now, until she was ankle-deep in the surf.
Fingers -- icy, even in comparison to the freezing fog -- brushed Katchoo's hand; with a sharp gasp she still couldn't hear, Katchoo snapped her head around to look.
Emma stood there, her features clear and impassive for a moment before the fog began to obscure them again -- no, not obscure. Emma's face was still clearly visible, but she was fading into the fog, the color in her cheeks draining away to grey and her face changing, growing thin and gaunt. Katchoo tried to reach out to her, but her hands passed through the place where Emma's body should have been.
Too late, Chewie. The words still weren't audible, but they were easily read on Emma's lips.
Only they weren't Emma's lips any longer. The face, now wearing a rictus grin, wasn't Emma's now.
It was her own, and Katchoo's scream ripped through the silence.
. . . or maybe that was the deafening ring of her cheap-ass alarm clock.
Muttering a string of completely unintelligible yet vitriolic invective, she lashed out from under the covers with one arm, hard, and smashed the alarm clock into the wall. (For the record, it was the tenth cheap-ass alarm clock done in this month.) The day already sucked; might as well just go to work, now.
[OOC: NFI and establishy, but OOC welcome. This post inspired by a combination of reading SiP Vol. 2 last night before bed and driving through UNEXPECTED EVIL ZOMBIE FOG this morning.]
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Date: 2009-01-01 07:51 am (UTC)