Originally Posted by Dystopia
She didn't sleep. How could anyone sleep in this world, in this world where humans had damned humans? How could anyone stay human at all? She didn't know. She didn't care. She wasn't a human. She wasn't an animal. She wasn't even alive behind the beat of her heart, which was forced through the layers of internal damage done by what her veins so hungrily consumed daily. She was a machine, a machine oiled by drugs. A machine who paid for the oils to keep her gears clean by dirtying the temple of her body. But that temple had fallen long ago, its importance long gone and forgotten. The drugs and the life preserver to counteract the drugs were much more important to her than whose hand went where on her body.
She couldn't sleep. How could anyone sleep in this hell, in this hell where demons crept? She could hear their voices calling for her. Calling... Calling... Their tones were as distorted as hers and they called. Called and called. She could hear them! She could! And she shuddered and she trembled, her knees clutched to her stomach and her eyes flickering nervously about the room if not rolled to the back of her head. That was why she hated the light. No! No! Then she could see them, and they could see her, with their hollow red eyes and their twisted smiles. They could see her and they would call, call and call again. But they would see her and they would come. Closer. Closer. No!
There was a sound in the darkness and her shrill shrieks shot the silence as though it were an intruder on home territory. But this was not her home, even as she struck the outsider with the sharp point of the dirtied needle. This was not her home she was defending, but she was here. Here, with a rabid rat and its repulsive teeth clattering. The repulsive thing! It squirmed, impaled through its chest. The twitches stopped shortly after, and the diseased carcass was torn and devoured. Devoured by a girl as or more disgusting than her prey. Devoured, and any disease shot dead by the drugs, the drugs that then in turn was shot dead by the medicine. Drugs. Medicine. Drugs. Medicine. That was the circle of life. Or death.
She was nervous now. Very nervous, with blood trickling down her chin and cheeks. The voices wouldn't like this, oh no. The voices wouldn't this at all. They would laugh and tease. Laugh and tease, then call and call. She belonged with them, she belonged with the damned! That was what they would tell her, whisper in her ear then disappear as she lashed out. Then they would laugh again. Again and again and again, they would toy with her. Torture her, beyond the physical brutality her sadistic clients found pleasurable. Pain? No one knew about pain. No one but her and the voices that called.
She didn't like the voices, and they wouldn't go away. So she would have to make them away, mute the voices so that she could not hear them as well as not see them. Two hands dug into her pockets to search for her necessities, the shivering right appearing with the syringe and the left clattering a bottle of something- something toxic for sure- onto the rotted ground. The container almost broke from the impact, dropped so very unevenly by her faltering arms. But she managed to poke a needle through and replace the remainder into one of her many pockets, the needed amount- which was obviously beyond what was safe -injected carelessly into a major vein.
Darkness. It flooded her for a minute, and everything started to hurt. Oh God, the voices! Make them stop! She screamed like a madwoman alongside them, her jargon cries exploding into the air. The whip of her demented tones slashed at the sky, which was as black as the forsaken woman's diseased heart. She was dying, and she knew it. She would have been dead long ago, but she needed her meds. She needed them or the voices would take her away! VOICES... Voices... Vo... It all faded into the drugs. The drugs were good, they took everything away. It was okay now. It was gone.
And she was calm...
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