.Awaiting.
Completed January 12, 2012. Typed March 30, 2012 on Android.
We sit silently in that room for what feels like forever. The dank, black walls are closing in on us, it seems. Why can't we be processed sooner? Our masters merely flashed their death certificates, then were shown their quarters. Even by Hell's standards, they must have had it easy. After all, they were famous here.
But this would become of their painstakingly constructed team. Punishment, though suicide was our only crime.
The heavy bank-vault door creaks open, and another of us steps in. He is given a noiseless indication to flip a switch. He obliges, and the chamber is slowly washed in a sickly, antediluvian light. He is a child, not unlike ourselves. One eyeshot at his dark tan skin and wan white hair raised an immediate, yet unrevealed note: this is a Karakara. Morosely, he seats himself in the center of the dirty tile floor. The club strapped to his back prominently pushes up on the fabric of the Karakara's jacket. A unified, hidden leap in discomforted hearts is shared with the mere image of his clear and careful observation of our group.
Not a soul dares to open a lip in speech. Slowly, we find unexplainable amounts of interest (and certainly less eye contact) in picking inflamed scabs, scratching at already scratched-out eyes, and tying and untying our shoes, ensuring pinpoint accuracy in the arrangements of the bows. One girl looks back at the near-human creature ages later to find, to her absolute disturbance, he is still staring. His gaze is trapped in others' minds with no intentions of leaving. The faintest whimper resides within her tiny throat, and it only takes a few seconds for her to go back to adjusting the pleats of her skirt. A trapped, heavy atmosphere has settled on the room.
The only audible noise is a monstrous, grating sound, tinged through the veins with unearthly squeaks... It's the door. A man with a deep vermillion umbrella motions for a few of us to follow him. The Karakara, along with at least seven hundred others' feet clack abstractly on the floor, leaving the vast remainder of us in here. Upon leaving, said man, a guard named Damian, flips the switch and the chamber is quickly plunged into the rough darkness.
And this would become of our forgotten shred of The Syndrome.
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