Author's Note – After raiding my old computer for stories I found this fun little treat buried deep within the hard-drive. I was inspired by a line in the script that was cut from the actual movie. I hope you enjoy and never be too be afraid to leave a review. :) (Set in Matt's point of view)
Suffocate
Shame. What else can I feel? Arms stretched outwards I let my gaze roam over those angry red marks, everything inside of me screaming humiliation. My torso burns as I rotate my shoulders, scrutinizing every blister and irritated burn marring the skin. I'm tired of this indignity – this degradation. Tears well behind my eyes but being so accustomed to the feeling I'm able to push them back. They've never solved anything in my life and they won't start now. A shaky breath tears through my throat and all I can do is ponder over what I've become – fragile, weak, helpless, pained. I have no strength. Even breathing is a burden. My arms fall back down to my sides and a sense of hopelessness washes over me.
The blood pulsing through my veins feels like ice despite the fire on my skin, making every little thing an effort, even the small act of gently lowering my body to the floor. My fingers brush against the frigid tile before I slump down fully onto the ground, the cold a relief to my burning skin. I don't know why I'm trying this. It's a false hope but I don't want to let it go. My feet slide underneath the bed as I position myself next to it, a breath slipping past my chapped lips before I cross my arms over my stinging chest. Every muscle in my abdomen goes rigid and for a moment – I can't breathe. My body aches unbearably as I pull myself upwards, sucking in air through my teeth before painfully lowering myself back down. As soon as my back touches the floor I exhale through my nose, exhaustion gripping my limbs.
'One.' A partial whimper slips, muffled by another heavy breath. I feel humiliated after the pathetic attempt but I'm too stubborn to give in. My back curls upwards from the floor again and I close my eyes, trying my hardest to convince myself that everything is back to normal – that I'm living an average life back in New York, that the worst thing that ever happened to me was a broken wrist and the only sickness I've ever been plagued by was just a cold. It feels like forever before I reach the extent of my body's flexibility; the ache returning to my torso to remind of this current reality. It reminds me that I'm not all right; that this cancer is suffocating me and soon - it could kill me. A silhouette impedes the corner of my vision, something between a growl and a whine sounding beside me before the harsh scent of smoke invades my nostrils. `
I'm not all right. Not at all.
I jerk my head to the left and my body instinctively scoots away from the dark shape barely illuminated by the artificial light. Bloodshot blue eyes stare into mine from an awkward angle, small whines morphing into strangled gurgles as they pass through its charred vocal cords. It's only a moment when I feel fear; the moment passes quickly.
"What do you want from me?" I say it before even registering that it passed my lips, fear replaced by an inexplicable anger towards the figure. This cancer. The head twitches and it groans.
As if a hot stake were being driven through the soft flesh my head abruptly explodes with agony and both of my hands instantaneously fly up to press against my temples as if to protect my brain from the onslaught of unbridled pain. Pulse after pulse of throbbing agony crashes over me along with dark images of mutilation. Lurid images of the bodies that had become victim to a living horror dance behind my eyelids, undulating as if going through the heat of a fire; a fire that eventually envelops me.
A presence brushes against my own before hooking on like a virus, a meat hook through the space between my shoulders that drags me somewhere different. A high pitched screech surrounds me before silence.
"I'm so sorry."
Jonah opens his eyes, his vision off center as if the space between his brain and eyes was knocked out of balance. It's the rip where I'm caught, incapable of protests… Just watching through his eyes. Palms placed flat against the cold steel of an autopsy table he stares into his own, pale reflection, unshed tears glistening in his azure orbs.
"I'm so sorry… I'll take care of everything. I promise." He mutters vacantly, looking up from his reflection to stare at the macabre array of tools. "I'll burn it down."
'No.'
He turns and walks softly out of the back room, his steps instinctively cautious and hesitant as if Ramsey could be around the next corner. His arm extends to the left and he curls his fingers around the neck of a dark bottle. The label is worn and cracked, but I'm already aware of what it is. He brings the formaldehyde up the stairs and into the dining room, setting it down on the floor next to the table before looking up at the walls. There were days when he had to squeeze into the musty crawlspaces just to let Aikman know that there was enough room for one more body in the moldy cracks. Aikman was away now; Jonah would fix his mistakes.
With a heave he overturns the dining table along with two or three of the chairs, sending them smashing to the floor. I winced at the abrupt and loud noise. He senses this, but continued nonetheless.
'I'm sleeping. Please… Let it be that I'm only dreaming.' I can't close my eyes; he controls that. Precariously, one after the other, the chairs are stacked on top of each other with the table used as the foundation. The formaldehyde is drained over the wood furniture until it's dripping with it.
By the time he's finished I realize why the formation seems so familiar.
It looks like a funeral pyre.
He needs a match.
"I want out!" A scream. We cringe. They're ringing in his ears, every single day calling to him, begging him to just let them out. Jonah has a match in his hand now, but he's shaking to violently to light it. I shift uncomfortably in this rip of his conscious.
"Please! Let me out!" I can see them, every permanently opened eye staring back at me… At us, every single body looking out from behind the wall. Guilt tears away at Jonah, a guilt that overpowers me as well. It's suffocating me, and I can't bear it.
"Get me out! Let me go! Let me go!" The match falls from the medium's tremulous fingers but he doesn't retrieve it. His legs suddenly buckle and he falls to the ground, a sob gathering in his throat. With his hands pressed against the cool wood of the wall he can feel the thumping on the other side. Rhythm like a heart beat.
"PLEASE!" The pleads halt his thoughts and brings tears to his eyes, blurring both of our visions. He rubs his fingers against the wood, nails faintly scratching the wall as he lowers his head. The cries continue and I'm torn apart by this overwhelming guilt that threatens to consume me.
"Jonah! Stop! Please!" I beg, but he can't hear me anymore. The screeching cries, the subtle and foreboding drip of formaldehyde against the hardwood floor. Too much. Too much!
He runs his hands down the wall, once, twice, again and again. Splinters come apart underneath his fingertips and I can feel them crack, feel the warm blood dribble down to stain his arms. He wants to get them out.
"Let me out!"
Why won't they be quiet?
"Jonah!" Ramsey's voice echoes through the small room, but the medium only continues to dig. "Jonah! Stop!" Hands, rough and uncaring, wrap themselves around his shoulders and force both of us to look Aikman in the face. Tear-stained, overwhelmed, and hopeless Jonah looks back into those uncaring eyes, gulping down the oxygen he so desperately needs. The air reminds him he was still alive, that he hasn't joined those behind the walls.
It kept him sane.
"Please… Sir…" He inhales, letting it out in a gasp. Warm blood drips from those extended fingers, staining the walls… Staining us. "They wants out."
He closes his eyes and I'm dragged from the space in his conscious, thrown roughly back into my own reality with a cry.
Blurry. Blood, warm blood, drips from my torn fingers to spot the floor and I realize just how much it hurts. My heart pounds violently against my ribcage and my pulse throbs behind my eyes.
"Matt?" Sara… My mom. Inexplicable exhaustion takes a hold of my limbs and it closes my eyes. A voice fills my ears and just before I'm enveloped in white oblivion I realize that it's my own.
"Please sir... They wants out."