I was going to write some more for Rewind but then this happened.
White. White everywhere; no darkness, no shadows, no reprieve. Nothing but white.
It hurts; he yells for the white to go away, to leave, but his arms are restrained and he can do nothing to make it go away on his own.
He bashes his face against the wall but it is soft; still he manages a bloody nose and paints streaks of red and then stares at them, the breaks in the white, the resting points for his eyes.
It hurts.
His nose still drips and his mouth tastes of metal but he grins anyway, pleased that he has broken the endless white room. He keeps staring at the crimson lines, smearing them with his feet to cover more of the white only to freeze when the crimson thins to reveal the bloodstained white underneath.
His smile vanishes and he tries to move the crimson back but there is nothing he can do to cover the white. It's everywhere; the walls, the ceiling, the floor, even his torso save for the black hole in the center of his chest.
It hurts.
He blinks; the hole is gone - he knows it is nothing but a trick of the light, he tells himself that over and over and over - but now he is afraid, scared, his body thrumming with fear. He backs into a corner, his eyes darting around the room for whatever had created that hole. All he sees is crimson and white and he wishes everything to be completely white again so he can see if there is anything different but the crimson draws his eyes and he can't look away as the metallic taste fills his mouth again and this time it isn't nearly as unpleasant.
He smiles again but now it doesn't feel right and he tries to frown, to scowl, but his face isn't listening. The fear comes back and the hole reappears and doesn't go away until he starts screaming.
It hurts.
He can hear someone laughing and he looks around to see who it is but there is no one there, no one making that noise. It bounces around, echoing off the white walls and returning to his ears, mocking him. His face hurts from the grotesque smile stretching across it and once again he tries to stop himself from smiling only to fail.
He hits the wall with his face again but now it doesn't do anything but send flares of painful fire throughout his head.
It hurts.
He realizes that he is the one laughing and as horror blossoms within him he laughs harder, manic glee rising like a tidal wave behind the drops of fear. He screams again, screams until his throat is raw and aching, screams until he cannot scream any more and still he laughs, still he can't stop feeling happy as the rational fragments of his shattered mind cry with warning.
His head is pounding and he feels too hot and too cold, hot flashes mixing with cold ones until he doesn't know what he is feeling except for pain.
It hurts.
His body feels too heavy and too light at the same time and he falls to one side as his sense of balance fails entirely. He stares at the wall, dazed yet still cursing the whiteness that surrounds him.
Words of encouragement from his mind give him the energy to sit up and he stares at the crimson stains again before looking down at the ones that decorate his white shirt. He giggles as he notices the odd fabric.
The shirt is strange; he doesn't remember it being so tight, nor does he remember the black markings that spiral from the center. He twists his head and sees his arms tied behind his back. They are oddly white too and he wonders if he has been wearing long sleeves without noticing.
The words of encouragement become more forceful and he shifts, slowly getting to his feet and staggering as his world spins and darkens and warps enough to make him nauseous.
It hurts.
But the pain is funny.
He slams into the wall but stays upright, his whole head feeling as though it is being squeezed and crushed. His body feels too tense, too tight, but he can't bring himself to care as his eyes settle on the white hair hanging just barely in his vision. He screams, a break in his mania as rationality attempts to return, trying to shake the hair away but it stays, brushing against his skin with mocking softness.
He keeps screaming, his throat burning as his whole body teeters on the brink of snapping, burning pain coursing through every muscle and making him want to tear the very skin from his bones.
It hurts.
And then it doesn't.
His screaming finally cuts off, and he feels better than he has in a long time. There is an ache in his chest now, but he knows he can make it hurt less.
He looks down and sees white, but it's okay because black markings spread over it and red covers his wrists and ankles. The voice in his head tells him everything is fine, that everything is perfect; he just has to let go, and he does it easily, sinking into the abyss of darkness almost happily as laughter fills his head.
Ichigo bolts upright in bed with a scream already clawing its way out of his throat, one hand flying to his chest, and he can't describe the relief that fills him as his hand rests solidly against his whole, complete torso and the details of the dream (nightmare) are already fading as the teenager staggers into his bathroom and heaves into the toilet, his entire body shaking. He squeezes his eyes to block out the memories of a white room, but they are already shifting to images of grinning white skulls with gold and black eyes.
A/N I don't know what this is.
-RoR
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