A/N: This is really more of a teaser/trailer for the rest of the story. Things will make more sense later.
YEAH FOR LATE NIGHT WRITING!
Prologue
The machine gives off steady beeps as he stands next to it, the silent spaces in-between seeming too long to be natural. He holds his breath, feeling the stillness amid each beat like a vacuum within his bones, devouring him from the inside so that eventually he'll just disappear. The room is too cold and metallic and it bothers him the longer he's in it. Stark white walls hold in a bed lain with crisp sheets, the color a whispery translucent shade that would give reason to the lingering scent of bleach. He's considered opening the window, but found himself unable to move. The air outside is cold with the approaching winter season and he doesn't think it would do the buildings occupants much good. And the glass seems so far away, the promise of sound and life outside a distant echo…
Suddenly his knees hit the ground and he lets out a sigh, the air whooshing out of him with a hollow ringing. He extends his hands to place them against the frame of the bed, balancing himself against the cold metal as his head lowers, his forehead brushing the sheets before rising back up.
His gazes trails across the figure sprawled atop the sheets, their limbs haphazardly splayed, their long hair damp and pulled back roughly away from their face. Their face is not entirely visible, hidden behind an oxygen mask as it is, the few tubes running into it barely rivaling the weave of IVs into the person's arm. The skin there is red, irritated; their skin is too sensitive for injections. He remembers how they wouldn't even sit on the grass during summertime, for fear of breaking out in itchy hives.
His hand tightens in the fabric at the recollection, holding onto the feel of his fingers in starched cotton amidst the carousel of endless grey spinning in his mind. That scene, with the grass so green and the sky so blue seems different already, like before he had tampered with it, perfected it, and now it is returning to its real state. It scares him; he knows that the suspicion not true, but he needs reassurance anyway; a confirmation that such a time happened and that such a day was real.
He opens his eyes, only now realizing he had closed them, and continues watching the person in front of him, their breath moving in and out robotically, their heartbeat slow, muscles slack like a puppet without strings. He sees their hand, inches away from his and so cold, but does not touch it, knowing such a thing to be too cruel. He sees the pale veins flowing through the porcelain skin, the flesh so familiar he could trace it in his sleep, but doesn't reach out to stroke them like he had only hours before. Because although the blood and flesh and skin is the same, the face and the hair and those wide blue eyes…
It feels so wrong.
His head falls to the sheets again, finding the image before him blurred with tears he had promised he wouldn't shed. They fall to the shined floor despite his will, seeming like insignificant like puddles amid a great desert, and just as such, they dry up quickly, disappearing into thin air without a trace.
Where did they go?
Those tears were there, weren't they? They fell with a sparkling glory, shimmering in the air with a brief and beautiful life. Then they hit the floor and fractured, shattering into millions of droplets that spread out and reached back towards each other, trying to reunite. They were matter. They were real. So…
How did they just disappear?
Kneeling in that disturbed silence, the cold of the tile sinking into his knees, his mind whirls rapidly, wondering what he would do if he found the answer.
A/N: Ahhhhhhhhh, I think Marionette is going to be on hold. Sorry. *Ducks*
I just can't write it! I don't know why! Don't kill me! ;^;
I'll get back around to it soon; you guys know my idea of a break is a little shorter than others.
THAT IS WHEN I DON'T HAVE MAJOR WRITER'S BLOCK
No seriously, wait a month or so. :')