Posted this part separately cause this shit's takin too long
8: Changes
Part I - The Awakening
Today's Date: April 7th, 2020 - 6:28 a.m. (ET)
Lincoln jolts upwards, hyperventilating under acute stress, his skin damp and muggy.
It was that nightmare... again.
This marked the third time he had dreamt about the incident — or at least by as much as he could remember. The memories of a dream were often hidden behind a deep haze. Either that, or they faded through the seconds that followed his awakening. However, something was off. That dream felt disturbingly real. He patted his face and body—the chill of his palms making his belly flinch — verifying that he was in fact, not in a counterfeit reality.
"Ugh, was.. that really... a dream?" Lincoln mutters groggily, starting to settle down. The inside of his throat feels worn, and he swallows heavily to clear an awkward congregation of mucus. "It feels like that fight just happened. Usually the memory of my dreams aren't clear at all, but everything's just so vivid...like I was in that cold, wet alleyway, beaten and bruised, just as I was on that very day, then suddenly teleported back into my bed..."
Lincoln, who had just grasped his current surroundings, nestles himself in the blue duvet that stretched across his mattress. He used to spend countless hours snuggled safely in its soft confines, pretending that it could shield him from those 'monsters' lurking about. Out of all the emotions he's feeling, relief is the most discerned. Looking to feel comforted, he lays back, burying his head deep in the broad pillow that sits at the headboard. However, he immediately bounces up—the disgusting presence of moisture had set him off. He briefly looks over his shoulder and scans the bedding, which appears to be dampened with sweat—presumably his own.
"Looks like I had a rough night... I'm actually happy I even woke up, I was almost certain that I was a goner," Lincoln says, chuckling a bit. "Speaking of that... What time is it? I think I slept for a little while," with half-lidded eyes, he leans over to catch a glimpse of his alarm clock — which sits adjacent to him on his dresser — and is shocked to see the time. "It's twenty-eight past six?! Did I seriously sleep for eighteen hours straight?! Wow, that's a new record... Also, that's kind of horrifying. I hope mom and dad weren't too worried."
To his surprise, he was still tired—maybe he was just grumpy. The adrenaline from the dream had worn off, and he extends his arms above his head, bringing them down to his sides, his bones popping and cracking as they went.
"I can go for another thirty minutes. I don't need to get up until seven o'clock anyways," Lincoln yawns, wiping his rheumy eyes.
His head hits the pillow, and the bed forces a tense groan. The still darkness puts him in a light trance, and his worries slowly drift off, his brain ready to send its body into a slumber. He was about to fall asleep when...
BEEEEEP! BEEEEEP! BEEEEEP!
His alarm clock goes off, sending sharp waves of pain through his muzzy head. They bounce around his skull like a loose bullet — he frantically grips his hair in agony, trying to relent the pain, but to no avail — his ears start to ring, making him venture to the brink of a nervous breakdown. Desperate to stop the excruciating headache, Lincoln finally acts on it, slamming the snooze button with a heavy slam before returning his head to the pillow. CRACK! The wretched feeling begins to dissipate, and his tense muscles relax.
"Ugh, why do I have an alarm set at this time? ..and what the heck was that spasm all about?" Lincoln questions, cursing himself. He groans as he forces his feet to the floor, the weight shift making the bed's wooden frame screech in relief. "Oh yeah, how could I forget? I usually want a head start before the 10-headed beast wakes up."
The jaded boy, now standing upright, projects his chest and brings his shoulders back — his back curves inwards, its skin taut — and he expresses his tiredness through a lengthy yawn. Pressure is wiped away by the stretch, and it runs past him in a flash; or at least it felt that way. Now that he's prepared to start his morning routine, he turns to grab his housecoat, but an ashy and acrid odor invades his nose. Confusion fogs his mind, and he shoots his head back.
A grey haze had been filling the air, spawning from a butchered machine. It was the remains of his alarm clock.
"W-why's my alarm clock destroyed?!", he exasperates, frozen in a state of disbelief.
He leans over to flick the light on. The room, which used to be filled with the dull light of the early morning sky, now shines in its full color. He blocks his eyes for a second, allowing them to adjust. Nothing felt worse than being smacked in the face with a bright light the second you woke up — your eyes got mercilessly squeezed until its juices ran free, and you could do nothing but squint.
Once his eyelids straighten, the gap between them distancing, the sight makes him shudder. Black pieces of plastic are strewn about, wires hang loose — its innards exposed through the busted top, leaving nothing but the bottom half, the rising smoke bidding its death. Never once did he destroy his alarm clock when shutting it up. Lincoln was stumped, and stopped dead in his thoughts — he stood over the alarm clock, acknowledging it like an impossible-to-solve puzzle.
"Woah, hold on...did I do that?" he says. He cautiously studies his hands, raising them from his sides like hundred pound weights. "No...I'm tripping out... I'll just go get ready before the bathroom gets invaded; save me some time."
"Nothing is wrong, you bet!
Whatever happened back there is bullshit.
None of that is real—
just my gears hitting a sharp edge,
a piece of gum, or whatever.
Let's greet the day now, Lincoln.
Go about your usual habits."
Stalled at the threshold of his room, he shakes his head in curt motions, moving like someone who had disgustedly shook their head no. He then diverts his attention to the hallway, which spans about twenty-five feet ahead. The door to his room is positioned at the head, the bathroom at the opposite end, the adjacent walls peppered with paneled wooden doors that led to his sisters' bedrooms. The opening to the bathroom was slightly exposed, and it led to a desolate darkness. Nobody appeared to be in the bathroom. That was perfect. He basically had the entire house to himself — for now. It wouldn't last long, so he needed to get moving. Lincoln snatches his housecoat before brushing past the doorway. It had been hanging on an over-the-door hook, patiently waiting to be used, shining bright in its distinct orange color. His grip firm on its Turkish cotton, he tugs on it, walking forward with his back turned, expecting it to slide off flawlessly.
"It's always awfully weird to—" CLANK! Lincoln stops in his tracks. "...see the house this quiet...the hell was that?"
His right eye twitching, the thumping beat of his heart unsteady — ka-thud, ka-bam, ka-thud — he shoots his head back. The hook, jagged at the end, separated from its base, on the ground. Busted. Ironically enough, the neck of the housecoat was still wrapped around its crescent. What kind of fuckery was this?
The reassurance, which had basically turned into a song, had sealed itself in Lincoln's mind.
"Nothing is wrong, you bet!
Whatever happened back there is bullshit.
None of that is real—
just my gears hitting a sharp edge,
a piece of gum, or whatever.
Let's greet the day now, Lincoln.
Go about your usual habits."
Oh look, nothing's out of the ordinary!
Within the span of a few seconds, Lincoln had made his way to the toilet, dragging his bathrobe along the way. It had brushed the floor as he went, enveloping it in a mess of hair, dust and bacteria. The hook, still clinging to the housecoat's thick collar, was scraping the hardwood floor with a sound that carried such morosity that had a serial killer been raking a knife along the wall, it probably wouldn't have sounded any different. Lincoln awkwardly stares downwards; a gaze that penetrated the floorboards, refusing to look up and around him. It felt like people had their eyes on him, though the house was perfectly still and silent.
The sun had yet to peak the horizon, leaving the house entirely dull. The only way you could see was by the early morning light, which peered through the windows, casting a leaden sky over the population of Royal Woods.
Standing in front of the sink, the mirror mounted above it, Lincoln reaches for and flicks the bathroom light on — the tousled mop of white hair that infests his crown goes ablaze, he feels his eyes get squeezed again, and he absently shields his precious gems from the burning light. With the persona of a caveman, he examines his reflection in the mirror, disoriented by and careless for his cranky appearance. He had been planning to take a shower anyway.
He grabs the tap on the right, expecting the spout to vomit a fluid stream of cold water. He twists it, and with a little bit of pull, takes it clean off.
PPPSSSSSSHHHHH!
"Nothing is wrong, you bet!
Whatever happened back there is bullshit.
None of that is real—
just my gears hitting a sharp edge,
a piece of gum, or whate—"
Shut up. You need to act now.
Blocking the vicious spray with both of his hands — the faucet handle held by the finger in one — he nears the valve. It was busted. He had destroyed it.
"Shoot...shoot!" Lincoln hisses. The water had been making his palms tingle, and the rebounding droplets tap his face, his bare chest, the floor, and the sink. Especially the walls. He could practically see price tags popping out of them, saying, 'Oh boy Jimbo, you got 5,000 dollars to fix this wall?' The stress, and the fact that he did something this bad made his heart flutter — ka-thud, ka-bam, ka-thud — and pressured him into saying the forbidden word out loud. The f-word. "Ah, fuck! What the hell do I do now?!"
He would've never thought of saying the forbidden word, especially at home, where he lived with a collection of younger siblings. Instilling them with a colorful vocabulary was the last thing that needed to fall under his responsibility. But in the spur of the moment, he didn't care.
The now-distraught Lincoln frantically scans the room, searching for something that could stop the leakage. His eyes dart from one object to another, switching from the shower curtains, to the plunger, then to the towel rack. They lock on a green — almost emerald — bath towel that draped over it. It was practically calling his name. Hey! Lookie here! Use me! I'll stop it, and soak up the water like a dry sponge. That'll buy you some time!
A glimmer of hope had surfaced. Putting his right hand out, he got up close, and corked the leak with his palm. He could feel the immense pressure against his velvety skin — and though it didn't really hurt; at all, in fact, it felt like it should've.
He reaches for the towel with his left hand, the right one firm on the broken valve. Water had started to escape through the slits between his fingers. 'You better get this done quick,' he's telling himself, 'The bigger the mess, the worse it gets. Mom and dad's gonna kill you.' It's something called worry. Have you ever heard of it before? Well, if you haven't, it was this 'worry,' that made him work with such haste.
His right foot off the ground, his body pitched to the right, relying solely on his left foot to keep his balance, he reaches for the towel, his arm extended. He fumbles with his fingers as they try to grapple its emerald-green pillings, until they finally maintain a firm hold.
Gotch'ya. Now come here.
He returns his foot to the marble flooring, and the shortened distance whisks the towel from the rack. Unbeknownst to him, he had also gotten something else in return, having gripped both ends of the towel.
CLANG! Ouch...
His head had come back sharply, the skin on his forehead feeling raw and battered. The towel had enveloped the silver rack, bringing the entire mount off the wall. Hey man, you see this lunatic over here? How about we pay him a visit together and smack the shit out of him! The metal rod had slingshotted, drawing a path that crashed between his brows. His eyelids shot closed, and it had hit him. Really hard.
"Ugh," he mutters, the bruise a tense migraine that circled the middle of his forehead, "...so that just happened."
At this point, Lincoln had basically given up, and dumped the towel on the sink's wound — which had continued to spurt water like blood from a slit throat — leaving it to buy him some time. At least it wouldn't be pointless.
"I'm done trying," Lincoln vents, throwing his arms up in despair. "I'll stop now before I tear this entire house down."
He turns for the door, but then that very feeling returns, like he was being watched. This time however, someone definitely had their eyes on him. It had resurfaced with unimaginable strength. Their gaze, though he can't see who it is, makes him feel vulnerable — exposed. His stomach knots, and it's contents churn, gurgling and gasping for relief. Then comes the brain-stabbing pain — someone's alarm clock had gone off in another room — and the sound had started to pierce him through the walls.
The waves of sharp pain resurface, and he falls to his knees, clenching his white hair, gritting his teeth at the strident ring in his eardrums.
Ka-thud, ka-bam, ka-thud.
It's just too much.
He throws himself at the toilet, hovers his face over the bowl, and with his hands wrapped around the porcelain rim, everything has rushed up his throat, forcing green acidic fluid to explode out of his mouth like an erupting geyser.
Anyway, tell me what ya think of this, i'll post the next part to this another day