He never meant to die this way: sprawled out on the floor, helpless and at the mercy of a couple thousand maniacs. Orren's head still hurt from the Maglite one the asshole guards had used to knock him out. He was pretty sure a lump approximately the size of Texas was forming on the back of his head. His skull felt as tiny marching band was slowly drilling through it, banging their drums and cymbals all the way. When he cracked his eyes open, the world above him looked hazy and out of focus.
Orren let out a pitiful moan as he began to stir. He slowly sat up, gathering his senses. The hallway he found himself in was dark, dirty, and he was pretty sure that there was a corpse laying at the end of it. No...wait...it was definitely still moving. Orren's heart jumped and his stomach took a dive; he was in the asylum. He was in the madhouse. The bloodbath. The loony hotel. He was in the asylum. The creature -he refused to call it a human being anymore- at the end of the hall was slowly getting up and staggering towards him. Orren began to panic as he looked around. He knew he wasn't alone; where was-
Orren turned to see Douglas laying in an equally uncomfortable position close by. He looked as though he was still out cold. Orren let out a stream of curses as he got up on his hands and knees and crawled over to him.
"Doug!" He whispered loudly, harshly. "Doug, wake up. This isn't fucking naptime, man. Comeoncomeoncomeonfuckfuckfuck. Get up!" Orren shook his unconscious coworker senselessly, desperate to wake him before the lumbering psychopath slowly making his way over split their heads in two and sucked out their brains. It sounded ridiculous, but Orren had seen worse things happen.
Zebra Cakes and chocolate milk.
Dylan used to love Zebra Cakes; what with their cheap, waxy icing and dry yellow cake. He had been particularly fond of dipping them in chocolate milk. He remembered the days when he was younger, sitting in the kitchen in a dark house, waiting for his parents to get home, eating junk food because no one was there to stop him. He'd almost forgotten what his parents had been like. They'd been kind enough, he supposed. They hadn't been around a whole lot. They'd always worked late; he was usually asleep by the time they got home. He guessed he kind of missed them. But to be honest, the company of a box of Zebra Cake sounded more tempting.
When patients like him were pushed to the side, forgotten and left to rot, feeding time didn't come so regularly. He was usually left to scrounge. He knew his way down to the kitchen, where food occasionally appeared. He knew where to stash things where they wouldn't be found. But old loaves of bread and stale potato chips did get tiring after a while. Dylan stared off into space as he thought about it.
Suddenly, the patient beside him gave a sudden yelp, causing Dylan to jump. He looked over at the guy, who had been curled up in a corner, crying for the past couple hours. He did this fairly often. Dylan somehow found it comforting to sit next to him. Something about knowing that his "friend" wouldn't try to kill put him at ease. Dylan had several friends around the hospital. He didn't know any of their names, or even really talk to them, but in his mind, they were friends. They passed each other in the hall, occasionally grunted at each other, and sometimes they even escaped from Frank together. Frank most certainly was not one of Dylan's friends.
The patient went back to huddling up and crying. Dylan was about to continue his mental autobiography when he heard something scrape in the room across the hall from them. A chair against the floor? A door creaking open? A led pipe being picked up? Dylan wasn't about to stick around and find out. He got up and slithered off down the hall to find somewhere else to stare off into space. Maybe he'd come back and visit his distraught friend later.
Orren let out a pitiful moan as he began to stir. He slowly sat up, gathering his senses. The hallway he found himself in was dark, dirty, and he was pretty sure that there was a corpse laying at the end of it. No...wait...it was definitely still moving. Orren's heart jumped and his stomach took a dive; he was in the asylum. He was in the madhouse. The bloodbath. The loony hotel. He was in the asylum. The creature -he refused to call it a human being anymore- at the end of the hall was slowly getting up and staggering towards him. Orren began to panic as he looked around. He knew he wasn't alone; where was-
Orren turned to see Douglas laying in an equally uncomfortable position close by. He looked as though he was still out cold. Orren let out a stream of curses as he got up on his hands and knees and crawled over to him.
"Doug!" He whispered loudly, harshly. "Doug, wake up. This isn't fucking naptime, man. Comeoncomeoncomeonfuckfuckfuck. Get up!" Orren shook his unconscious coworker senselessly, desperate to wake him before the lumbering psychopath slowly making his way over split their heads in two and sucked out their brains. It sounded ridiculous, but Orren had seen worse things happen.
Zebra Cakes and chocolate milk.
Dylan used to love Zebra Cakes; what with their cheap, waxy icing and dry yellow cake. He had been particularly fond of dipping them in chocolate milk. He remembered the days when he was younger, sitting in the kitchen in a dark house, waiting for his parents to get home, eating junk food because no one was there to stop him. He'd almost forgotten what his parents had been like. They'd been kind enough, he supposed. They hadn't been around a whole lot. They'd always worked late; he was usually asleep by the time they got home. He guessed he kind of missed them. But to be honest, the company of a box of Zebra Cake sounded more tempting.
When patients like him were pushed to the side, forgotten and left to rot, feeding time didn't come so regularly. He was usually left to scrounge. He knew his way down to the kitchen, where food occasionally appeared. He knew where to stash things where they wouldn't be found. But old loaves of bread and stale potato chips did get tiring after a while. Dylan stared off into space as he thought about it.
Suddenly, the patient beside him gave a sudden yelp, causing Dylan to jump. He looked over at the guy, who had been curled up in a corner, crying for the past couple hours. He did this fairly often. Dylan somehow found it comforting to sit next to him. Something about knowing that his "friend" wouldn't try to kill put him at ease. Dylan had several friends around the hospital. He didn't know any of their names, or even really talk to them, but in his mind, they were friends. They passed each other in the hall, occasionally grunted at each other, and sometimes they even escaped from Frank together. Frank most certainly was not one of Dylan's friends.
The patient went back to huddling up and crying. Dylan was about to continue his mental autobiography when he heard something scrape in the room across the hall from them. A chair against the floor? A door creaking open? A led pipe being picked up? Dylan wasn't about to stick around and find out. He got up and slithered off down the hall to find somewhere else to stare off into space. Maybe he'd come back and visit his distraught friend later.
