[They can both be angry. The anger she feels is honestly, comforting. Just like when they'd talked about BOB (which, hoo boy, is another little topic that might warrant broaching...), it's a relief to know that anger surges in on top of the fear, crackling like lightning. It's not exactly productive, but it's not weak. And she'd take just about anything over feeling the weakness she knows all this should inspire.]
[She keeps her voice low when she speaks back up.]
The worst thing is... I died. I died, like... a lot, in there. It was dark, and tight, and there were places where I didn't see monsters until it was already too late, or was just overpowered... whatever, that part, I've gotten over. It sucked and it hurt but I did come back, and I made it out in the end.
But there were still all those times when there was just... my body lying there on the floor all busted to shit and back.
And I know from the way he wrote those letters, that he was watching, every time it happened. That he loved it. That I was fulfilling exactly the kinds of sick fantasies he'd been cooking up in his sick head for probably as long as I'd even been alive.
... And... I don't know... how long I was gone, when I died. How long my corpse was just there, waiting to be brought back.
And I think about... what might've happened.
[A low laugh escapes her. It's not that dark, murky one that she lets out sometimes when she's too angry for words-- it's light and incredulous and horrified, almost more of a breath than a laugh.]
I dream about it, sometimes. That I can hear him coming towards me right as everything's going black. Sometimes I think I can feel his hands and it's the last thing I'm aware of before I'm just... gone.
[Then, quite abruptly, she goes very quiet, and very still.]
no subject
[She keeps her voice low when she speaks back up.]
The worst thing is... I died. I died, like... a lot, in there. It was dark, and tight, and there were places where I didn't see monsters until it was already too late, or was just overpowered... whatever, that part, I've gotten over. It sucked and it hurt but I did come back, and I made it out in the end.
But there were still all those times when there was just... my body lying there on the floor all busted to shit and back.
And I know from the way he wrote those letters, that he was watching, every time it happened. That he loved it. That I was fulfilling exactly the kinds of sick fantasies he'd been cooking up in his sick head for probably as long as I'd even been alive.
... And... I don't know... how long I was gone, when I died. How long my corpse was just there, waiting to be brought back.
And I think about... what might've happened.
[A low laugh escapes her. It's not that dark, murky one that she lets out sometimes when she's too angry for words-- it's light and incredulous and horrified, almost more of a breath than a laugh.]
I dream about it, sometimes. That I can hear him coming towards me right as everything's going black. Sometimes I think I can feel his hands and it's the last thing I'm aware of before I'm just... gone.
[Then, quite abruptly, she goes very quiet, and very still.]
... Fuck. Are they dreams...?