The story has been whipping around us for so long that I cannot see the wind anymore, that I can only vaguely remember how the words felt until their sandpaper texture rubbed my skin raw.
you awaken in a room, a bare wooden table stands in the middle of the room, and you each can see three more figures collapsed around you. the walls of the room are draped in tasteless red tapestry, and the table is heaped in backpacks. at the far end of the room you can see a fireplace, unlit, and cleared of soot. curtains cover what you presume to be windows to your right. there is a door to your left, with what appears to be a note tacked to none of you have any idea who you, or any of the other people in the room with you are. The note reads as follows, and is written in a sloping, (trying to be fancy, putting on airs of more) cursive: To A. Weaver, C. Morel, Twilight Stormshadow, and Niel West Heckens, We understand that you might find this situation to be frightening or befuddling. Trust us when we say that this lie to yourselves, to ourselves, is both hopefully temporary, and ultimately for the best. The hope, is that in losing some part of ourselves, you can be free from the fo...
Their body was like a scarecrow’s, straw seeping out of wounds instead of blood. The sight of someone picking at a scab (and blood welling forth) had always nauseated her. Even without the blood, the sight of Aiden grasping at one of the fibers sticking out of the cut and simply pulling it free was enough to force her to turn away.
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