Realistic or Modern Insylum

[Meredith]

Spoiler

Why am I here?


The crowd bustling around Loretta made her nervous.


It feels like a dream.


She could only imagine she'd already had more than enough to drink. The room was a sort of blurry, slightly fogged, bright splotches of coloured light assaulting her eyes.


No noise...


Were they speaking? Were they trying to speak, behind their masks?


Trapped...


Loretta took a steady breath and looked down at her shaky hands, noticed the goblet in the right. Slowly, she brought it up to her nose, smelling it. Wine.


Tilting her head back, she quickly drained the glass.


Better. Even if she had already drank too much.


Don't let a glass go to waste, my dear.


She briefly let her eyes slip shut. That voice, she could remember. Maybe.


A long time ago?


No, just a dream, a delusion.


Shh, it'll be okay...


Yes, inner monologue was all well and good, but how did she get here, damnit?


Look around, Loretta, that's the ticket. Come now.


Talking to herself again. Great.


At least it wasn't out loud.


Opening her eyes, Loretta began to slowly walk through the crowd.


This room is very pretty, fit for royalty.


She noticed the clock on the wall, but didn't bother to read it. It was strange, she thought, it didn't fit in the room.


Just like that mural on the far wall.


The mural was darker than the rest of the room, darker than all of the finery, the costumes.


The painting was dark, and it was beautiful.


The crowd jostled her, but she didn't notice.


The clock struck twelve, bells echoing through the room.


Oh, is it that late?


Instinctively walking to the mural, making her way surprisingly quickly through the horde, she gently brushed her fingers across the paint. It was old, uneven, chipped and worn. A man and a woman sat together in the piece, a small casket under their interlaced hands, closed and adorned with roses.


Out of place, and strangely beautiful.


The mural, and the clock.


Did they go together?


No, figure that out later.


Loretta turned her head to gaze down the mural, her blue eyes catching those of one of the men.


He moved as if to take her hand and dance, but she shook her head, she opened her mouth to speak.


"How did we get here?"


But when she spoke, no sound came.

 

[TheRevenant]

I'm interested in this, horror is my favourite genre.

 

[Grey]

I'm interested in this, horror is my favourite genre.

Best make a character and post a writing sample then.


Though at this rate I'm just going to take the people who put the effort in already and one or two others out of sheer favouritism.

 

[Lurker]

(Sorry it took a little while but here ya go.)


His green eyes opened, panic setting in immediately. Where? What? The man spun, trying to find anyone he knew. Why is everyone wearing masks? When he didn't recognize anyone he began pushing his way through the crowd. He spared a glance to the drink at his hand, downing in quickly. The taste seemed strange, something he'd never had before. Being that he was taller than most everyone here it was easy to make his way through the thrall of people. He didn't really know where he was going, he just wanted to get out of this crowd. He finally made his way to the throne, placing the empty glass on the arm of the chair. Taking in a deep breath, he was glad to be free of the claustrophobic situation. Turning back to the party, he began trying to figure out just where he was.


I never come to parties. What was I thinking? Deciding to scold himself later, he chose to speak to the closest person. "Hey, what is this place?" When the woman turned to look at him, he took a step back in disgust. The mask she was wearing was of a frog, however one of the eyes was blown out and painted to give the illusion of blood dripping out. Wait. No. He took an even closer look and his skin paled when he realized that actual blood was leaking out of the eye socket. His hands started shaking and he tried to retreat but his legs wouldn't respond. The woman began speaking in a language he couldn't understand. The scared look on his face only grew more prominent when the woman began approaching him, arms outstretched. The man stumbled backwards, begging her to keep her distance. "No! Stay back!"


Z tripped on something, falling backwards for one terrible moment. He landed with a thud onto the throne, the glass he placed earlier crashing to the ground. The sound of the shattering glass seemed impossibly loud. Everyone in the room froze, turning to look at him as he sat upon the throne. The woman wearing the frog mask had stopped approaching him and now stared. His chest heaved with fear, every mask he saw more gruesome than the last. The mask around his own face now seemed suffocating. He tore it off, turning to look at it. What he saw made his heart hammer even harder in his chest. The mask was of her. He would know that face anywhere. This would have soothed him if not for the slit throat of the woman and the dead look in her eyes. He dropped the mask, letting out a surprised yelp as if the mask had burned him. He looked back up to see everyone at the part still staring at him.


His head dropped into his hands, his entire body shivering. What is happening? Why her!? Suddenly the entire throne began to shake. He hadn't thought it could get any worse but it did. Straps that hadn't been there before now locked his wrists and ankles to the chair. He would have cried out in protest if a strap did not come to cover his mouth and lock his head in place. His eyes widened in fear as everyone in the room began making their way towards him. Z struggled as much as he could, the straps not budging at all. Everyone in the room descended upon him like a wave, clawing and biting his skin. Just when the edges of his vision began to blacken, the clock rang out. Everything seemed to freeze as the clock chimed. He observed everything as the clock slowly chimed out 12 times. The darkening of his vision was only worsening when he saw something. It was her, standing where he had thrown the mask. He tried calling out to her in vain, then the twelfth chime finished and he blacked out.


_______________________


Z awoke, sitting straight up in the bed. His entire body was cold with sweat and the sheets were damp. It took him a moment to realize he was back in reality. He looked down to his arm, noticing the familiar needle stuck there. He sighed, pulling the needle out and collapsing back into the bed. He was mentally and physically exhausted but he was too afraid to sleep. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, staring at the ceiling. Throwing the needle into the bin with all the others, he thought to himself. It's the only way to see her again.

 

[Ayl]

Spoiler

It took him a while, trying to decipher what they were saying. It was as if they spouted static instead of words. Now, it was just silence. Lips moving, forming words, but refusing to let out any sound. Coming with the masks, the whole thing was like a large-scale game of Charades, and everyone was a mime.


It was maddening, the silence. Not to mention confusing. He couldn’t take it anymore. As he made his way through the crowd, desperately searching for an exit, he stumbled into him.


“Mister Seymour, glad you could make it to our little meeting!” he said with a smirk. His hands went numb and the sound of broken glass could be heard throughout the hall as his drink dropped to the floor.


No one noticed. Everything went on. A quick look to the glistening liquid on the floor and back was enough for the other man to disappear, leaving a view to the throne, dominating the room. And on it, was her.


Shock, mixed with joy. He started running, the masks paying him no attention, yet again, as they parted to make way for him. His hand reached out to caress her cheek.


Just a few more steps.


But his hand grasped only air as he raised from his bed in the usual white room, now lit only by the moon showing her beauty through the window. The door opened wide and in came the orderly.


“It’s midnight, Mister Seymour!” he said with a grin. “Time for your medication!”.


But how?


Where did the last five minutes go?

 

[Tronethiel]

Hope this is alright!


Edit: I altered a few things since I wrote it so late, it should be a bit better now.


Swaths of gold and red intermingle. There is a spotty glimmering from above. Like an impressionistic painting, she sees in blurred strokes, but her aged eyes grasp only form without detail. People hum all about her, syllables devoid of meaning. The skin at the corners of her eyes fold loosely in confusion. She surveys the room intently, but there is little to be perceived in her infirmity.


She does not know where the party came from nor how she might have arrived. In fact, it is not at all clear to her that she attends a party. There are only empty voices and broad strokes. She has not noticed the masks of her fellow party-goers, but how could she? Soft and coarse, something touches her face. A veil flows over each of her shoulders. Her nose and cheeks itch at its touch. Her hands explore its folds, but there is only more confusion. Where did it come from? She is afraid to remove it. Her breath heaves in and out. She attempts to rise from her chair, but its metallic bars remind her that she cannot stand. It is a wheelchair. The fullness of sight, sound, and strength have been wrenched from her.


There is no warning. Gentle hands grasp at her frail form. She is lifted and carried slowly across the chamber to a throne she cannot see. To her it is only a dark mass against the bronze backdrop of the wall. The hands deposit her and she is handed something from which to drink. It is cool and the metal rings pleasantly at her touch. With a trembling hand, she takes a sip. The cup falls from age-addled fingers and a new swath of red blossoms before her.


The sound of the clattering cup does not cease with time. It is the only sound in a now empty room. Tink. Tink. Tink. The voices have stopped and the room grows clearer to her. There is a cup. There is a throne . There is no one. Here she sits, the eternal clattering of spilled wine. Here she sits, alone at a party. Here she sits, a queen with no subjects from atop a throne from which she cannot move.

 

[Grey]

Selections tonight. Expect to get tagged.