Soren's Room

Empty words.
They have just left again. Staring at the door, he waited for it to open once more and let in those white lights and sterile scents that mingle with the odor of his flesh. Will they come back? If they do, will they try to tell him those lies again? He pressed his lips together in a tight line, and stopped once he thought he felt a piece of flesh move. The men in the white coats won't come back. They usually only come a few times a week, and despite his tall windows that overlook the asylum's courtyard, he finds it hard to keep track of time. Hours fold into hours, ticking away the sands of time until he can pass on reach the end of this limbo. Till then he picked at a stray piece of thread at the edge of his sleeve, and stopped once it pulled back to show his skin; otherwise blemishless and creamy, to his eyes he saw his skin as each hair being eroded pockets of flesh. He saw a birthmark in the shape of a light brown fishtailing fin as a tumor that would spread and eventually consume his entire being until he could pass away with the people around him. The men in white coats would stay; they were the people who helped ease their passing. That's why some of the people fight against them, right? It has to be. It must.

Like a chord strung too taut the thread pulled away and separated from his maroon cuff. Feeling nothing on the other side of his grip snapped him out of his thoughts; Soren felt that he thought too much lately. There's not enough to do here. Too many people react poorly and violently when he tries to bug them. Not many people can keep their stoic expression was well as his Lukas can; seated on the edge of his bed, he let himself fall backwards and land upon grey sheets. Its soft texture was welcome in comparison to the roughness of the towels here; every time he moved in bed, he didn't have to worry about more of his skin gyrating away in flakes. That would suck. What a waste of fine Danish skin. Still - it can't be helped, can it?

Emil walked around the whitewashed halls at a leisurely pace. He certainly didn’t expect this place to be so… lax. Though, he was inclined to think that this was a trap… Things weren’t even this easy in the movies. How could people be so careless? To leave the door even slightly ajar in an asylum, of all places. And even before that, Emil was surprised his request for liquorice was being granted. He expected them to be stricter… Not that he was complaining.

… He silently hoped that he wouldn’t be in so much trouble later that they wouldn’t give him the liquorice. He hadn’t eaten the candy in so long. But now he was getting side tracked. He had to stick to the reason he had left that room, the reason he submitted himself to this place in the first place. He had to find Soren. Even though he had already encountered a problem with that.

How in the hell was he meant to find the Dane?! The asylum was much bigger than he had expected, and it’s not like they plastered the names of the patients on the wall. They were all numbered. The doctors he had eavesdropped on never used names. When referring to the residents here, it was always ‘the patient in room number-’ something or other. At least that seemed true to the movies.

A couple of times, he had almost bumped into the white coats. So far he was able to hide behind a corner to avoid being seen, but he didn’t know what he would do if he couldn’t hide behind a corner or if he was seen. Most of the doors were locked, and he didn’t like the prospect of hiding in a cleaning room. Where it would be… dark… and cramped…

Emil quickly shook the thoughts away, and walked faster, the mere image in his mind almost setting off his panic. He continues wanderingly aimlessly around the corridors, just hoping he would find the other…

The footsteps were starting to burrow into his mind.
At first he didn't quite notice them. Their sound of soft shuffling footsteps that seemed to patter were just distinguished as background noise. Next to the occasional rustle of clothing whenever he moved - which was rare; the Dane hardly ever moved in fear that more skin would fall away - the sound was insignificant. If it had no significance, was there really a point in listening? His eyes were on the wall. Right now he could be reading; he already had an entire bookcase by now, mostly of books that he saw Alric reading when they used to be together. His finger tracing designs on the white fabric of the uncomfortably stiff pillow beneath his head stilled. Why did his mind have to return to that? He's dead. Alric, Emil and the rest are alive. That's how it should stay. If anything, they should live out long lives; they shouldn't be stuck here waiting to die by the hand of whatever death wishes to claim them. In Soren's case, his death will come by his body falling to pieces. Not even the waters of his beloved sea can save him now - he doesn't even try. If he tried to escape, he knows that he will only run back to here. There is no other place aside from this building caught in between life and death. I'll see you in the great hall, Alric. But not now.

The patter of footsteps had grown louder. Raising his ear off of the pillow, he listened. Did they go down the bend near his room? His room is further than most of the other rooms. Most people miss it if they don't know where to go - but the white coats always, always know where he is. They must be able to sense him; he can never go anywhere without feeling their gaze on him. Even in his room, shielded from their view, the back of his neck prickles with the feeling of being watched. Call it paranoia, but it's a truth that he feels strongly in the rotting marrow of his bones. Choosing to ignore the footsteps was not an option. Eventually they bore into his mind with the force of a well placed hammer; and although they had gotten to the point of growing faint once more, he could not resist the urge to follow them and figure out their source. If it was a white coat, there would be the patter of well crafted shoes following each step. Not the shuffling of a half-dead persons shoes. Standing up Denmark had to stop while blood rushed to his head - his mind that must be rotting just as much as his body - and he stumbled to the door, his eyes on the clear class panel that served as a small window. Nobody was directly outside of his room. Still, someone could be further down the hall. Pushing open his door he ventured out into the hall, his flyaway hair messy.

The image he had conjured in his mind was taking its toll. He had begun staggering between reality and his nightmarish fantasies. It felt as though the hallways were dimming, elongating, and the towering walls were slowly closing in on him. But he knew it wasn’t happening! It’s was just his imagination! He was still in the asylum, he still had to be cautious, and he still had to find Soren!

Those thoughts alone were all that kept him from screaming. They were all that was between him, and clasping his hands to his throat, to speed the process of this horror, to end this pain. He knew he definitely couldn’t be found in this state; the doctors would proclaim his condition ‘worse than they expected’. Idiots… Emil knew what state his ‘condition’ was in. He knew his boundaries. He just… accidentally crossed them…

He knew he needed to stop. He needed to have a break; otherwise his illusions would consume him. He halted and reached for the wall, but his hand met nothing but air. He wearily looked to where his hand was his extended, realizing that the walls were much further away than he thought. That was a relief… He walked over, pressing his back on the wall, and slowly sliding down. He rested his head back on the cool surface, staring blankly at the ceiling. It wasn’t as dark as he thought, too. In fact, it was such a brilliant-white hallway, clean but boring. He gazed shifted from right to left, as his breathing eventually slowed down. Strange. He didn’t remember being so out of breath in the first place. The halls were long, but they didn’t extend mockingly. In fact, the hallway was probably short; it was just that there was only one doorway in this corridor, giving it an emptier, spacious feel.

… Wait. Did something move behind the door?

Emil’s eyes remained locked on the door, as it slowly opened. He had no particularly strong feeling about it at this point. The door opened in his direction, so he could see who was coming out. If it were a doctor, or someone that looked dangerous, he could always run; he was pretty close to the corner. So he simply sat there and watched, as the door opened, revealing the resident of the room.

Every fibre in the Icelandic boy’s body perked up, as though a wonderful electric shock had coursed through it. Slowly, he got up; hand still on the wall to assure himself that this was real. He rubbed his eyes with his other hand, to be doubly sure. It was all he could do to not rush at the person standing in front of him, and envelop him in a hug. After all, that would be out of character for him, and he still had his pride to consider. Instead, he stood up straight, looking at the other straight in the eye, clearing any expression on his face, because inside he was about to burst from the flurry of emotions. Then he spoke, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking.

“… Soren…?”

(Ice... That was so good <3

I'll post once I get a computer lol ^_^ but seriously. Your writing is awesome.)