《The Paralogical Cases - The Watercourse Wench》IV.iii Drunken Dreams

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The whole world spun with every step he took, but he found his way home from one wall to the other. He didn't care that he couldn't stay up, as it all felt so fuzzy he was sure he would bounce when he did fall. A second later the cobbles in the narrow alley besides his house proved him wrong. He let out a loud groan, he looked at his bottle that miraculously hadn't cracked, and watched the cheap whiskey spill away between the cobbles in the light of the nearly full moon.

“Focksake…” he slurred as he quickly tried to crawl up, causing the alley to wind and twist in every which direction. Although he managed to get on his feet, he stumbled against one of the walls nearly immediately. Unsure how to solve this issue, and with the only thing that he knew for sure eased his troubles in hand, he took a few more swigs. The burn in the back of his throat cleared his mind for long enough to recognise that he was close enough to his bed that sleeping in the alley was a waste.

He pushed himself off of the wall again, only to see a figure standing at the end of the alley, watching the waterfront. Through the spinning and winding he tried to actually see who it was, but in the darkness he couldn't make out more than the skirts of a short, tattered dress around a thin body. Her hair was stringy and filthy, and he could only figure she was a whore at the end of her duty on the docks – part of him fell still at the sight, his mind inadvertently drifting to the thought of Cecil. Was he like that too?

The thought wrecked his heart. He felt angry, but helpless at the sight, knowing this world was one where the destitute sold themselves to the lonely and abusive alike. Why didn't you let me love you? Didn't you want to be? Don't we all want to be?

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With wavering steps he tried to walk forward, not sure what he had to say. He wasn't even sure if he would say it for her, or to lighten his own heart.

“Hey?” As he called out, the still figure slowly moved.

He felt cold. The air had been heavy and humid only a second before, but now harboured a deep chill against his skin. For a second his heart stood still, the instinctive sense of something being terribly off sobering him up enough to recognise what he was looking at.

The spindly legs and arms that stuck out from under the rags weren't just thin; at some places there wasn't any of the pale, greyish skin left. Instead he saw the dark, greenish hue of flesh where the skin sloughed off, glistening in the moonlight.

There was no breath, there was no sound at all. All the distinct tones of reality had gone, the waves, the distant drunks singing, even the bugs; like it had all ceased to be – and he was left alone in the world. Wide eyed his gaze fixated on her, a scream stuck in his chest. It didn't matter. Deep in his heart he knew that there was nowhere left that was safe.

Her grin was rotten, most of her face long since gone. But none of that compared to the hollow emptiness where her eyes should have been. Even the moonlight couldn't reach the deep darkness that laid in her sockets. It was no absence, it wasn't some lack of anything that should have been there that was not now. It was absolute, endless nothing, of a depth he couldn't comprehend as long as he was alive. In the abyss that gazed at him, there was only one thing he recognised: hatred. A twisted scorn that glared at his soul, even if he didn't know how or why.

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And then she was gone from his sight.

He took a deep, frightened breath – and felt an exhale against the back of his neck. Cold. It bore the nauseating stench of rot, and words of which he didn't even understand how she could speak them. Her voice was as an echo of hate.

Give her back

-

With a loud, terrified cry he jumped up. Only to see a small, summer sunlit room. For a second he didn't know where he was, the room unfamiliar to him. Until he realised it was his own bed that he'd put there the afternoon before. Relief washed over him, and the moment he didn't tense in fright and terror, all the drink from that same night found its way back up.

Even while he spewed his guts out onto the wooden floor beside his bed, he could only feel miserable relief. It was just a nightmare. A dream. It wasn't real. Of course it wasn't real, how could something like that be real, you absolute moron?

Ugh… I feel like shite though… never should have drank so much…

With a loud groan – but without the contents of his stomach, he rolled back on his other side to pretend nothing had ever happened for a little longer. He buried his face in the blanket, as if he could hide from his pounding headache. The warm light through the windows radiated out over his skin, but somehow couldn't quite take away the slight chill on his back even when he felt hot and sweltering.

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