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writetomyheart2015-07-14 12:11 am
bluedreaming) wrote in writetomyheart2015-07-14 12:11 am
[team five] schmetterlinge flatterten durch meine seele
Disclaimer: This was written for therapeutic reasons. I love the boy dearly and no one is allowed to kill him. This is not directed at Yifan in any way, or any member of EXO.
The title is from I Come with Knives by IAMX. No I have not seen the music video.
Alone in the dark. That's where Yifan finds himself when he opens his eyes. He blinks, once, twice, but nothing swims into view. The air hangs heavy, like mildew, and the fainter scent of sharper things, grit that slides down his throat and makes him cough.
"Hello?"
His voice echoes back to him, the walls closing in and yet too far away to sense properly. He's underground, or maybe he's not; he could be ten storeys up in an enclosed room at night, it's too hard to tell. Yifan's been in buildings before, dark stairwells where ascending felt like climbing down into the centre of the earth, circling and circling and the shocked surprise at finding oneself high above the ground, at the end.
Somehow, he doesn't think this will be like that.
Closing his mouth again, there's a sticky residue on his lips as they stick together, pry apart again; something on his face—he tries to lift a hand to wipe it away but his hands are numb, tied behind his back. Only then he realizes how much they ache, twisted back at an angle that's slowly pulling his shoulders out of their sockets, his elbows straining. Yifan wishes he hadn't moved at all, but it's too late. His fingers wake with a painful prickling of pins and needles, he can't move his arms at all and his nerve endings are all screaming at once. The rope binding his wrists pulls at his skin, raw under the rough plastic fibres, and he can tell that he has struggled a lot. I can't remember anything.
"Hello?" he calls again, but there's no answer, not that he expected one, just his words thrown about the dark space and catapulted back into his face. They taste like dust, a faint aftertaste of iron coating his tongue.
It's a reflex, but now that he's woken his arms, his feet twitch as well, lines of pain shooting up his legs as his toes twitch, ankles bound together and skin rubbed raw—Yifan knows he shouldn't move but he can't help it, as the blood slowly creeps into his feet again, stiff muscles trying and failing to flex. Everything hurts, and his mouth is sticky and he can't brush the hair off his face, fringe trailing sweaty in his eyes. He blinks. Opens his mouth again. There's a crack in his bottom lip and it hurts.
What happened to me?
There are no answers in the dark, just the smell of endings.
Sweat beads on his hairline; even though the air is cool it's heavy with moisture, the smell of mold and something sweeter that coats his tongue as he keeps breathing.
There's an echo now, vibrations he can feel in the cement beneath his feet, a sound that he's not making. Rescue?
No.
Behind him, a metal door slams open, crashing against the wall with a boom; in the dark the sound is magnified and Yifan feels his cramping legs and arms spasm, raw skin burning against the ropes. Even though it's pitch black, he wants to look behind him, but he can't.
It feels so helpless, back to the door, the sound of light breathing filling the space. Air that isn't his. His fingertips, all that he can move, curl in, digits pressing against the metal arms of the chair. There's no give of course; he's entirely trapped.
Footsteps draw closer, circling him in the dark; Yifan strains his ears, teeth gritting as he tries to listen, staring into the dark but there's nothing. Just a body drawing closer. Heavy soles falling in measured strides around the chair.
There's a different sound then; metal scraping against metal, swishing against something that might be fabric. All the hairs on Yifan's skin stand on end, his spin curling, teeth biting his tongue so hard a warm wetness fills his mouth.
A hand grabs his hair roughly, yanks his head back, Yifan's eyes rolling wildly in their sockets but he can't see anything. Can't do anything, the line of his neck stretching, swallowing as saliva pools in his throat.
Cold metal touches his neck, and the last thing Yifan thinks is—
tagging![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
singilu and for the love of all that's good in this world please don't read it.
The title is from I Come with Knives by IAMX. No I have not seen the music video.
Alone in the dark. That's where Yifan finds himself when he opens his eyes. He blinks, once, twice, but nothing swims into view. The air hangs heavy, like mildew, and the fainter scent of sharper things, grit that slides down his throat and makes him cough.
"Hello?"
His voice echoes back to him, the walls closing in and yet too far away to sense properly. He's underground, or maybe he's not; he could be ten storeys up in an enclosed room at night, it's too hard to tell. Yifan's been in buildings before, dark stairwells where ascending felt like climbing down into the centre of the earth, circling and circling and the shocked surprise at finding oneself high above the ground, at the end.
Somehow, he doesn't think this will be like that.
Closing his mouth again, there's a sticky residue on his lips as they stick together, pry apart again; something on his face—he tries to lift a hand to wipe it away but his hands are numb, tied behind his back. Only then he realizes how much they ache, twisted back at an angle that's slowly pulling his shoulders out of their sockets, his elbows straining. Yifan wishes he hadn't moved at all, but it's too late. His fingers wake with a painful prickling of pins and needles, he can't move his arms at all and his nerve endings are all screaming at once. The rope binding his wrists pulls at his skin, raw under the rough plastic fibres, and he can tell that he has struggled a lot. I can't remember anything.
"Hello?" he calls again, but there's no answer, not that he expected one, just his words thrown about the dark space and catapulted back into his face. They taste like dust, a faint aftertaste of iron coating his tongue.
It's a reflex, but now that he's woken his arms, his feet twitch as well, lines of pain shooting up his legs as his toes twitch, ankles bound together and skin rubbed raw—Yifan knows he shouldn't move but he can't help it, as the blood slowly creeps into his feet again, stiff muscles trying and failing to flex. Everything hurts, and his mouth is sticky and he can't brush the hair off his face, fringe trailing sweaty in his eyes. He blinks. Opens his mouth again. There's a crack in his bottom lip and it hurts.
What happened to me?
There are no answers in the dark, just the smell of endings.
Sweat beads on his hairline; even though the air is cool it's heavy with moisture, the smell of mold and something sweeter that coats his tongue as he keeps breathing.
There's an echo now, vibrations he can feel in the cement beneath his feet, a sound that he's not making. Rescue?
No.
Behind him, a metal door slams open, crashing against the wall with a boom; in the dark the sound is magnified and Yifan feels his cramping legs and arms spasm, raw skin burning against the ropes. Even though it's pitch black, he wants to look behind him, but he can't.
It feels so helpless, back to the door, the sound of light breathing filling the space. Air that isn't his. His fingertips, all that he can move, curl in, digits pressing against the metal arms of the chair. There's no give of course; he's entirely trapped.
Footsteps draw closer, circling him in the dark; Yifan strains his ears, teeth gritting as he tries to listen, staring into the dark but there's nothing. Just a body drawing closer. Heavy soles falling in measured strides around the chair.
There's a different sound then; metal scraping against metal, swishing against something that might be fabric. All the hairs on Yifan's skin stand on end, his spin curling, teeth biting his tongue so hard a warm wetness fills his mouth.
A hand grabs his hair roughly, yanks his head back, Yifan's eyes rolling wildly in their sockets but he can't see anything. Can't do anything, the line of his neck stretching, swallowing as saliva pools in his throat.
Cold metal touches his neck, and the last thing Yifan thinks is—
tagging
singilu and for the love of all that's good in this world please don't read it.