She's dead. Wrapped in plastic.
Feb. 24th, 2017 01:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
already_lostOnce the screaming starts, I think it just might last forever.
It's what I've wanted, all this time. To open my mouth, unhinge my jaw, gulp down a big, big breath and scream. And scream. And scream. A real, ear-splitting, silver screen scream, you know? I've felt it building. Building up and up and up, down in the warm pit of my belly, this swelling pressure ready to break. A scream like an orgasm, and afterward, blissful calm and the first restful sleep I've had in...
In ages.
Once the screaming starts, I decide, really decide, that I all I want is for it to be over. I've been tired for five years. Longer. I can't remember a time when I wasn't tired deep in my bones. Even the coke doesn't help anymore.
It's better this way.
When the screaming stops, I'm bathed in warm, blue light. Surrounded in red. I've lived my whole life to die, I think. There's a ring on my finger. Was a ring on my finger. I felt it, the last lightening burst of pain, cold and bright and rattling my teeth, and then there was only light.
Then, there was nothing.
In the early hours of the morning, the sun cresting over the water, a clear plastic tarp floated along with the tide. It ran aground in a tangle of seaweed and ocean debris, settling in the wet sand. For a long stretch of time it was motionless. Then, with a jolt, the bundle of plastic lurched, flopped over almost comically, and pale arms emerged from the folds.
The girl, no longer dead but still wrapped in plastic, flailed, fighting against the tarp covering her face, and finally freed herself enough to gasp for air. She retched, vomiting sea water into the sand, and sobbed roughly. Her hands, bleeding, clutched reflexively at the sand, letting it squish wetly through her fingers. She shivered, squirming until her legs were free, and sprawled panting and nearly naked on the shore. The sun burned bright overhead. She watched a gull circle lazily. The air smelled salty and sweet. She breathed, in and out, and traced a finger along her ribs. Her skin was stained red but she was no longer bleeding. She'd bled all of it out, out, out. Lifting a hand, she blinked up at her palm, expecting her skin to be a sick, deathly blue. Instead, it was a healthy, if not waterlogged, pink.
Dragging in another breath, she let her hand fall with a plop into the wet sand, which caked in her hair and the flimsy silk of her panties, as the lazy tide swelled up around her. If she stayed long enough, she might just float away.
With that thought, and gazing up at the sky until her eyes began to burn, Laura Palmer opened her mouth, gulped down a big, big breath and shrieked with laughter. Violent, uncontrolled, terrified, joyous laughter. She cackled until her belly ached, until it exhausted her, until she could do nothing but giggle weakly, only for the shrieking to start all over again.
She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, even as she heard the sound of voices, of people coming closer. Once the laughing started, it wouldn't stop.
It's what I've wanted, all this time. To open my mouth, unhinge my jaw, gulp down a big, big breath and scream. And scream. And scream. A real, ear-splitting, silver screen scream, you know? I've felt it building. Building up and up and up, down in the warm pit of my belly, this swelling pressure ready to break. A scream like an orgasm, and afterward, blissful calm and the first restful sleep I've had in...
In ages.
Once the screaming starts, I decide, really decide, that I all I want is for it to be over. I've been tired for five years. Longer. I can't remember a time when I wasn't tired deep in my bones. Even the coke doesn't help anymore.
It's better this way.
When the screaming stops, I'm bathed in warm, blue light. Surrounded in red. I've lived my whole life to die, I think. There's a ring on my finger. Was a ring on my finger. I felt it, the last lightening burst of pain, cold and bright and rattling my teeth, and then there was only light.
Then, there was nothing.
In the early hours of the morning, the sun cresting over the water, a clear plastic tarp floated along with the tide. It ran aground in a tangle of seaweed and ocean debris, settling in the wet sand. For a long stretch of time it was motionless. Then, with a jolt, the bundle of plastic lurched, flopped over almost comically, and pale arms emerged from the folds.
The girl, no longer dead but still wrapped in plastic, flailed, fighting against the tarp covering her face, and finally freed herself enough to gasp for air. She retched, vomiting sea water into the sand, and sobbed roughly. Her hands, bleeding, clutched reflexively at the sand, letting it squish wetly through her fingers. She shivered, squirming until her legs were free, and sprawled panting and nearly naked on the shore. The sun burned bright overhead. She watched a gull circle lazily. The air smelled salty and sweet. She breathed, in and out, and traced a finger along her ribs. Her skin was stained red but she was no longer bleeding. She'd bled all of it out, out, out. Lifting a hand, she blinked up at her palm, expecting her skin to be a sick, deathly blue. Instead, it was a healthy, if not waterlogged, pink.
Dragging in another breath, she let her hand fall with a plop into the wet sand, which caked in her hair and the flimsy silk of her panties, as the lazy tide swelled up around her. If she stayed long enough, she might just float away.
With that thought, and gazing up at the sky until her eyes began to burn, Laura Palmer opened her mouth, gulped down a big, big breath and shrieked with laughter. Violent, uncontrolled, terrified, joyous laughter. She cackled until her belly ached, until it exhausted her, until she could do nothing but giggle weakly, only for the shrieking to start all over again.
She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, even as she heard the sound of voices, of people coming closer. Once the laughing started, it wouldn't stop.
