Post by sealand on Jun 2, 2012 9:33:11 GMT -6
America froze in the dark, seemingly stale, air.
His bones seemed to creak as he stirred, wincing slightly as he noted that they felt as though they were right on the verge of shattering in their joints for a reason that he couldn't concentrate on enough to justify, head pounding like an unrelenting sledgehammer keeping its beat.
Light spots in his vision flooded his senses in a haze as he kept his eyes clasped shut, the simple action of opening them to slits seeming to do nothing but increase the throbbing of his head that made it feel twice as heavy as he remembered it being, and so simply let them slide shut once again. Even with his eyes closed there seemed to be patches of blurred, what he could only think to describe of as light in his vision that caused his head to swim despite his feeble attempts to clear it enough for him to feel that he could see clearly if he were to once again attempt to prise open those now bloodshot pools of his.
Despite being only vaguely aware of his surroundings as he was, he couldn't ignore the deep sense of foreboding that washed over him in an instant, although the source of his uncertainty seemed to be radiating from nowhere in particular as he slowly, groggily, fully came to his dulled senses; the severity of his current situation having yet to fully process in his mind, fear being the only emotion that had succeeded in planting itself firmly in place. A fear of what, however, he was uncertain, and as far as he was concerned, could therefore find himself able to ignore it for the time being.
Come to think of it, his mouth as well as his head felt swollen and tender, the ever- increasing throbbing sensation in his current state urging him to empty the contents of his stomach onto the cold, yet oddly soft ground that he couldn't quite place. On top of it all, he had no doubt that he had the beginnings of a migraine, although the fact that he could at least still think, albeit on an overly basic level, meant that he wasn't yet in the grip of a proper one, although the dull ache of his forehead told him otherwise.
Time passed, and despite the fact that a small part of him that was still fully-functioning told him that he was making a clear target of himself, easy prey for whatever it was that he swore blindly he could sense, sending a small ripple down his spine he found that he still couldn't quite manoeuvre himself into any position other than his current; lying on his back in what he would eventually find to be dirt, propped up uncomfortably on his forearms. Or, at that, to make sense of the countless thoughts that were currently scattered in the back of his mind. If he was honest with himself, he felt as though every country in the world had used him for target practice, and then dumped his bloodied body into a vat of boiling oil, or rather, what he imagined it would feel like. Frankly, he just didn't feel all to up to getting up at the moment and whatever threat that was present could jolly well wait for him to fully come to his senses.
With such thoughts in mind, Alfred lurched forwards suddenly into a sitting position, eyes seeming to bulge out of their sockets as he let out a winded gasp, in that instant a sharp, indescribable pain shooting up his near-freezing, he noted without truly acknowledging the fact, body; experiencing the full extent of the injuries that he couldn't recall having been inflicted upon himself for the first time, although much to his surprise the jolt of pain seemed to disappear as suddenly as it had come.
If he had felt sick before, it was nothing in comparison to how his stomach seemed to lurch at the reaction of the simple movement made excruciatingly difficult. Perplexed despite himself, he looked down at himself, and it was then that he finally realised that he could barely see the outline of his being in the sheer blackness that had long-since engulfed him.
It took a moment for that to process. Completely engulfed in darkness with no clear light source..Save for, of course, the eerie glow that the moon cast upon the now moonlit grey obelisks standing at attention, waiting for a general who would never come, the mere sight of which sent a surge of rising panic through the nation's body and despite his infamous bomber jacket, chilling him down to the bone, which the torso of Superman costume underneath was doing nothing to help, though all thoughts of pain and cold were completely abandoned as his eyes widened upon the sight of those ghostly soldiers that never drilled, never stood at ease, taking mere seconds for the realization of where exactly he was to hit him harder than any fist could.
The young nation was not, he liked to think, scared of much. Although he drew the line at those pale stones that stood in rows, amid yellowing grass and the withered remains of offerings to the deceased that now, for all he knew, roamed the very grounds that he was trapped within. Still he looked around ever silently, though hurriedly, for an escape, although it very soon occurred to him that in the descending gloom he could only see a black, open void beyond the solid patches of white, those cursed things that are never dismissed, that must stand in for those who can no longer pass muster.
Looking back, Alfred noticed with a great sense of unease the ones closest to him that looked as though they had been standing so long that they slowly sagged, the very earth eroded from under their feet. Also, here and there these forgotten ones leaned against each other, like the brothers-in-arms they represented, and he would've sworn blindly that he could almost feel, descending upon him, the beings that were damned to forever roam the Earth whenever he glanced at any one grave; a sensation that he felt had been almost forgotten over the years, although upon resurrection he knew that he had never truly parted with it, that it had always been an overly unwanted part of him since the days of the Salem Witch Trials, during which the tortured souls of those who were hanged would forever visit him in the darkness, haunt him in his worst nightmares, which had quickly terrified him into refusing to sleep without the presence of a light within close proximity.
It was not, he had to remind himself, the tombstones that he feared almost above all, but the things that his unhealthy obsession with horror movies told him were prone to haunting them. Though a part of him knew that, perhaps, he was simply overreacting. That it was all a figment of his imagination.
But that would never explain the complete, genuine sense of terror and fear that he could never quite place. That wouldn't explain the bloodied, pale faces of those innocent woman that would ever scar him, although even then one in particular used to stand out amongst the others; that one who, as cliché as he would never admit it sounded, that one time had never taken her cold eyes from him as she ascended the platform upon which she would meet her end, that set gaze never faltering until they could stare no more. And it was that face that he continuously saw, shrouded in darkness, and as far as he was concerned it never failed to unhinge him completely. Even now, standing in the darkness, he tightened his grip on the cold gun in his hand to the extent that his knuckles whitened, screaming under the extreme pressure at which he firmly held it, as that oh too well-known feeling that he was never all alone washed over him.
With a start, he was forced suddenly from his reverie by a sound that came from across the seemingly endless ranks like a gunshot, the resounding crash......! echoing unnaturally throughout the graveyard and then, inexorably, the silent stillness poured back in the form of fog, re-taking the higher ground so recently disturbed, as though it had simply never happened. If fog had a sound, it would be this: a muffled disconnection from colour, from life, from light.
His bones seemed to creak as he stirred, wincing slightly as he noted that they felt as though they were right on the verge of shattering in their joints for a reason that he couldn't concentrate on enough to justify, head pounding like an unrelenting sledgehammer keeping its beat.
Light spots in his vision flooded his senses in a haze as he kept his eyes clasped shut, the simple action of opening them to slits seeming to do nothing but increase the throbbing of his head that made it feel twice as heavy as he remembered it being, and so simply let them slide shut once again. Even with his eyes closed there seemed to be patches of blurred, what he could only think to describe of as light in his vision that caused his head to swim despite his feeble attempts to clear it enough for him to feel that he could see clearly if he were to once again attempt to prise open those now bloodshot pools of his.
Despite being only vaguely aware of his surroundings as he was, he couldn't ignore the deep sense of foreboding that washed over him in an instant, although the source of his uncertainty seemed to be radiating from nowhere in particular as he slowly, groggily, fully came to his dulled senses; the severity of his current situation having yet to fully process in his mind, fear being the only emotion that had succeeded in planting itself firmly in place. A fear of what, however, he was uncertain, and as far as he was concerned, could therefore find himself able to ignore it for the time being.
Come to think of it, his mouth as well as his head felt swollen and tender, the ever- increasing throbbing sensation in his current state urging him to empty the contents of his stomach onto the cold, yet oddly soft ground that he couldn't quite place. On top of it all, he had no doubt that he had the beginnings of a migraine, although the fact that he could at least still think, albeit on an overly basic level, meant that he wasn't yet in the grip of a proper one, although the dull ache of his forehead told him otherwise.
Time passed, and despite the fact that a small part of him that was still fully-functioning told him that he was making a clear target of himself, easy prey for whatever it was that he swore blindly he could sense, sending a small ripple down his spine he found that he still couldn't quite manoeuvre himself into any position other than his current; lying on his back in what he would eventually find to be dirt, propped up uncomfortably on his forearms. Or, at that, to make sense of the countless thoughts that were currently scattered in the back of his mind. If he was honest with himself, he felt as though every country in the world had used him for target practice, and then dumped his bloodied body into a vat of boiling oil, or rather, what he imagined it would feel like. Frankly, he just didn't feel all to up to getting up at the moment and whatever threat that was present could jolly well wait for him to fully come to his senses.
With such thoughts in mind, Alfred lurched forwards suddenly into a sitting position, eyes seeming to bulge out of their sockets as he let out a winded gasp, in that instant a sharp, indescribable pain shooting up his near-freezing, he noted without truly acknowledging the fact, body; experiencing the full extent of the injuries that he couldn't recall having been inflicted upon himself for the first time, although much to his surprise the jolt of pain seemed to disappear as suddenly as it had come.
If he had felt sick before, it was nothing in comparison to how his stomach seemed to lurch at the reaction of the simple movement made excruciatingly difficult. Perplexed despite himself, he looked down at himself, and it was then that he finally realised that he could barely see the outline of his being in the sheer blackness that had long-since engulfed him.
It took a moment for that to process. Completely engulfed in darkness with no clear light source..Save for, of course, the eerie glow that the moon cast upon the now moonlit grey obelisks standing at attention, waiting for a general who would never come, the mere sight of which sent a surge of rising panic through the nation's body and despite his infamous bomber jacket, chilling him down to the bone, which the torso of Superman costume underneath was doing nothing to help, though all thoughts of pain and cold were completely abandoned as his eyes widened upon the sight of those ghostly soldiers that never drilled, never stood at ease, taking mere seconds for the realization of where exactly he was to hit him harder than any fist could.
The young nation was not, he liked to think, scared of much. Although he drew the line at those pale stones that stood in rows, amid yellowing grass and the withered remains of offerings to the deceased that now, for all he knew, roamed the very grounds that he was trapped within. Still he looked around ever silently, though hurriedly, for an escape, although it very soon occurred to him that in the descending gloom he could only see a black, open void beyond the solid patches of white, those cursed things that are never dismissed, that must stand in for those who can no longer pass muster.
Looking back, Alfred noticed with a great sense of unease the ones closest to him that looked as though they had been standing so long that they slowly sagged, the very earth eroded from under their feet. Also, here and there these forgotten ones leaned against each other, like the brothers-in-arms they represented, and he would've sworn blindly that he could almost feel, descending upon him, the beings that were damned to forever roam the Earth whenever he glanced at any one grave; a sensation that he felt had been almost forgotten over the years, although upon resurrection he knew that he had never truly parted with it, that it had always been an overly unwanted part of him since the days of the Salem Witch Trials, during which the tortured souls of those who were hanged would forever visit him in the darkness, haunt him in his worst nightmares, which had quickly terrified him into refusing to sleep without the presence of a light within close proximity.
It was not, he had to remind himself, the tombstones that he feared almost above all, but the things that his unhealthy obsession with horror movies told him were prone to haunting them. Though a part of him knew that, perhaps, he was simply overreacting. That it was all a figment of his imagination.
But that would never explain the complete, genuine sense of terror and fear that he could never quite place. That wouldn't explain the bloodied, pale faces of those innocent woman that would ever scar him, although even then one in particular used to stand out amongst the others; that one who, as cliché as he would never admit it sounded, that one time had never taken her cold eyes from him as she ascended the platform upon which she would meet her end, that set gaze never faltering until they could stare no more. And it was that face that he continuously saw, shrouded in darkness, and as far as he was concerned it never failed to unhinge him completely. Even now, standing in the darkness, he tightened his grip on the cold gun in his hand to the extent that his knuckles whitened, screaming under the extreme pressure at which he firmly held it, as that oh too well-known feeling that he was never all alone washed over him.
With a start, he was forced suddenly from his reverie by a sound that came from across the seemingly endless ranks like a gunshot, the resounding crash......! echoing unnaturally throughout the graveyard and then, inexorably, the silent stillness poured back in the form of fog, re-taking the higher ground so recently disturbed, as though it had simply never happened. If fog had a sound, it would be this: a muffled disconnection from colour, from life, from light.