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S I C K . (A Slenderman Story) - Chapter 6
Sleet hit the car window, melting as it touched the warmer glass. Dianne stared blankly out at the passing cars and shrinking buildings. Luckily, the doctors didn't see anything on the CT scan, but they would have to wait for her bloodwork to come back before they could give her a definite answer. Just to be safe, her doctor prescribed some seizure medication for her, as well as some more medication to help with the frostbite. Her hands and feet were still bandaged. Her skin looked disturbing, almost completely black at her fingertips, up to her second knuckle was a sickening white color. Her entire hands and feet still ached, along with the small grey patch on her cheek. The pain was dulled now thanks so her new pain medication, a welcome relief, though she now felt drowsy,
A warm hand patted her knee. She looked over to see her mom giving a reassuring smile beside her in the backseat of the taxi. "Don't worry. If they didn't find anything on the CT scan, I real
S I C K . (A Slenderman Story) - Chapter 5
He isn't real...
Dianne felt chilled to the bone, though her body was not shivering. The tips of her fingers, toes, and the side if her face burned painfully. She nearly screamed when her eye was suddenly forced open and a light was shined into it. She yelped in surprise and flinched away from it. The paramedic jumped as well.
"Oh, thank god. She's alright...." The detective pulled a black beanie from his bald head and wiped his brow. "My god, girl, you had me worried sick. I specifically told you to stay out of Rosswood Park, what the hell are you doing here?" He asked sternly, an angry tinge clung to his words like a worried father's.
Dianne didn't reply, only laid her back against the tree behind her. Her whole body ached from the cold. Her lips were cracked painfully.
"It looks like she's been out here for a while... She has frostbite at the tips of her extremities and across the side of her face where she must have been laying on a cold surface... Detective, I thi
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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