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Mr. Danya
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((Sandy Bricks continued from Dreams and Reality))

Sandy could barely stand up straight as he lurched through the asylum, leaning on walls and dragging his bag across the floor as if his arms had gone dead. He’d retched for a while, though only hot and heavy nausea had come up, and his head agonised like a thousand nails were buried in his brain. His mind raced with those horrible images of Jasmine’s corpse, of other corpses, of his parents, and everything was a blur as he staggered down into the basement. Eventually, he fell through the doors of the water treatment room, his legs finally giving out as he collapsed to his knees.

“Mom, Dad…” he gasped, finally vomiting onto the floor below. He could see everything so clearly, so unwillingly: they were hunched over the dashboard; he was crying in the back seat. There was blood and glass and metal everywhere, and people were outside but no-one was doing anything to help them. Why had it taken people so long to get there? Why had he had to sit there in the back seat the whole time, seeing everything but unable to do everything? Why? Why? Why?

He fell onto his side next to his own bile, quietly sobbing as his throat grew hoarse. Everything hurt, everything hurt so goddamn much and nothing was ever going to make it better. None of the therapies, none of the doctors, no-one could fix how fucked up his mind was or make anything better. What the fuck was the point of living in a world like this?

The pitch black thoughts were choking his brain, hammering the nails further in and twisting them deep. A minute voice was screaming at him to remember all the work they’d done to avoid thinking like this, how to feel better, how he didn’t have to give up on everything and all the progress he had made. It was tiny and there was so much else that hurt so much, but Sandy could still hear it. He didn’t know how to listen to it, and he was dismissing it in almost every capacity, but it was still there and he wished so much that it could just be a little bit louder, and that he could just be a little bit stronger.

The rancid smell of vomit was sharp in his nose, and he didn’t want to sit by it anymore. He got up, scanning the room, and saw the doors to the back. More solitude, he realised; that was just what he needed. That was what he’d needed all along, and it was finally within his reach.

He didn’t care about his things anymore, leaving them behind as he headed over there as fast as he could through all the pain and misery. Solitude was all he’d ever asked for in this whole nightmare, and he was finally going to get it.
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幽霊屋敷 · Water Treatment