Hell is repetition

The weight on him was almost unbearable. Each time it receeded, the crushing would give way to a new pain, now familiar, deeper in his body. Each time the bones of his hips left the small of his back, that fucking dragging sensation, and oh God, if it happens one more time, I'm going to fucking-

But of course, he didn't move. Not under him, like that. Not while that ferocious motion kept him pinned to the bedding. Not while his arms were so weak from oxygen surplus from taking those huge panic gulps of air.

The end was just as shocking and painful as the middle, since the beginning wasn't all that bad, while his body had tried to figure out just what the fuck was going on, and what was that fucking feeling. And then it had been that shudder-shock, while his body was racked with tiny, hair raising shivers, when the exertion wasn't sending blood up under his skin, making him bake.

And now, that one last fucking feeling, and the absence of the next tacked on to the previous was just as dumfounding as if it had been on going.

The back of his knee- it was going numb. He tried to twitch it, convinced in some basal part of his brain that it would move, when he relaized it was pinned by the knee of the man above him. As that, too, was lifted, the sudden rush of blood gave him pins and needles.

But, after all, that was only an after thought as that fucking fear made him take huge panic breaths. The bed post was mahogany. Carved mahogany, he realized dimly. The coverlet was obscenely soft, mocking- the complete antithesis of the activities that went on in the sacred place that was bed.

The matress bounced, as the weight of the other man left the bed.

Vlad's hands, which had been wound and clenched into the sheets on either sides of the bed, haltingly and jerkily, released their death hold. Those breaths were trailed by a cough that became a line of hitched sobs, which in turn became shallower breathing.

The world spun crazily and dimmed as the abrupt change of air intake hit his brain like a mallet. He dragged his unresponsive hands to his chest. God, how cold they were.

A soft light flicked on to his left- a small amber glow that heralded the sound of rustling clothes.

Okay.

Could he run?

No, that would be stupid, but he couldn't figure why.

No sound except for the clothes. Why did the air feel so grim.

The world continued it's afterimage traipse, as he had been staring at the white pillow for so long that it blackened the dimmer room around him. He blinked, for the first time in who knew how many hours. His eyes felt sandy and painful. He stopped blinking, took up staring again, his chin sunk on the pillow.

The path between panic sobs and tears finally converged, as a pain in his foot maliciously made itself known at the most inoppurtune moment. The tears felt so hot, as they slid down his face, and seeped into the woven cotton below his nose. They burned his eyes and made blazing tracks of heat down his face, as he stared at the carved mahogany bedboard.

The sound of a belt buckle clinking as it was whipped through belt holes.

A silk tie being knotted. The sound was maddening, making his back twitch, as if he had been physcially struck by the feel of the sound it made. He ground his chin into the pillow, wishing the sound would end soon.

Wishing the man would leave soon.

Humiliatingly, he felt wet. He hadn't been sweating- he was cold, and clammy. But it wasn't that sort of moisture that was concerning him.

God, he hoped he hadn't wet the bed- that would have been beyond the point of bearing. Or had started bleeding.

A dim thought presented itself in the side of his head that wasn't pinioned on feeling things- blood lubrication?

The tears merged with terrified, shallow sobs that were borne of revelation oh god oh god oh god oh no oh god oh god.

The light was left on as the man left the room.

The pillow was damp, and cool from his tears, hot from his breath.

Could he run?

He wasn't shaking.

Yes. Now.

He had struggled into his undershirt and thrown on his shirt without buttoning it, writhed into his underpants, while pausing to gasp and bend at the waist at the goddamn pain. Fall to the side, pull them up. He lay there for a second, stunned by the softness of the comforter. What an odd name, so misfitting.

Pants. Pants, he needed pants. His foot was festing on something a different texture than the carpet- pants?

Yes. He leaned forward, which felt like he had taken a head-long dive into a pool of nothing before him, and with a chopiness he didn't equate with pulling his pants on, jerked them up around his waist, leaning back this time and yelping at the pain. Did the belt need fastening?

Was there an answer to that question?

He tottered to his feet, more steady than he expected.

His sweater was lying on a chair by the bedstand, crumpled. He picked it up. It felt so light, so unlike the pounds of pressure he had been exerting on the sheets. Did he have fingers? Were they actually there? He glanced at his hands, making sure they were present. His fingers were white.

The exhange from dark to light stunned him. He stopped, feeling the heat on the eyes of his lids, the thin skin on his lips.

He looked from left to right, and chose to follow the staircase that went down. Hopefully out. He moved smoothly, not stumbling or shambling like he expected.

He had a hard time with the drop down the stairs, though. He threw out a hand as he pitched forward, his clenched hand coming from laced in the sweater to grip the polished mahogany banister.

He was wandering across the carpet, shocked by the vibrant, deep colors and horrified at it's presence and the way it scuffed against his shoes, when he heard a small sound somewhere behind him and off to his right.

He whirled, used to the no-presence of anyone. A someone was deeply horrifying. That meant thought and explanations, and god was he going to kill that fucking bastard when he fucking found him, fucking him over and then leaving him to fucking explain-

The someone was a small woman, her blonde hair coiffed impeccably, with the smallest streaks of pale, pale greay laced along her temples. Her skin was as pale and ashy as he thought he must look. She had large purple bags under her eyes, contrasting weirdly with the pallor of her face. She wore a hesitant, almost coy, smile. As if to say, "I don't know who you are, but you don't seemt too threatening".

He blinked at her.

She gave a sudden smile, incongruently warm, and said, her voice faint and wispy, "Alfred said a friend of his would be coming down. I figured you had been conducting business, and I know how mcuh of a stress it is on him, so I thought you would appreciate something solid to eat. Cookies?" She slid a plate from a mahogany (or was it oak?) table to her right, and offered it to him.

Cookies.

Somehow, he was too much afloat in a bouyant pool of riptides to make an effort on that scream he felt in he back of his throat.

He reached forward, took a cookie. The thing folded slightly, gooey and warm, crumbling. He wanted to throw up, but twitched a smile at her instead, using both sides of his mouth.

A motherly concern etched on her face, and she asked, softly, "Are you all right, dear? You look a little peaked."

He nodded dumbly, his head unable to stop from the continuos motion once started. His eyes wandered to the exit, and he gave a last nod to her. This time, he did totter, as he headed for the mahogany (maple?) door.

As he went from light to dark again, the sound of her soft, concerned voice hit the back of his mind like a TV gone from soft to full volume, her quiet concern laced with bestial grunts and emphezemic coughs from and entirely different.... something? And when or a where would be apporpriate, even a different dimension, but he couldn't pin it.

Though his face twisted, and tears stung his eyes, he willed himself not to cry.