the takeover. (08.23.2016)
you have suffered pain before. you broke your arm when you were thirteen trying to impress a boy across the street who didn't even care for your name and just months later, you twisted your ankle trying to do the same for a girl who did care just enough to say yes to you. you survived a car crash when you were seventeen, with only a broken nose to show for it. and you survived that fall, didn't you? you survived and you were able to think and live and breathe.
and yet, the past few days have seen you deteriorate. at first it had just been a mild headache enough to sleep off. and then it became something that persistently annoyed you on the way to work, during phone calls, during coffee, and eventually enough to make you wake in the middle of the night in irritation and pain. you haven't called in sick in months, and yet now? this morning you woke up with a headache so bad that the morning light was a pain. felt damn near like every single part of your head was being slowly hammered on over and over and over.
it's been hours since you called out, hours since you had to put teeth in his room because just the noise of his paws sent pain arcing through your head. you don't even know if your leg has been paining you, because you can't even think past that. you'd been able to doze from moment to moment, but now?
every time you blink your eyes, the pain just keeps multiplying, arcing, twisting in your head. you know that doesn't make sense; migraines generally sit on one side of your head, they usually migrate slowly over time, and you usually tend to vomit. you've gone through that before. you've understood something like that, going as far to use a compress or excedrin to fight it off.
however this is different. no matter what you take, no matter what you do, it doesn't let up. it's like every single time that you take a breath, every time you close your eyes, the very atmosphere feels different. you can't quite place the smell--is it a rainstorm? the aftertaste of lightning?--of it, you can't quite understand the reason of why everything seems to twist around in your skull.
but you're trying. trying to call vas, trying to call january, trying to call your mother, trying to call anyone and let them know what was happening. (even if it didn't make sense that a damn headache could do this.) trying to get up and go to tyson's place. trying to fucking move.
the pressure increases, your fingers tearing into the bed with the sharp spike. it almost feels like it's vindictive now.
desperately, you try to think about hours ago. you could make it to your bathroom, you could open the cabinet and count out pill after pill to get you awake and going. you stopped counting how many you were taking after the third visit. you should have been smarter, and brought the damn pills with you. your hand pushes out to the stand, coming up empty. before you think better of it, you shove the books and clock there.
immediately, you regret it. the sound is more intense than ever. you blink, and this time you think you do see lightning illuminated in your eyelids. you can feel something pushing, forcing itself further and further. can feel it sweeping over you, the feel of not something else, you realize, but someone else. fear washes against you; the realization sends your stomach heaving, old stories your mother told you conjuring up in your head.
you don't want to be afraid, you don't want it to take advantage of your fear. you try and tell yourself that you can conquer it that it can't conquer you.
that isn't true. you can tell that whatever this is, it's deep and cavernous, and old. it has survived and lived so much longer that you, and it knows it even in this state. it understands things that you don't think you have the capacity to understand yet, and it is aware in ways that you know you would shy away from.
but you're stubborn. as small as you're realizing you are, as insignificant and fleeting, you aren't going to just let it take over. you try and even out your breathing even as what feels like tears gathers at your eyes from the pain of trying to keep it at bay.
you don't know how long you try to do this. you don't know how long you try and keep it back. it's inevitable; you falter. you let it slip, the pain washing over you completely.
in desperation, you try to reach out. attempt to communicate one last time before it swallows you whole. you think you say, "who are you?"
and the words that come out of your mouth are not yours. it comes from that something, with fingers that are cold as they finally envelop you. "sleep, david bjÃ¶rnsson."
it isn't a request. it isn't a question. it's a signal into submission and quiet for now. your fear overtakes you, the terror almost eats you alive. you shut your eyes. it--no, he reaches out and over. there isn't pain. you don't know why there isn't, you don't know why he doesn't just snap you like a twig.
maybe he's just waiting for later.
there's some silly thought that chases after you: why would i hurt you?
but the body is his now.
(odinson reaches across a bed that is not his, pushes away the covers, and tries to remember. he comes up empty and that will not do. he ignores the sound of a phone ringing, and stands gingerly in this body that is his and not his. there is purpose here, and need, and odinson will seek it out. he departs the bedroom, walking taller than david ever had, concentrating on discovering just what this place was.)