Drifting between the novel sensation of deathly unconsciousness and highly unwelcome wakefulness, he feels every inch of his body, mind, and soul tumbling into the depths below. He's known for a long time that death was never the end, that the ridiculous notion of the yawning abyss eventually having a bottom was a fiction created of naïveté. But this is not that abyss, and he is not nearly as dead as he's pretty sure he's supposed to be.
He hits the ground with a pitiful cacophony of decomposed organs rupturing and withered bones snapping, a puppet with no strings discarded like trash. For a moment, he dares to hope that the impact will shatter his skull and allow him to return to his rest. He isn't supposed to be awake, why is he awake, why can't he feel his body and yet feel everything else...?!
An eternity passes, it feels like, and there is no gentle embrace returning him to his slumber. His mind is already unconsciously trying to estimate how far he fell and what position he fell in, calculating how many shards of shattered bone he'll need to somehow replace before firmly reprimanding himself - corpses have no use for a functioning body, something of which he is almost completely certain he is now lacking. He's not dead. He's not alive, but he's somehow conscious despite almost certainly lacking an un-decomposed brain and functioning nervous system. Something is very, very wrong, and he can only resist the morbid allure of an unsolved medical mystery for so long.
It feels like his entire body has the worst possible case of pins-and-needles when he finally caves in and tries to move, broken joints and torn sinew pulling his limbs apart despite lacking any of the necessary strength to do so. He finds his neck lifting upwards, his broken windpipe creaking against the forced friction with his crumbled spine, and the rest of his demented form gradually follows suit.
Spindly fingers, erratically twitching as if possessed with a mind of their own, claw and caress at the dirt below him, and for a moment he dares to think that they're trying to dig him a new grave to rest in. It takes the most effort out of anything he's done so far just to raise them up and into the air, weakly fumbling against the thin layer of paper protecting his identity - even in death, he is still only Doctor Faust, miracle worker and legendary preserver of life.
The irony hurts a thousand times more than the noose did.
calling out an elderly werewolf butler (CW: Body horror, violence, gore, injury, suicide ideation)
Drifting between the novel sensation of deathly unconsciousness and highly unwelcome wakefulness, he feels every inch of his body, mind, and soul tumbling into the depths below. He's known for a long time that death was never the end, that the ridiculous notion of the yawning abyss eventually having a bottom was a fiction created of naïveté. But this is not that abyss, and he is not nearly as dead as he's pretty sure he's supposed to be.
He hits the ground with a pitiful cacophony of decomposed organs rupturing and withered bones snapping, a puppet with no strings discarded like trash. For a moment, he dares to hope that the impact will shatter his skull and allow him to return to his rest. He isn't supposed to be awake, why is he awake, why can't he feel his body and yet feel everything else...?!
An eternity passes, it feels like, and there is no gentle embrace returning him to his slumber. His mind is already unconsciously trying to estimate how far he fell and what position he fell in, calculating how many shards of shattered bone he'll need to somehow replace before firmly reprimanding himself - corpses have no use for a functioning body, something of which he is almost completely certain he is now lacking.
He's not dead. He's not alive, but he's somehow conscious despite almost certainly lacking an un-decomposed brain and functioning nervous system. Something is very, very wrong, and he can only resist the morbid allure of an unsolved medical mystery for so long.
It feels like his entire body has the worst possible case of pins-and-needles when he finally caves in and tries to move, broken joints and torn sinew pulling his limbs apart despite lacking any of the necessary strength to do so. He finds his neck lifting upwards, his broken windpipe creaking against the forced friction with his crumbled spine, and the rest of his demented form gradually follows suit.
Spindly fingers, erratically twitching as if possessed with a mind of their own, claw and caress at the dirt below him, and for a moment he dares to think that they're trying to dig him a new grave to rest in. It takes the most effort out of anything he's done so far just to raise them up and into the air, weakly fumbling against the thin layer of paper protecting his identity - even in death, he is still only Doctor Faust, miracle worker and legendary preserver of life.
The irony hurts a thousand times more than the noose did.