Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-5543592-20190809183350/@comment-25828117-20190915110809

The sound of the ceiling fan seemed like an anchor in a storm, the only constant that allowed Willy to orientate himself.

The man was ill yet he didn't exactly know how. Maybe it was something he ate. Who knew, all he was certain of was that he felt miserable and everything was wrong.

The world was too bright and upside down. Moving. Shifting. It was impossible to tell where anything was, except for that damn ceiling fan. The blades whooshed in the same rhythm they had always whooshed. The man with the gasmask for a face returned to him like he had done in his dreams. Taunting him. The only way Willy could make him stop was to imagine the man very far away and shoot him with a rifle. The forest around them burned. It had been... too many days now. He had lost count. The others still hadn't come back. Tim had told him to stay in his room and he had done so. Now Tim was gone. It wasn't fair. He cried softly. He didn't know what to do. The food was gone and the others STILL hadn't come back! Willy wandered the rooms he had gotten to know over the course of his abandonment though he wasn't really present. His head hurt. His stomach hurt. Everything hurt. Everything was bright. He held tight to Mr. Meep, the plushie he had recieved. In many ways Mr. Meep was also an anchor. Willy was tired. He had to sleep. Wait for the pain to be over.