twenie1
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'A Foundation Built on a Plague'
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Small hands ticked away at every second, chewed and tossed away only to continue with the next. The subtle breeze carried by the empty air of a somewhat open window, creaking every minute or so. Beneath all the silent mayhem, sat a man in an office chair, slumped over his desk. It wasnโt until a calling woke him up.
Nonchalant, the man sat up, posture straightening almost gruesomely quick. Then realization daunt on him โ who called out too him, or better yet, what called out too him? As he stood up, he scurried past his desk, knocking the steel nameplate down onto the ground, where his gaze quickly averted to. He crouched down, a hand on the desk as he picked it up. It read; Naoto Ishiguro.
The so-called Ishiguro settled the nameplate back onto the desk, reverting his attention back onto the door, his footsteps moving in a syntonised motion. His hand reached for the handle, but his head peered out the glass window component of the door โ nothing.
The door pulled back, walking through; he didnโt stop there. Ishiguro continued down a couple more feet, the door behind slowly creaking shut. Isolated corridors beckoned, almost a whistling hum breaking the silence. Stretcher-beds everywhere, the floor a mess and lights flickering. As Ishiguro continued down the corridor, the whistling grew sharper, volatile to the ears almost โ a figure walked past near the end. It became clear that whatever this was, was supernatural; the presence oozed inhumane.
This shadowy figure crept forward again, yet this time around it halted, neck snapping to the side like a deer in headlights, but more extreme. Out of nowhere, all source of light went out, darker than the midnight sky โ only to yield red, the figure storming forward, surrounded by a swarm of rats gushing everywhere, filling the corridor. Instinctively, out of petrification by the horrors Infront of him, he pivoted, running back towards his office, the only place accessible to him. His hand latched against the handle, tugging at it โ it would not open, what was once accessible, seemed locked. Was this something supernatural, inhumane, or the spawn of Satan himself.
The horrified Ishiguro clenched his eyes shut, ready for his demise, or so he thought...
Out of nowhere, a calling occurred, and the Doctor awoke from his desk, his back immediately straightening, shifting away from his poor posture. His eyes looked around, terrified from whatever lucid dream had presented itself. Only to realise the faint whistling hum, legs shaking as he sat up from his desk, hurling himself over to the door, the nameplate knocking to the ground; was it all happening once more?
An endless cycle of trauma, unable to break this wretched nightmare that cursed him, it seemed this hospital was built on a foundation infested with a plague more petrifying than the thought of death itself.
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written by twenie1