Setting: Surgery Room, though he's come here from the Twisted Window.
Time: Late into Night 004
Summary: Alfons, after seeing a strange face in a window, runs for what he might think of being his life...until he comes face-to-face with a grim reality that he's not sure he'll be able to face...in the form of one of the house's hauntings.
...There were moments when the mind twisted, turned, spinning inside the head, ready to snap. It cried, it wept, it dreamed, it sought, and it sometimes cowered, huddling in a corner never ready to come out again.
Alfons personally wasn't sure what it was doing first...or if it was even doing anything at all, before showing that image again and again in his mind. Replaying it, like a movie...twisted features sending his blood cold, even through his own thoughts, a simple spectre sitting in the depths of the glass...
Teeth out, eyes scrunched near-tight, mouth twisted upwards in an almost snarling smile...it practically beckoned him to the glass, begged him to step closer...
But Alfons was a logical fellow. He knew when things were only his imagination, when things were simply just toys of the mind playing tricks on him, causing him to get the occasional bout of paranoia...
And he also, quite logically, knew when to run.
Run, run as fast as he could, wherever, whenever...just so long as his legs were moving and he was far away from...from...that. What in the hell was that thing, anyway? It was...it was like everything else in this house...inconceivable, illogical, silly, stupid, and absolutely pant-wetting.
...He only checked twice to see if his pants were wet, though, thanks.
Both were false alarms.
Alfons wasn't quite sure how far he'd run; he hadn't been exactly keeping score on a mental pedometer or anything--rather, his mind had been focused on going one place: away.
And away he was. Too far away, maybe. Where the hell was he, anyway? He didn't remember the rooms looking quite like this...or the walls being made of such thick stone, though if he hadn't had rested against it, panting hard enough that even a thirsty dog would have scoffed, he wouldn't have even noticed.
Instead he found himself feeling the wall.
And oh, look at the surprise and jubilations he felt when something started to give.
...And lights seemed to barrage his eyes--lights brighter than anything he'd seen in this house.
Talking to himself. What a dumb thing to do--he knew that nobody could hear him with that soft echo, though perhaps it was only his imagination that had conjured it up. Nobody was around, nobody could hear...
I wonder if Edward even notices that I'm gone.
Oh, fat chance of that. Despite everything, the man was as oblivious as a blind man in a hallway made of saws, and it wasn't any surprise that he wasn't looking for him--or wasn't thinking enough to look for him.
...Not that it mattered. He could take care of himself, thank you. He didn't need Edward to be his white Knight all the time, saving him from situations that he could easily get out of himself, if he only had the proper tools.
Wait, was that why he had the metal plank in his hand? He must have grabbed it from a few rooms back.
Letting out a tiny sigh between his teeth, he poked his head into the brightness that he had somehow stumbled into.
Things lining the walls--something like...something like shelves, carrying bottles and objects of the most peculiar use, though somehow gut-wrenchingly familiar despite himself. Metal objects glinting in the light, and a strange scent of...something. What was that? It smelled like a mixture of chemicals and nothing, if only accentuating the lump that was already beginning to form in his stomach.
This was almost too familiar to him now.
Something else was starting to bother his nostrils. Something else...something sickly sweet, made of copper, and...and...
Something was on the table.
As quickly as Alfons's eyes moved towards it, they couldn't seem to back away, even as his body backed up, feet stepping backwards as his body lurched, quickly hitting the ground with a thud.
That was the last thing Alfons Heiderich could say before he tried to scramble to his feet, trying to take the body's visage from his mind but unable to, instead covering his mouth, shutting his eyes as tears started to stream through, and trying very, very, hard not to vomit.
Which only ended up a failure, sending a thick wet mass on the floor with a loud slap, the only thing louder being the half-sobs, half retches coming out of the throat of Alfons Heiderich, who firmly decided that he was, in fact, somewhere on the brink of Hell.