drown

Blood. It smells like blood. Is it blood? One look down at the substance she's submerged in gives her the confirmation she needs. Why is she swimming in blood? Why is she surrounded by corpses with wide, unseeing eyes? Why are they staring? The eyes watch her every move, her every shaking breath. Not that she could move far, as the splayed, grotesquely twisted limbs of the bodies have her trapped. Why do these people look familiar? How did I get here? All of these questions combined with the morbid pool she is sitting in, has her mind reeling. She doesn't remember who she is. Does she have a name? She feels a wall as she tries to remember anything. All she can seem to recall is how the bones snapped, how the throats gurgled, how the blood gushed, how she watched these people die one by one. She doesn't understand. She seems to be in a state of shock, but she doesn't know how she got here. All she remembers is death. There are at least thirty corpses, and she didn't have more than ten deaths that she remembered. She still hasn't moved. She realizes that she's trembling, curled into herself, as she tries to use the blood and bodies around her to keep her warm. She's naked. Why is she naked? Her hair is matted, entire body covered in blood, both dried and fresh. She can't see much of her surroundings in the dark, but it appears that she's in... a van? A van full of blood and corpses? The windows are coated in something dark, and streaky. Like someone had used a paintbrush and painted the blood over the glass. She can barely make out the night sky through them. With each blink she sees death. Different people dying in every way imaginable. Each death leaves her more on edge. It's so vivid, so real. She tentatively tries to stand, and finds herself shivering even harder, the cold bite of the air assaulting her exposed skin. Her ankle hurts. Sprained? She doesn't bother questioning how the injury came to be. She has to leave, leave now. Leave. She steps over the extremities of several corpses, trying to get to the back doors of the van. She can hardly see. Her eyes are adjusting slowly. She hears a ripple in the blood behind her. She turns. All of the eyes were fixed on her. Even the ones with dark sockets for eyes seemed to be looking at her. She shivers, and limps towards the door with new purpose. She has to leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. She trips over what looks like the remains of a grisly, burnt, arm, but quickly realizes she hadn't tripped at all. She had been grabbed. The hand is firmly wrapped around her injured ankle, slowly tightening with a vice-like grip. She screams. She fumbles to reach the doors handle, pushing, pulling, yanking back and forth. It doesn't open. The door is jammed by a mass of gory flesh and innards, the intestines and muscles seemingly twisted around the lock. Leave. Leave. Leave. How does she leave? The hand on her foot is causing agony, ever-tightening. More disturbances can be heard behind her, clacking of disjointed bones, the gnashing of teeth, the wet sounds of pummeled piles of human remains trying to move towards her. LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE. All she can do is scream when the arm suddenly jerks, sending her falling. Her head hits the door with a resounding crack. Her vision is distorted, all she sees is red. Her lungs ache, and she doesn't know why. She tastes iron. She feels more hands grasping and pulling at her body. Some of them are mere stumps with bone jutting out, but still they seek her. LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE. SHE HAS TO LEAVE. SHE HAS TO LEAVE. SHE HAS TO LE-

Her body suddenly stops resisting the hands that hold her. The bubbles no longer rise to the surface of the pool of blood. She is one of them, now. The nameless corpses. They had warned her to leave. Now she never will.