JB

Bloodymary shippers continue to learn the funny way that you cannot outright assume the people who made (or helped make) your favorite works with the blorbos you're playing dollhouse with won't see your indulgent fantasies when you post them publicly on a social media platform.

you feel stuck. why. why am i. here...

red markings on the walls. or are those hand holds. your legs ache. they hurt. as if you were asleep with them in a wrong position for ages. you decide to move forwards. after a while of thinking of just staying. here. unmoving. untill death came to reap.

you see a long red. supposedly rusted metal stick. or is it called a rebar. rebar, the rebar had clearly been here for a while though. you take it in your right hand. assuming you'd need to do something with it. and stand. stand there for a few minutes. you seemingly snap out of it. thinking that you must've hurt your head bad. to be freezing up every two seconds. you realize that your head actually does hurt a lot. shit.

seeing that there's a piton on the ground. you. take it. it might come in handy at least. if you actually wanna leave this place. still not knowing where the fuck you are. seemingly must've been a really bad fall to receive brain damage. sigh.

you look around. the room you've been in for the past. maybe hour. hours? days. is empty. beside a door. those handholds. the rebar and piton you picked up. and a hole below you. you stumble. scared that you might fall down, thoigh realize quickly that there's a grating beetween you and the abyss below. darkness eating the hole whole.

sitting there. body aching. head scrumbled. you spot a can. where the piton was. you seemingly missed it. which does not surprise you, since you've already got to the conclusion of having a bad concussion. concussion.

but there's a can. of. you dont know. what. but there it is. staring back at you. . .