#n.18

Summary: “Corporal Kaminsky is over there,” someone shouts at him – or they’re merely informing, Ivan couldn’t tell. His whole vision blurs. Corporal Kaminsky is over there. A red lump scattered haphazardly near the roots of a centuries old tree, his face in the mud, one arm bent unnaturally under his torso, the sleeve of his kefta loose and ripped. Ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg, Ivan runs towards him, gliding over the dirty slush and losing his footing more than just once or twice. Is it mahyem all around or is it just him? He can’t feel Fedyor. He can’t find him. In the dissonant staccato of dozens of heartbeats, he can’t find the one he cherishes the most.

“There are six elevator-related deaths per year, not to mention ten thousands injuries that requires hospitalization. [...] I’m not scared, I don’t want to be on a elevator with you” *chaos ensues*

Everything was too white and sterile and unnatural. The air was filled with sounds and smells Portia couldn’t name but hated immediately upon perceiving them. Sage reassured her several times that she’d be safe, but it did little to settle her nerves. She’d much rather take her chances with the gash on her leg but everyone else had all but forced her here. And now she was stuck in a white, white room without them, surrounded by strangers in masks. It was all too foreign and bright and loud and white, white, white, white, white.

Musica per Ginnastica Ritmica n.18