Quoted By:
The darkness glides through you, piling first in your corners, then in your middle, then compacting itself like heavy snow as more flows in. It's disconcerting but not unpleasant: the ants are gone, for one thing. And for being stupid magic nightmare darkness stuff, it's— you refuse to call it "considerate," alright? You're letting this happen, but you are not calling the fucking nightmare darkness "considerate." End of story. For being <span class="mu-i">nightmare darkness</span>, it's— it's— you're pretty sure you're not turning into a nightmare monster, or whatever the shit. You think. It's extremely possible that you are and you're being fucked with to believe you're not. But it still feels like you've got arms and legs and fingers and whatnot all in the right places—
Nope, you jinxed it. Fuck! You've got to be about 99% clothes closet and 1% goo by now, and you're feeling the clothes closet entwine itself steadily with your ever-thinner outer skin. It's nightmare monster for you, that sells it, so you've just got to hope that it's temporary, and you don't bang yourself up too much, and that it's, like, a kickass nightmare monster, not a "your dad tells you he's disappointed in you" nightmare—
Your skin flexes gently, stretches a little, twists a little, and snaps back into place. As it does, the very last vestige of darkness slides into your eye sockets. The basement is brightly lit. You are no longer thirsty.
"What the fuck?" says Pat. She is standing upright not very far from you. She is also not a nightmare monster, or any other kind of monster, though she does have her hand back. (Dammit.)
"Huh?" Your head buzzes. You prod your face, which feels like a face. (Suspicious.) Your hands look like usual, except for a— a clear coating of nail polish? And your pants are— you are wearing pants. They are made of black leather. "...Huh."
"You can't <span class="mu-i">do</span> that. You can't go and— that's not possible! That is unilaterally not— what the fuck are you wearing?!"
"Uh," you say. "Leather pants?"
"You <span class="mu-i">can't</span>— why?!"
"...Uh..." You kick out your leg to examine your brand-new leather boots. "...I think I'm a nightmare monster? Like, this is my nightmare... form?"
Pat looks down, then up at the ceiling. (It's not a very high ceiling. The basement isn't that big in general. There's no catwalk.) "Is that why you don't have eyes?"
"I don't have...? Oh, shit!" You poke a finger way deep into your eye socket, dislodging a trickle of black smoky stuff. "Oh, damn, I actually— I can see fine. That's <span class="mu-i">crazy.</span> Damn. Hang on."
Pat is hanging on (barely) as you plunge a hand into your pant pocket and pull out two... yeah, okay, those are eyeballs. You pop them back in and blink hard. "Is that better?"
"...Yes," she says.
"That's good, that's— don't want to fucking spook anyone, do I? Well... maybe Monty..." You contemplate this. "Say, do you think Charlotte's a nightmare monster? Since she has that one eye—"
(4/6?)
