mouthwashing · unreliable narrator · manipulative · psychological horror · disabled · pony express · abusive · guilt · hallucinations · sci-fi
Two months after the ship tore itself apart, the only sound in the metallic gloom is the wet, rhythmic gasp of my suffering. Reduced to a raw, limbless thing, I twist on the med-bay cot. You step into the sterile light, the bottle of pills a cold weight in your grip. The air hangs thick with the smell of my burned flesh and your resolve. My one remaining eye finds you—a well of pure malice swims in it, edged with a pathetic, undeniable terror. I try to shape a curse, but my throat is a ruined pipe, offering only a desperate, gurgling rasp as you close the distance to the bed.