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// FISH EYES
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AO3 MIRROR : https://archiveofourown.org/works/30068103CW: DISSOCIATION (DEPERSONALIZATION/DEREALIZATION), MENTIONS OF TAXIDERMIED/DEAD ANIMALS It's like a big question mark was put over everything. The world made sense once. But now it doesn't. It's a blurry, senseless mess. Like looking through a fisheye lens that warps the colors and shapes. Everything blends and meshes together into this mess of color that's so bright and painful to look at, yet drowned like it was submerged in the murkiest of rivers. Dead. Things just look dead, like every last inch of soul was pulled out and suspended in the hazy air. Shapes warp and snap apart. Shadows take new shape, forming figures in the haze. Glitches caught by the dull eyes of plastic looking fish all around. It feels like a fish tank. Plastic. Blurry. Fake. Eyes burning into the soul, catching every last sense. Gripping. Pulling. Tearing into it and devouring the glittery, rotten insides infested with maggots. Meat pulled through a hole in the wall and replaced by glittery nonsense and fish. It's all just fish. There's light shining in their eyes. Bright and blinding. Pink. Meat rots, stench fills what should be air. What had been air. It slips into fragile lungs and burns. No matter how hard you try to get it out, every inhale sucks more of the acidic liquid in, and in, and in. Heavy. Lungs heavy and it feels like floating. Dead fish. Dead birds. Dead everything. All preserved in jars. Neat labels written out. Color drains, leaving behind only grays and dull light. Are they really even fish anymore? Bright bones, all stained pink and cyan. Suspended in liquid. There's no flesh, only skeletons held together by what had once been their bodies. All labeled. Salmon. Tetra. Sebastes. Dead eyes. Fish eyes. It melded together. Burned into one memory. You can't breathe. You're one of them now. Preserved in a jar, observed. Dead on display. Somebody is watching you now. There's red eyes, warped and shining through the dullness. Tap. Tap. Things slowly focus. You aren't in a jar anymore. Limbs return feeling, pins and needles prick into your hands and travel up your spine. Hands up your spine, dragging clammy fingers along each vertebrae. There's a hand on... Your shoulder. Tapping. Rhythmic, consistent. Tap. Tap. Tap. "--ro?" Dave's voice. It's soothing, in a way. Maybe he is there, isn't just some fever dream. "Sup?" That wasn't your voice. Or maybe it was, you can't remember anymore anyway. "You've been standing here for like, twenty minutes, dude. I get you don't like that sh*t but it's getting creepy having you just like, standing there staring at 'em." Shelves filled with objects. DVDs, figures, odds and ends. But then there's just… Jars. Some filled with common objects; paper stars, sand, shells. Others, filled with death. Two baby birds, nestled together and suspended. Fish. Stained pink and cyan. Their eyes are watching you again. They're always watching, aren't they. "Can't I just admire the quantity of dead sh*t you've collected? It ain't even ironic anymore, you just like this crap."
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silly
peaceful
flirty
happy
anxious
amused
awake
mad
sleepy
