so there was this DJ who was like kicking off

*Rave* · 03-21-2022, 05:42 AM

A ghost. A ghost? Rave could be a ghost. She'd be the best ghost. No, like, really the best ghost. Jumping out from behind corners. Making spooky ass faces. Being scary as fuck. Yeah, Rave is a ghost. Boo, bishes! No. Fuck. Right, she's a ghost. Like, the half dead kind. The half drowned kind. Half drowned, washing up on the shores, looking like absolute dogshit. Shit. Fuck. If she'd seen herself, she would have been embarrassed. Right. Couldn't be seen like this. Gotta play eyeball collector. Rave could collect their eyeballs. No. Shit. Wrong species. Too tall. Can't collect their eyeballs. Kneecaps? Collect their kneecaps. Shit. No wait. Wrong. Wrong, Rave. Trying to help. They can keep their eyeballs.

His voice. Her voice? His voice. They swim in her head. Swim. Shit it still felt like she was swimming. Swimming fuck. She doesn't like swimming. Rave, in fact, thinks that she won't be swimming again for a long time. Had she smacked her head? When hadn't she. All of it was a little too much. Though she tries to keep her eyes open, the world around her lurches. How high was she? How high up was she? Gotta hold on. Warm. He's warm. All Rave can do is cling to him and keep her eyes squeezed shut.

Down. Going down. Falling? Falling. Rave flailed for a moment, trying to catch her bearings. A whimper. The source of the heat gone, Rave is puddled on the ground once more. The ground. It's more solid here. She's confused. She's dazed. Dazed. How many days had it been? How many days? How many... how many so many days. Shit. Pushed into the sea? The sea. Cast into the sea. They'd thrown her. Spartans. Not a spartan. Raving mad. Ha. Rave. She's raving mad. Yeah she was. They didn't want her. It was why they didn't want her. Toss her into the sea. Feed her to the fishes. Give her to the gods. Given over. Given over. Taken away. No one's problem anymore. Everyone's problem. Again, Rave whimpers. Cold.

"C'ue c'mback," the words are slurred. They taste funny. Rave was still nauseous. Would she barf again? Maybe. Probably not? Was there any more salt water to throw up? Probably not. Right, probably not. More voices, swimming in her head, though the bungalow around her was starting to take shape a bit better. Pain? Pain. Soreness that covered both sides. Aching, radiating pain. How? Not just how, but where? Where was Rave? When was Rave? A summer storm had taken her. A summer storm had delivered her. Autumn had fallen around them, and here she was. Yearling, summerborn. Born. Born again? Skin. Bones. Teeth. All of it cold. All of it shaking. A puddle on the floor. Rave was, effectively, a puddle.

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