The first thing she notices is the blood.

The walls and the floor are drenched in it, forming a shallow pool. Only the ceiling remains undesecrated. And there is very little light; she can only see about a foot in front of her. When she takes a step, the blood comes up to her ankles and she can feel something squish under her heel. She thinks of giant, fleshy worms and her stomach churns.

She frowns. Collects herself. Disgusting as it is, this is only her mind's projection. Not to be discouraged, she removes her shoes, carrying them by her side while she wades across the scarlet tarn.

The second thing she notices is the quietness of the room. No electronic hum of hospice machinery, no laughter or gunfire or cracking of bones under heavy metal. Nothing. Nothing but the soft swish of her bare feet against the slick floor and her own, fluttering pulse.

The room is moderately sized, and she has to walk for a minute before she notices there is a door on the other end, dark as charcoal. All around this door are gouges, carved into the walls and around the door, deep and panicky like the work of a wild animal. But no animal known to her could reach that high.

Upon drawing closer, she realizes the door is ajar. And as she peers within the silent entryway, the room yields its secrets to her. Or perhaps she is the one that yields.

Knowledge is found. She recoils. Staggers back. Her shoes drop to the ground and are forgotten. In her haste crimson splashes on legs, her skirt. The ambience swallows her whole. And in this moment she cannot speak, cannot breathe. Emotion roars through her mind like a charging locomotive — anguish, horror, regret, guilt, confusion, too quick to comprehend and unspeakably poignant — and she is powerless to react. Clutching fistfuls of her hair, she falls to her knees with a muted splish. Blood taints her clothes, her skin.

And the chamber swells with noise. A crackling sound, feedback. Speakers. This gives way to harsh tones of electric interference, the clanging and whirring of machinery, children's' laughter and a hundred other things that should not be possible. And the pounding of her heart in her ears. Her skull feels like it's going to split under the pressure. She doubles up, knows she is screaming, screaming at the top of her fragile lungs, but cannot hear her own voice. She can only feel herself convulsing, wracked with sobs that no one will hear in the hellish chaos.

Out of the madness, a voice beckons, offering death and the promise of sweet release. She laughs hysterically, clawing at her scalp to feel something, anything, shrieking her hoarse desperation to the perfect white ceiling before she collapses, prone to the bloody floor, on her forehead and knees as if in prayer.

The taste of warm iron fills her mouth and nose, and she gasps, chokes. And just when she has convinced herself of the futility of her survival, just when she is ready to drown herself in the scarlet pool beneath her, the torture stops, immediately and completely.

Shock renders silence. There is a ringing in her ears.

Then mercifully, darkness.

When she wakes up at her desktop, there is an echoing disturbance. She stirs, too tired to move, letting the fear wash over her. A shiver afflicts her body, involuntarily. Curiosity replaces unease. She wonders what her dream was about.

Try as she might, she can't recall it.

A/N: More Sabitsuki-centric .flow fiction, because I'm really FEELING IT!