Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Tom in the bathroom

Soft, glowing light exploded into view, highlighting his slightly raw features in a yellowish hue. Bright and persistent, they swallowed up the dark, creeping shadows that lingered underneath the doorframe, completely erasing the unnatural, eerie neon green gloom that teased the sides of his face. A gulp of air was shoved down his throat, mouth gaping wide to take in more wheezed breath- it was almost as if he had been drowning, lost within the murky depths of his own bitter insecurities, before thrashing back up to the surface, bobbing his head back to reality.

Tom might be the universe's bitch, but it was a far kinder mistress than the dark lurkings of his own mind.

With a heavy thud, he slammed the door closed, leaving it to rattle on its hinges. A curse hissed through the wood, quiet and mildly terrified, the glass shuddering as the frame wobbled back into place.

Say what you want about him; he may be a hot-tempered asshole with a ska fetish, but at least he knew how to make a memorable exit.

Especially in those shorts, damn.   

Although it could be argued that his departure was the least likely aspect of that conversation that would give Pat night terrors- later, he'll reassure the other man that it's okay that he pissed the bed after meeting him, he had that effect on most people.

Snorting, Tom shook his head, rearranging his fringe absentmindedly as he picked out a random direction to walk in- the further away from the medical ward he got, the better.

Resisting the urge to flip off the sign on his way out was difficult, but, he managed.

Miles upon miles of tile were eaten up by his heavily thumping feet, his aimless wondering causing him to curve around narrow, forgotten corners, and long stretches of seemingly abandoned corridors. The lack of migrating soldiers and officers made him nervous, palms sweating coldly as he shuffled along warily- telling himself that they were all out for lunch only soothed his conscious for so long.

Slightly unnerved, he glanced around, anxious stare flickering around the large expense of the base until he paused, teeth worrying his bottom lip.

In an alcove, a closed-door sat gloomily in the dark, the thin, stick-like fingers of gentle light too weak to penetrate the surrounding suffocating cloud of shadows. A sign was posted on the tough wood, the illuminated words dull, and covered up hastily with a thin piece of paper. Hung up on the surrounding walls was long lines caution tape, swinging from corner to corner like dense jungle vines.

Leisure Wing
Under construction- DO NOT ENTER

Huh, it was almost like the higher-ups didn't want someone to go in there.

It's a shame Tom wasn't made to listen to authority.

Casting a few searching glances around his person, he made sure that no one was present before he silently slipped inside.

Dusty tiles ran along ahead of him, lights flickering intermittently, buzzing lowly as electricity crackled through the air- walls were dirty, caked in charcoal like dirt, deep grooves marking the surfaces, cracks pieces of broken plaster flaking off dryly.

It was mildly concerning.

Although, he really had to admit, what disturbed him more was the random splatters of rusty, congealed blood.

Staining the bland off-white tile, long streaks of clumped orangish smears blemished the floor, lining every possible surface with messy, clawed fingerprints. Faint scratches marked the paint, hazardous and visibly panicked, raking against the tough brick as the instinctual urge to survive skyrocketed. Speckled droplets of gooey gore laid limply, just as lifeless as their supposedly decease owner- clinging grossly to the concrete gaps on the ground, tainting the scattered scraps of clothing littered about in uneasy, chaotic piles. An intense scent of rot washed over his senses, feeling like a sucker punch to the gut as it coiled nauseatingly in his stomach.