j a d e d v o i c e s , e m p t y s o u l s [death&ghosty]

There was alcohol on his night table and he didn't know why. 

It was a clear bottle. A (nearly) empty bottle. A bottle he didn't recognize. Or... maybe he did?

His head hurt. His head hurt like he'd been bashed by a rock over and over and over again until he just didn't even want to move or get out of bed. 

So he laid there. He didn't know how long. He laid there, his pale white legs tangled in the soft, comforting grip of his sheets that were like friendly snakes. Something told him that he owned a snake but part of himself-- the part that was doing most of the conscious thinking and moving and acting and believing and seeing-- didn't believe it. 

He didn't understand.

Alabaster groped for any kind of memory like a wayward kite string. But no matter how far he reached, it would allude his grasp, dancing away on the rapturous breeze.

He was cold. The air inside his bedroom felt like a refrigerated cracker: chilled and stale. He didn't like it. Plus, it was dark. So dark, he could barely see past the edges of the bed.

Gazing around his room, Alabaster could barely recognize the place.

He didn't remember having all this black. Yes, some black. A wall or two and all his furniture. But the ceiling? The floor? The curtains? His sheets and bedspread and rugs? All the damn wallpaper? 

Seriously. All the damn wallpaper. 

"What the hell happened?" Alabaster demanded out loud. His voice cracked and felt... different. It felt like it hadn't been used in days. Maybe weeks. 

I'm getting over a cold. It's the only explanation.

Realizing that he'd be warmer if he put on some pants and maybe a shirt, he tore himself from the comforting embrace of bed and sheets and pillows and instead gripped the floor with his feet.

He pulled open his pajama drawer and rummaged through it to find something that wasn't the same damn black or dark gray color.

Tugging a dark gray v-neck over his head and then stepping into a pair of black sweats that constricted around his lower calves in tight, elastic bunches, he took one more glance around the room. 

His head still hurt. He could only assume it was a hangover. He didn't remember what a hangover felt like, but that small part of him that fed him information supplied the useful bit that he had, in fact, previously experienced a hangover and that it was easily remedied by the special pills he kept in a special drawer where all his other shit was.

He couldn't recall ever having a "shit" drawer.

It was a large one. Like the drawer of a filing cabinet. It was jammed with six or seven different kinds of alcohol he never remembered liking, let alone owning.

Could this day get any weirder? I should talk to Lanie about--

He paused. That little part of his brain screamed at him. It just started screaming and screaming and screaming until he screamed back.

Something didn't feel right about the whole "Lanie" thing. You can't go to her, the little voice told him. You just can't. I don't remember why. You can't go to her no matter how much you want to.

And Alabaster told it to shut up.

Not just shut up.

He told it to shut the fuck up. 

Shoving the little protesting rebel to the back of his mind, he stepped out of his room and was accosted by the most dreadful sound.

Hundreds of animals. It had to have been hundreds.

They hummed and squeaked and shrieked and yelped and cried from behind a large door that used to be an office. Was it now an indoor zoo?

He tentatively gripped the handle of the door and yanked it open. Several dogs greeted him with joyous woofs and many tail wags. Cats peered at him from perches atop book shelves. Birds of every color and size stared at him with their little pebble eyes from inside their barred cages. 

Off to one side was an enormous aquarium. It must have taken up the entire wall and reached all the way to the top of the ceiling that was at least 15 feet from the floor. 

Inside, schools of shining fish glimmered and darted through the water. Some kind of miniature shark drifted lazily past the other fish.

He caught the whirl of tentacles spinning against the glass before an octopus shot off into its cavern.

"What the hell is going on?" Alabaster asked. "What the hell...?"

He turned to leave this place behind and nearly ran into a person standing in the middle of the doorway. Blonde hair. A face he'd recognize anywhere.

"Lanie," he breathed with relief. "Thank goodness you're here."