Sometimes people just don’t wake up. Sylvia tells herself this as she stumbles down the hall, scissors slipping from her fingers. Sometimes people just sleep and sleep and there’s nothing to stop it. She turns the corner, her socks sliding against the cold floors. She takes the steps six at a time, short hops that leave her breath shaking from her and her hands stretched against the railings.
Behind her, the stairwell fills with a static-y shhhhhhhh, white noise sweeping up the walls, stalking her steps as she staggers through the door to the second floor.
The scissors in her hands are stuck there, slivers of plastic sticking to their sides, heralds of what she has done. No one will notice, she says. Sometimes people sleep.
Shhhhhhhhh
When she accepted the job, the oppurtunity, Sylvia was thrilled. It was a paying job, it had great benefits, it was fun. The pamphlet had big bold letters emblazoned on the cover: “Help Insomniacs” it pronounced. “Good people helping Good people get a Good night’s rest.”
It looked fun. It looked interesting.
It wasn’t.
They gave her the scissors in a red plastic bag - an innocuous gift presented with a grin. “These are your tools,” they grinned.
When she took them out, they glowed, brilliant red light bursting from the pin that held the blades together. Sylvia cocked her head and asked for an explanation.
“Don’t worry,” they laughed, “it’ll make sense soon.”
Shhhhhhhhhh
Sylvia slips, crashing to the ground with a stifled scream as her shin hits a stool on her way down. She does not search behind her. She knows what sweeps after her with a horrible swiftness.
Shhhhhhhhh
They directed her to a hospital, her first time out on the job. The mark’s name was Roger Richards and he was trying to rest on the sixth floor in the sleep ward.
“Go in, find him. They’ll know what to do,” they told her, motioning to the scissors with hands encased in red plastic.
“What? The scissors?” Sylvia asked, confusion obvious in her gaze.
“They’ll know,” they hissed.
Shhhhhhhh
Silence reigns behind her. Sylvia cannot hear the slide of her socks against the floor, the strained wheezing of her breath as she swings around the second landing and sprints for the next stairwell.
The sick sit up in their beds, mouths stretched wide in silent screams as Syliva strides past them, trailing the soundlessness behind her.
The scissors in her hand start to tremble, shaking as they strain to escape.
Shhhhhhhh
Sylvia did not figure out what was going on until the fifth time she was given an assignment. The first victims had sighed and settled deeper into their beds, sleeping peacefully, smiling. Sylvia had smiled to herself and slipped out of the room, pocketing the scissors and jauntily going home.
The third time, as the scissors did their work, the alarms in the room went off.
A cacophony of noise came crashing into the quiet that accompanied the careful work of the scissors. The alarm clanged above her head, calling into the halls of the hospital that there was a code, a code. The pounding of feet came next, nurses and doctors careening around corners, stethoscopes around necks, voices all together asking what had happened.
Sylvia stood there, the scissors slipping from her limp hand, and saw the monitors display nothing. A straight line. Eternal sleep.
She threw the scissors in the nearest trash can, trembling as she walked home in a daze.
When she woke the next morning, the scissors were slipped into her fingers.
Shhhhhhhh
Sylvia shouts, the sound a whisper in the Silence.
“Stop!” she says, her voice stretching the sibilants. The static swirls around her, a hiss that has ambient sounds seeping into the floors. “Stop,” she says, a whisper, a small sound that sinks to the floor.
The not-sound hangs in the air, swirling around her, steeping her in silence.
“Sssssleeeeeppp...” the static hisses.
Sylvia’s breath stops in her throat.
“No,” she sobs, the sound a slight ripple in the silence. The static is all around her, sliding through her skin, settling in her soul.
“Ssssseventhhh,” it hisses. “Sssssleeeeeeppp.”
Sylvia’s eyes are heavy, the scissor slippery in her hand. She tries to speak and is stopped by the slime of silence streaming down her throat.
She slips to the floor, the scissors shining in their red curse-light.
Shhhhhhhh
Behind her, the stairwell fills with a static-y shhhhhhhh, white noise sweeping up the walls, stalking her steps as she staggers through the door to the second floor.
The scissors in her hands are stuck there, slivers of plastic sticking to their sides, heralds of what she has done. No one will notice, she says. Sometimes people sleep.
Shhhhhhhhh
When she accepted the job, the oppurtunity, Sylvia was thrilled. It was a paying job, it had great benefits, it was fun. The pamphlet had big bold letters emblazoned on the cover: “Help Insomniacs” it pronounced. “Good people helping Good people get a Good night’s rest.”
It looked fun. It looked interesting.
It wasn’t.
They gave her the scissors in a red plastic bag - an innocuous gift presented with a grin. “These are your tools,” they grinned.
When she took them out, they glowed, brilliant red light bursting from the pin that held the blades together. Sylvia cocked her head and asked for an explanation.
“Don’t worry,” they laughed, “it’ll make sense soon.”
Shhhhhhhhhh
Sylvia slips, crashing to the ground with a stifled scream as her shin hits a stool on her way down. She does not search behind her. She knows what sweeps after her with a horrible swiftness.
Shhhhhhhhh
They directed her to a hospital, her first time out on the job. The mark’s name was Roger Richards and he was trying to rest on the sixth floor in the sleep ward.
“Go in, find him. They’ll know what to do,” they told her, motioning to the scissors with hands encased in red plastic.
“What? The scissors?” Sylvia asked, confusion obvious in her gaze.
“They’ll know,” they hissed.
Shhhhhhhh
Silence reigns behind her. Sylvia cannot hear the slide of her socks against the floor, the strained wheezing of her breath as she swings around the second landing and sprints for the next stairwell.
The sick sit up in their beds, mouths stretched wide in silent screams as Syliva strides past them, trailing the soundlessness behind her.
The scissors in her hand start to tremble, shaking as they strain to escape.
Shhhhhhhh
Sylvia did not figure out what was going on until the fifth time she was given an assignment. The first victims had sighed and settled deeper into their beds, sleeping peacefully, smiling. Sylvia had smiled to herself and slipped out of the room, pocketing the scissors and jauntily going home.
The third time, as the scissors did their work, the alarms in the room went off.
A cacophony of noise came crashing into the quiet that accompanied the careful work of the scissors. The alarm clanged above her head, calling into the halls of the hospital that there was a code, a code. The pounding of feet came next, nurses and doctors careening around corners, stethoscopes around necks, voices all together asking what had happened.
Sylvia stood there, the scissors slipping from her limp hand, and saw the monitors display nothing. A straight line. Eternal sleep.
She threw the scissors in the nearest trash can, trembling as she walked home in a daze.
When she woke the next morning, the scissors were slipped into her fingers.
Shhhhhhhh
Sylvia shouts, the sound a whisper in the Silence.
“Stop!” she says, her voice stretching the sibilants. The static swirls around her, a hiss that has ambient sounds seeping into the floors. “Stop,” she says, a whisper, a small sound that sinks to the floor.
The not-sound hangs in the air, swirling around her, steeping her in silence.
“Sssssleeeeeppp...” the static hisses.
Sylvia’s breath stops in her throat.
“No,” she sobs, the sound a slight ripple in the silence. The static is all around her, sliding through her skin, settling in her soul.
“Ssssseventhhh,” it hisses. “Sssssleeeeeeppp.”
Sylvia’s eyes are heavy, the scissor slippery in her hand. She tries to speak and is stopped by the slime of silence streaming down her throat.
She slips to the floor, the scissors shining in their red curse-light.
Shhhhhhhh
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