Work Text:
It lived in the tip of the needle.
A quick prick, not painful, that made everything tilt and blur. The Professor's glasses reflecting the surgical light so that you can’t see his eyes. Your muscles dead weight, your breath shallow, the slow slice of the scalpel, falling, falling—
—buried alive, scratching futilely at the wood, throat raw with howls you can’t remember. The worst is when they howl back, ⱠɆ₮ Ʉ₴ ØɄ₮ and you feel the pressure behind your skin, immutable and alien and oh so angry, scratching with the same frantic intensity that you scrape at the coffin lid.