[somewhere in there, he's lost sense of what exactly is all happening. Robin conducts an orchestra that ceases to be made up of individual notes that Coil can track and name--it becomes an elaborate mess of agonies that chews him up whole. He can pick out only pieces, noting the grind of broken things together, the way he can feel air against things that should be safe inside, the overwhelming smell of blood.
He surprised he's still conscious, even with all the effort he's putting toward keeping himself awake, and the expert way that Robin sharpens his suffering every time he thinks he's beginning to slip. There is just so much... he's shaking terribly, rattling every damaged thing. And he's cold. He notices himself thinking that around the time that he hears himself breathing--and then can't hear anything else once he notices it. It's a horrible sound, strained and frantic, rasping ragged in his own ears. It's an exceedingly familiar sound, the too-rapid shallow gasping of something waiting to start dying.
But nothing stops. Nothing does anything but somehow get worse in measured increments, until even those thoughts are dismantled. After another few minutes, he can't even hold onto the thought of why he's there anymore as his mind spirals and climbs and crashes, hitting that point of preferring anything to the present.
He finally has nothing left but the delirious want for it to stop.
Choking everything back is becoming too much. Exhausted from writhing, mind frayed to nothing, he starts to slip. Finally, something moves into his vision--Robin's hand, maybe--and there is an automatic flinch away, throwing his head to one side as a small panicked sound scratches up through his throat. He wants this to stop. No more.]
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He surprised he's still conscious, even with all the effort he's putting toward keeping himself awake, and the expert way that Robin sharpens his suffering every time he thinks he's beginning to slip. There is just so much... he's shaking terribly, rattling every damaged thing. And he's cold. He notices himself thinking that around the time that he hears himself breathing--and then can't hear anything else once he notices it. It's a horrible sound, strained and frantic, rasping ragged in his own ears. It's an exceedingly familiar sound, the too-rapid shallow gasping of something waiting to start dying.
But nothing stops. Nothing does anything but somehow get worse in measured increments, until even those thoughts are dismantled. After another few minutes, he can't even hold onto the thought of why he's there anymore as his mind spirals and climbs and crashes, hitting that point of preferring anything to the present.
He finally has nothing left but the delirious want for it to stop.
Choking everything back is becoming too much. Exhausted from writhing, mind frayed to nothing, he starts to slip. Finally, something moves into his vision--Robin's hand, maybe--and there is an automatic flinch away, throwing his head to one side as a small panicked sound scratches up through his throat. He wants this to stop. No more.]