Don't mind me... just posting weird shit per usual

Ophelia Fox was a very sensible person. Had she known that if she had not drifted to sleep, she wouldn’t have ended up in an infinite stretch of white, facing a seamlessly endless ocean.

But she didn’t know, and so you mustn’t blame her.

Anyway, Ophelia stood in the middle of a vast white beach, pearly sand stretching from the far east to the tips and toes of the far west, the water soundlessly rippling by the shoreline. Ophelia took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She was a practical woman, that Ophelia, and so she reasoned with herself that this absurdity would soon fade away if she concentrated really hard and counted to ten. And so she did just that.

Her eyes fluttered open and she lifted her head above. Instead of a spinning ceiling fan, an endless expanse of radiant blue greeted her, a distant cluster of clouds gathering in the far horizon.

“Well,” she thought to herself, observing the glittering waters, “I might as well get a tan out of it.”

So Ophelia slipped out of her green silk robe and spread it carefully on the beach. She laid herself down on the ground and stretched her arms to her sides, scooping handfuls of cotton soft sand. She felt each grain slide softly back to the beach before she laced her fingers and placed them just under her head.

No seagulls cawed. No dolphins squealed. Only silence welcomed her.

Ophelia squinted her eyes as she studied the pale burning sun. She frowned; clearly she was wasting her time. She lifted herself from the ground and neatly tucked her knees beneath her legs, denting her lower lip. The sky was growing darker, but only by a little. It wasn’t even noticeable if she were being perfectly honest with herself, which she was. Thin clusters of white clouds sailed soundlessly just above her head and the water churned and frothed, plashing gently near the shoreline.

She saw a shock of red scuttle sideways towards her and then it scurried right past her. Ophelia looked behind her to find more endless white. The crab, she noticed, was nowhere insight.

“Where am I,” she wondered out loud, a smidge of worry tugging her lower stomach. She glanced at the sky and her eyebrows narrowed.

The clouds were thickening, getting dimmer and dimmer. Thick plumes twisted and shifted, darkening into a steely grey color. On it a single transparent message: FAKE.

Ophelia’s stomach clenched unpleasantly. She blinked once at the clouds, and the print was no more. She exhaled in relief, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Ophelia gave a dizzy laugh. “This is all turning out to be very odd,” she said to no one in particular. She rested her face on the palm of her hands before stretching them away from her, feeling her elbows chink and crack.

And then Ophelia gasped.

She brought her hands to her face. Tiny, miniscule, blood red scribe etched every inch of bare skin in swirls and patterns, forever shifting in and out of place. She gulped, peering closely at her palms: FAILURE, FAKE, FAILURE, FAKE.

Ophelia shut her eyes, balling her hands into tight fists. She opened her eyes and forced herself to cast a quick glance at both her hands. They were their usual olive self, not a single word in sight.

She giggled shakily and then laughed, going on her tiptoes and spreading her arms above her head, rolling her neck this way and that.

And then she shrieked.

The sky was dense with heavy, bruised, thunderous clouds. Not a shaft of clear sky was visible. Lightning pierced the atmosphere, forming more words: FAKE, NOBODY, UGLY, FAKE, 

FAILURE, FAKE, FAKE.

The sun was nowhere in sight. And the sea crashed violently along the shore, raging dangerously near her. The sand was no longer white, but a murky brown, thousands upon thousands of inky black scorpions spiraling by her feet, spelling the words:

FAKE, FAKE, NOBODY, STUPID, UGLY, FAILURE, FAKE, FAKE, FAKE.

And the ground was tearing, wide cracks slicing the barren ground, and the scorpions were hissing, waving their tails frighteningly close to her feet, and the sky was splitting, booming thunder screaming in her ear.

And Ophelia was not alright. She was not alright.

The wind came tumbling down, snatching Ophelia’s robe with it, hissing the same words over and over into her ear: FAKE, FAKE, NOBODY, STUPID, UGLY, FAILURE, FAKE, FAKE, FAKE. . .

And Ophelia screamed, smashing her hands against her ears, trying desperately to block out those horrible, horrible words.

And were the scorpions getting bigger?

They rattled by her feet, pricking and stabbing and spiking her ankles and shins and calves, whispering the same things over and over and over: FAKE, FAKE, NOBODY, STUPID, UGLY, FAILURE, FAKE, FAKE, FAKE. . .

And they ripped at the hemming of her nightgown, tattering it to millions of pieces as they punctured her bleeding, blistering feet.

And Ophelia howled, flicking the scorpions away from her, hoping they would die and never ever move once more.

The lightening electrocuted the beach, the sea along with it, and more scorpions pitter-pattered towards her, clinging to her sleeves, her fingers, her hair, and they bit her skin and stabbed her neck and tore her gown to nothing. And they did it over and over again until Ophelia was forced on her knees.

And Ophelia wailed, jerking her head at the nips of the beasts, sobbing as the poison erupted into burning fire in her veins.

And Ophelia was not alright. She was not alright.

She could feel her subconscious giving in to the suffering and agony, and her clarity drained piece by piece, snatching bits of her sanity with it. 

And then the words vanished from sight, dwindling back into nothing.

And the scorpions melted into the sand, and the beach returned to its pearly white self.

And the clouds faded back to a radiant blue sky, and the sea quieted to gentle splashes along the shore.

And Ophelia died, because there was nothing else she could do.