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 Posted: Sun Oct 04, 2020 3:01 pm
Solo: Starting out.
He could hardly believe it when he was accepted for being someone’s housemate, and for such a reasonable fee per month. Especially surprising and delightful was how attractive his housemate was.
The basement tour was the worst part, being down there made his skin crawl, the stairs were the worst, they creaked and groaned like they were the teeth of the monster that could easily be imagined to live down here.
The best things were that there was still old furniture in the house, the goal being to renovate the place, but he could easily make up for the things that he didn’t have.
The old twin mattress beat spending money on one at the thrift store, even if it might have been new. Sheets could be washed, Smells could be ignored, and quite frankly he’d slept on mattresses other people had used before quite often. Hell… He’d slept on one where someone died. His biggest complaint had been that it was somehow, less comfortable than the floor. He’d still used it because the floor was colder, and you couldn’t hide what you needed to under a floor board with the same ease as you could a mattress.
He’d reclaimed some of the old artwork too, a framed picture they found in an office that the sun had worn down to shades of blue and a few lingering yellows that were more ivory than anything else.
It was a space where he could feel safe, he could get warm showers and cook, and share hot meals that he enjoyed. He could even afford some of the better ingredients which made the food better, and gave him a sense of satisfaction. Seeing someone he knew personally truly enjoying what he made, that was somehow even better than the kitchen where he worked.
A real job, a real home…
The trick was going to be not messing that up.
He’d roomed with people before, but this felt different somehow. More important, more real…
It hurt more that he felt disconnected from it, like he was walking through something so perfect it had to be a dream. It wasn’t the house…the house was run down, creaking, dilapidated and in need of love… It was Sterling.
He was always so… good.
He pulled off the leather bracelets that he so often wore on his arms, They hid some of the greater sins he’d done to himself, and the tattoo. His thumbs ran over the pucker of white scars first, fine lines most of them, a few deeper, including the one that ran up his arm towards the inside of his elbow. Somehow it looked less shocking when half of it was covered, you couldn’t see the point of origin. You didn’t immediately catch the intent of it.
A few other marks there on his arms weren’t by his own hand… but the smart people never put things where they could be easily seen. The dash of red that still lingered at the edge of his shoulder and crept towards his elbow for example, the ‘accident’ with the hot water. He didn’t really fault them for that one. He’d been being a terror by all accounts. Underfoot
Then he swapped, running an index finger over the tattoo that he, at least, still found amusing. The edges of the letters had started to loose some of their clarity, he’d gotten it too young and by an artist who wasn’t perhaps the most reputable, they hadn’t asked for his parents consent, and he hadn’t offered it.
‘Made in China’ - that was as much as he could be sure of for his history. He’d been part of ‘the system’ for so long, and trying so hard to run from it almost as long.
He didn’t want to be a paycheck for anyone, he didn’t want to be their punching bag either, nor did he have any love for the system who had put him in such a variety of half way houses between each family that tried and gave up on solving his ‘attitude issues’. God tired of the sharp fury that was too big, they said, for such a small body. As though they had any right to tell him how angry he could be at the world that had left him out with the trash. A mother whom had, by all accounts literally left him in a bin. Or perhaps it had been a father… maybe both… who knew.
He knew he wasn’t wanted, but it didn’t stop him from wanting.
one day, he was going to find a place. This…
This felt like an all too hopeful start.
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Posted: Sun Oct 04, 2020 4:28 pm
Solo: on little cat feet
So… they had a cat now…
That was fine, it was fine. He’d never had a pet, but he’d known a few strays. He’d respect the cat and the cat would, hopefully respect him. Hell, he’d shared food with a few cats in the past. He had a soft spot for animals…they were honest. You could tell after a few lessons if they were mad, scared…friendly.
Oreo seemed ok… He rather fancied her little black and white face, but he expected that she’d prefer the comfort of Sterling, his nice bed, sweet smell and soft sheets. He wasn’t a creeper going around and feeling sheets, but they shared a washing machine. He knew because he’d folded them.
That was at least part why, when in the middle of the night when he felt something add pressure to the edge of his mattress he was awake in a heartbeat. Rolling to one side, grabbing under the top edge of his mattress for…
Well… it didn’t matter because there were refractive eyes gazing back at him, with a vaguely offended look in the dark. The soft illumination from outside creeping in the windows to make a blue green glow in the dark, just enough light to make the white half or her face recognizable in the dark if you didn’t gaze too directly at her.
“…what are you doing in here?” He demanded of her. “Go… shoo, the soft bed is upstairs, this one’s used, it smells funny.” He informed her. She swished her tail and stepped further onto the bed with some small experimental snuffling sounds, the tickle of her whiskers against his arm as he slid away his little tribute to paranoia with a soft sigh.
“I almost hurt you.” He hissed at her, which she ignored as well.
“Look…” he told her. “We have to work something out if you’re going to do this again, I don’t do well with things creeping into bed with me. You need to like… knock or something, See? I’m the worst person to climb into bed with …you… what are you doing?”
She had crept closer and turned in a few tight circles, the purr starting as a low rumble in her chest, right as she leaned vaguely towards him and slid down his ribs to sprawl against him with a satisfied look. She went so far as to shift so she could use his bicep as a pillow.
“That… no… no I’m not the nice one in this house. You’re a fluffy little idiot!” He informed her.
She purred, and reached out an arm to gently rest a paw on his arm, and lightly sank claws into it like a half hearted ‘knead’.
“You’re -pointy!” He informed her, but didn’t remove her clutching paw.
She squinted at him, a slow blink with curled whiskers and swished her tail ever so lazily.
“ONE night.” He informed her, which he was pretty sure she was ignoring too. He was too sure that cats understood people when they wanted, though he couldn’t say why.
He carefully settled himself as not to disturb her. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to be scratched, he didn’t want to upset Sterling by upsetting the cat. Clearly… nothing more than that.
She’d probably leave during the night too, that’s what he told himself.
By morning, he was sleeping shaped around the cat, who was in turn sleeping in the curve of his arm, and on, and somehow under the loose fall of his hair. She was very pleased with herself, and had most of the blanket as well.
He was doomed, absolutely doomed… Between the cat, and Sterling, he was just… doomed, and he was actually okay with that.
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Posted: Mon Oct 05, 2020 7:48 pm
Solo - Some nights -
Sometimes he woke up feeling like he couldn’t breathe. The sensation of that, in truth, bothered him less than the cause. The fluttering panic that twitched and fluttered under the cage of his ribs like a captive bird, the claws of the predator it feared nothing more than the memories that clutched at him in the dark.
He lay there in the stillness, listening, finding familiar sounds, things that were growing soothing, like the small creak of Sterling shifting in his own bed, the frame, the soft ‘tap tap tap’ of Oreo, walking the halls.
Those sounds settled like a blanket over what he expected to hear and see but didn’t. No heavy footfalls making their measured way to his door. No play of colored lights against the faded curtains. No arguments barely muted by too thin walls and a a callous disregard of who heard.
Sometimes he still thought about foolish things, that he’d be returned like a dinner found to be distasteful, sent back to be ‘redone’ as though he could be reshaped into something more palatable. Still, he was, to say the least, an acquired taste—something set on their family plates like a bit of parsley and then put aside.
That was the good kind.
It made him irrationally angry at times to get those feelings here, in this house. He wanted the feelings to be gone, to be ‘reasonable.’ He wanted as well, to make his way upstairs, and find comfort in the proximity of someone he trusted. He thought, probably he could. They were ‘dating’ now, which seemed surreal. He could go, and he could ask for a kiss, ask to be held.
But he couldn’t make himself move. He would not call it paralysis. He didn’t want to admit that even in the silence that he waited at times for something terrible in the dark, but he couldn’t move.
He lay, staring into the dark till the shapes started to make sense, and then until they started to lose that definition again. He counted each breath of his own and then made himself listen to one sound above the others.
Sometimes, now, late at night, he could hear the sound of Sterling breathing. Not quite a snore, just a deeper breath. Soft exhales that made their way down through the grates in the floor. The vents were just holes in the floor with metal covers sunk into them. There, he caught it, the gentle breathing that he then tried to match his own breathing too. The very act made him concentrate on something other than his terrible imagination.
He managed to close his eyes and think then about how Sterling might look when sound asleep; the thought made him smile, someday, maybe one day he’d see for himself. But for tonight, there was a joy and a relief in wondering.
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Posted: Mon Oct 19, 2020 6:13 pm
His phone buzzed and he couldn’t answer it or even read it right away. Normally that didn’t bother him, but .... normally the only people who texted him had work related questions. He half assumed it was someone trying to see if he might pick up their shift. That’s what got him through the end of his shift honestly. If he’d read it earlier, he thought things would have gone very badly indeed . As it was he stepped into the side room where he would drop his jacket for the night to be washed and bleached before being starched to hell and back.
He glanced at the message, read it.... read it again.
He didn’t realize for a moment that he had stood frozen grinding his teeth together in a moment of something on the edge of a dark and blind rage.
He heard one of his co workers freeze just inside the door, staring at him. He turned to glance at them and must have looked dangerous because they stammered an apology and backed out.
He left quickly after that, pausing only to score as much garlic chicken and chocolate mouse as they’d let him before marching outside, bag over one wrist and trying hard to pretend to be calm.
He needed a moment - he couldn’t drive like this and it was too far to walk home with food and ...
He kicked the industrial dumpster as hard as he could, swearing. He followed up with a few more to the wall, because it was quieter and one punch that he wasn’t thinking about at all.
He swore again but it made him take a breath, murdering whatever b*****d caused Sterling to have a panic attack was not something he could do right now, also it was probably suspicious as hell. He swore again and yanked hands through his hair, ripping out the tie that held it twisted up with rather more hair than he had intended.
He hadn’t been there for Sterling, that was what hurt more than walls.
Garbage- human garbage.
He punched the wall again trying to shut the thoughts down before they gained any traction.
Home, he needed to go home and ...
Home and see Sterling because he had asked.
He had the garlic chicken, he could make a stop for chocolate milk and, and chocolate liqueur. He thought that might not be a bad idea tonight. He could think of what to do to the new neighbor, later.
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Posted: Tue Nov 17, 2020 12:11 pm
A Wretched Thing -- (captain level solo)
If he wasn’t already suspicious of Ilya, the fact he’d started smelling a strong scent of cinnamon coming from that house next door.
Every time he went out to try and clean the back yard, it would drift over the fence on even the smallest breeze, and he’d have an all too strong recollection of a hand pressing hard against his throat, one so strong he couldn’t shake it, couldn’t protect himself from the touch he hadn’t wanted and didn’t invite.
He’d really thought he could handle it, but to have it drifting in at random from Ilya’s house.
It added that smell to the chain of suspicion that suggested too strongly that the man, who had seemed so friendly at first, might be the same one who threw Priam off the rooftop.
Whatever he could do, to get Sterling back, that was the dreadful thought that kept creeping in.
If he was that cinnamon tossing b*****d on top of all that?
He heard the door creek next door, and he was retreating to the house before he really understood what he was doing, he couldn’t even bring himself to glance back over his shoulder. He just needed to getaway.
He wasn’t about to toss accusations without some kind of proof.
Cinnamon wasn’t enough, and worse, it was something tied to a side of his life that he couldn’t share, because it would just put Sterling and Priam at greater risk.
He was sure he was doing himself no favors in whatever impressions Ilya had already made of him, as someone who he had no doubt could access his records, things he thought would never be so close.
He carried the yard tools inside with him in his haste to be away. Leaning against the door and closing his eyes, sucking in lungfuls of air that didn’t have a flavor to them. He didn’t want to feel like he should run…
Like he should uproot again.
He had so much here that he actually -cared- about. His nails raked against the door like he could mark it and claim his territory.
He dropped the tools into the boot tray that had been left there, a dirty old thing that would do till he could clean them up so the sap wouldn’t make the sheers stick.
If only Ilya didn’t work where he did, if only he wasn’t the sort of person who would KNOW.
It wouldn’t be hard to draw back the curtains on everything Yu had done, all the things that just had to be on record for him. To tarnish whatever impressions that had Sterling still thinking he was wonderful. He locked the door behind him, head pounding, and made his way to his room. He checked the small closet and found the bag he had tucked there, it still had basics in it, he double-checked the pockets and while he felt terrible doing it, he felt a sort of safety knowing it was there. He’d have kept it in the car, but there was no good place to hide it.
He closed the closet door again and leaned his head against it.
Maybe he could pick up a shift at work, something to get him out of the house.
But… he could also just lock himself in and cook something ridiculous for dinner, some small sign that he was worth keeping around if things went utterly south. He just needed to prove himself, in ways he’d never really had this much reason to before. Especially since… he wasn’t needed. He loved Sterling, he thought he rather did Priam as well, that unexpected kindness and softness.
But that also meant that he wasn’t -needed.
Wretched, wretched feeling.
But…
It was better for everyone involved if he had to leave. If he HAD to leave, then at least Sterling wouldn’t be alone.
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Posted: Tue Nov 24, 2020 11:54 am
Please leave a message -
(Captain Level solo)
---
It wasn’t often that Yu got off work early; truth be told, the only reason that he’d probably been sent home was that there was a kitchen inspection today, and he’d turned and been smacked by a hot pan that a new hire had been carrying without saying a DAMN thing.
It burned badly enough to make a few blisters, and under the watchful eyes of the inspector, he hadn’t been able to swear it off and keep going. Overtime canceled, he went home, it was just by a few hours, and it made him a little glad, for all that his arm smarted something fierce, that he’d be able to go home and spend time with both Priam and Sterling together.
Or that was what he thought.
No one was home.
There wasn’t a note, but he hadn’t expected one since he wasn’t due home for a few hours yet. Maybe they were on a walk, something to give Priam some fresh air without the dogs' stress or excitability.
But…
They still weren’t home long after Priam would have passed his endurance for walks.
So he called them…
Voice mail… both of them.
That was when the worry started. What if something happened, what if something happened to both of them? Why weren’t they answering? Surely he must be listed as a contact for one of them, though if something happened… someone would call?
He wasn’t sure… couldn’t be sure.
He tried calling again, nothing… left a voice mail that he knew had the anxiety favoring the words, a brittle seasoning of fear and adrenaline that crept in at the edges.
The anxiety that brought with it new fodder for the whispers that sometimes crept through his head. The awful thoughts that slid in from nowhere and suggested horrible new pathways for his temper and fears, the whispers he at least half ignored because they were at least self-destructive, unlike his temper, which lashed outward like a cornered rat, snapping and clawing at the world.
//What if// That was the source of the whispers; that was the nature of the words. What if…
What if they talked to Ilya
What if they believed him
… What if
What if they decided that the two of them was really all they needed.
What if he was just there to cook, to rip up dying plants, and hammer things together with the collection of half-formed skills that he’d picked up out of need and desperation. Little fragments of ‘can do’ to get by, to be someone else for a little while.
What if they knew.
The last thought squeezed around his throat tight enough that he could swear he tasted cinnamon.
An hour…
An hour and a half…
And there was nothing, and no one but his thoughts and dead-end calls that hummed and clicked over to automated apologies that the party couldn’t be reached, pre-recorded clips of familiar voices asking him so politely and so kind to leave a message, that they’d get back to him…
Or that they’d return calls to strangers, but perhaps… just perhaps not him.
He found himself in his own room, the dilapidated mattress, the old sheets and faded pictures, a handful of library books with cracked and stabbing plastic covers to protect the well-abused bindings. Agitation crawling under his skin and driving a temptation to touch the burn, like the pain would ground him. Because at least then, it was a pain he could control.
He opened the closet door and found his bag well abused, a big battered black duffel that still stored half his clothes and considered, distantly, like it was someone else pondering if he had what he needed, what he should stash… what would raise the least flags if they asked him to leave and he needed to be gone.
It was not a good time of year for it… he wasn’t sure that would be a thing they thought of; their world was too distant from one where you ‘drifted’ and hoped.
Too many assumptions on what it was like, too many judgments passed if you were too clean, too dirty, too tall, too short, too scary, too soft…
Too much.
He was always too much.
Or too little.
Somehow he was always both, never enough, and too much all at once.
He heard them, boots on the step, and it was like falling back into his own skin and through it, grounded so sharply it felt like he was lost all over again. It felt like he was six or eight or maybe ten and swearing and fighting but helpless.
Home, familiar voices still felt like they promised home, but maybe home was starting to walk away…
He put on a smile, like a mask, and headed towards the door to laugh off his own messages. He wouldn’t be a burden. He’d try…
As long as he could, he’d try.
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Posted: Fri Dec 04, 2020 12:23 pm
The Darker Desires -
“You are a monster, a disgusting, vicious monster… I hope you die.”
The words stung, little razors that bit into his skin, clung to him like thorns or briars. Bee sting words that had poison in them. Perhaps, one or two times hearing them, they didn’t matter, but add them up over days…. over the years.
He’d found a quiet corner, lodged himself in out of view with the familiar need to take shelter. The elements didn’t bother him so much like this, not in uniform. But he felt it pressing in on him like a hand.
He was so tired…
He hadn’t been -that- angry in so long. He hadn’t let it go like that; perhaps he had never felt quite.. that angry. Not to someone who hadn’t hurt him physically.
The knight, the little angry, beautiful man, in his perfect, pristine clothing had hurt him… but not enough to justify what he had done. He’d wanted to snap that slender wrist, to hurt him. To hit him out of anger. At that moment, that awful… awful moment, he’d been no better than the people who had taken him in.
He wept… the sobs so strong they shook him where the shivers from the cold couldn’t reach. They grabbed his shoulders and rocked him, the stinging salt-stained wetness of grief and horror. He remembered what the other knight had said, that the chaos could twist you up, eat you from the inside. He hadn’t quite believed it….
Now he wasn’t sure, was it what he was? Or was it WHO he was, was the uniform just letting him act out his darkest impulses with the thought that he had no consequences.
But…
He still hated the a** in white; he hated him for his flash judgments, hated him for not listening. He hated the stranger in white, for being the sort of person he’d resented for the better part of his whole life. The kind that judged you like you weren’t trying to do better, like you were just down because you were last like you were out because you craved drugs more than food.
Like they could ever understand the need to escape.
He understood when people turned that way, but he wished that he could have done better by them. He wished… quite a lot of things.
He wasn’t sure if he could go back to the encounter if he wouldn’t do it again. If he wouldn’t grab and twist and wish that he heard that wet-dry snap of a twisting break. Like that action could punish everyone who’d ever laughed at him, struck him, kicked him…
Like everyone that ever hurt him for trying to be… young. Just one snap to weigh out again against the blows that too quickly killed that part of him.
But he knew even if he did go back, even if he did repeat it, he’d still regret it. He wanted to bury that anger; he wished he could.
He cried till he was exhausted, till he could face going home to people who would say things like ‘I love you.’ Because those words would tear too, the idea that he was deserving of love had taken blow after blow.
He told himself it didn’t matter if strangers wanted him to die. If they hated him if he was just a monster, just garbage. SomeTHING to be swatted away, to be struck and sent scurrying back into the dark corners of the world.
It didn’t matter, because they loved him. They LOVED him; he whispered the words over and over like he could convince himself it was true and was glad no one saw…
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Posted: Tue Dec 22, 2020 5:24 pm
Unfinished thoughts -
It was pinned under his windshield wiper, a fat white envelope with his name and nothing else on it.
It shouldn’t have been as terrifying as it was to see it, but somehow it was ominous like a parking ticket but…so much worse. He pushed a strand of hair back from his face, one that had fallen loose of the braid that he used to help keep it back while he was at work, and reached to take the envelope in hand.
It was heavy, and he gingerly ran his hands over it, cautious for tricks or pointed things that might be waiting for him to be careless.
Nothing, no stabs or cuts, just paper, heavy folds of paper stuffed into an envelope that barely wanted to contain the contents.
He opened it, pulling free the contents and unfolding them. He almost dropped them then, and there the second he realized what he was reading. His hands shook, and he crumpled them in his hand, staring around as though just by casting about, he could find the person who had left this here, left THESE here.
Of course, there was nothing, no one even, no strange sound to break the stillness, the quiet sounds of a half-sleeping city. He made himself look at them again, furiously sorting through the sheets as though he could find some sign, a name, a clue… nothing, nothing nothing just accusations and records and facts of horrible, horrible past deeds that …
That just proved he was dangerous and terrible.
Unfit for ‘human consumption’ as it were.
There was no name…
There was a note.
//By the time you receive this, your household will have received these as well. They will know what you are under all your lies. Did you ever follow up on the last home you left? //
There was something stapled there under that typed and printed note…
An obituary…
His heart hammered in his ears; he slid down to the damp pavement, the biting cold and soggy slush under him more secure than his legs for a moment.
The world had focused down on those papers and nothing more than that. <********…
Had he… if the old man had…
The obituary didn’t say more, but perhaps it wouldn’t. He leaned over to one side and purged the meager contents of his stomach. He hadn’t remembered to eat; he’d been so caught up with work, it worked marginally in his favor, leaving predominantly a taste of bile, bitter in his throat and burning. He snagged a handful of fresh fall off his car and stuffed it in his mouth to clear it, feeling dirty and all too ‘seen.’
The wind stung his cheeks, or it might have been the damp creeping down them. He wasn’t sure…
He made himself stand, leaning against the so well abused car door, and wrenched it open, fumbling a touch as he tried to work the handle. He slid into the seat, and the motions to start the car were at least so well practiced that he didn’t have to think much about it.
Except -
The engine didn’t turn. It made some new and horrible noise and then shuddered before thudding to a stop. Frustration overflowed; he slammed his hands over and over against the steering wheel, swearing and cursing and tears running down his face.
Why Why why why? The word running through his head over and over again. He hadn’t been ready. He might never have been ready. He wrapped arms around himself and cursed the cold that had crept in, here sitting in a metal and cloth box that wouldn’t even warm enough to chase away a hint of the cold.
He knew what he’d have to do…
There were really no choices left, it was the worst time of year, but he couldn’t…stay.
There were limits to love. He knew that -far- too well.
He wouldn’t let himself drag them down… he couldn’t let more tragedy fall on them, bad enough that there was no doubt he would be a source of sadness.
If they already had the note… He’d have to wait till they slept. He didn’t think they would change the locks that quickly. He could creep in when he was sure they were sleeping, grab his bag….
He’d leave a note; he owed Sterling that much, knowing what Ilya had done even if they knew him as a… thief in the knight, a brutal and dangerous person that they had let into their lives like a wild animal that would as by its very nature, eventually bite them.
He could stop and pull cash, just to have it. It wouldn’t due to have a debit card; better to hide cash where he could about his person.
If he was lucky, if he was so fortunate, there might be an opening at a shelter; he could stay warm there and clean.
The plans came too easily. Just a little time and he could find new…everything. Tuck himself back into the fringes of society where he wouldn’t stain them, wouldn’t hurt them or break their hearts anymore than the disappointment in his nature would.
He slid out of the car, closing and locking the door behind him.
It would be a walk, and it was cold. It would give him time to think.
—
He’d made the walk slowly, stopping only at a late-night shop to get himself a warm drink. Something to wrap his hands around and savor as he plotted out small things to leave in the least… messy way he could.
He could deliver the peace offering he’d made… Pet the animals one more time…
There was a weary ache in his bones; knowing it was late enough, he could probably not get a bed for the night. But that at least he might be able to creep back to his car. He knew the yard well enough that he found a place to stand and watch, waiting for the last of the lights to go out. He waited another hour and a half after he saw the last of them go out. He had a fair idea of how long it took before he’d normally hear their breathing even out to that soft, shallow ease, another half hour, just because he didn’t dare wake anyone, and then he crept onto the porch, pausing when a board crept under his heel.
His breath sounded so loud it seemed that they or the dogs must have heard him.
Nothing…
He unlocked the door and slipped inside. It was -so warm. It prickled his face, made his hands -hurt- for having been outside for so long. He went to his room first, gathered up the bag he’d never quite brought himself to unpack, not truly, and moved as carefully as he could to the kitchen. He had to set down a few of his things while he fumbled to find the paper and a pen. The soft rattle of things in the drawer made him pause again.
Nothing… Nothing… nothing, the click of dog toes across the floor as he wrote.
// I know you received a letter - I am so sorry. I never meant to lie to you about who I was or what I’ve done… //
A dog nose bumping against him, and he swept away a tear before he reached down to rub their ears.
//I didn’t want to leave you without a note, I know what I am, but I can’t…do that to you. I’ve already hurt you too much. I know what I need to do, even if it hurts to do it… //
He meant to say more.
I wanted to say … I love you, needed to say ‘I’m so sorry’…so many more times. I wanted to say ‘stay safe’…
But a light flicked on in the hall, and he had to go. He couldn’t face them… not now.
The idea of their faces, stunned and hurt and KNOWING.
He couldn’t let himself wait to be asked to leave, as tempting as it was to try and bring it to the point where they would have to drag him out, kicking and screaming because he loved them.
But the only sound was the pen rolling to the floor as he grabbed his bag and hurried away.
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Posted: Sun Dec 27, 2020 7:58 am
Words Can Hurt Me. -
He’d spent money on a few days at the cheapest hotel that he could find. It smelled of smoke and other things he’d rather not think of, he suspected Roaches were the most friendly of its occupants, but it was a bed, and it was warmer than most options he could think of.
It had seemed safe enough the first few nights, but that was before he’d been found.
Not by Priam or Sterling, he didn’t think.
Even if they had, he wasn’t sure he’d let himself believe it.
No…
Waking up from a sleep that felt positively drugged, the morning of the third day had been alarming enough… there was a note pinned to his chest.
“It will be you, or it will be them.” - the words simple enough…
But, the thing hanging in the closet hadn’t been.
He didn’t even know how to make that dreadful knot that had been so carefully prepared and strung around the bar of the closet, which had been opened for him to look at from the bed as soon as he managed to wake.
The idea of wondering how hadn’t even come to him as he stared at the rope in the closet, he’d just packed his things and abandoned the room as fast as he could. Forgetting that he’d had that little metal latch closed to prevent people from master keying their way in.
The reality of that didn’t hit home till after he’d checked into a new hotel as far as he could get from the last one. It looked much the same, garish carpets and outdated polyester ‘comforters’ that reeked of old tobacco and intimate liaisons.
He hoped he might have been safer there, and he had been… for a night.
He’d woken that morning with the same Drugged feel as before, and another note, more than that… the knife driven hilt deep beside him on the bed and his limbs duct-taped to the corners of the frame. He’d had to change to his uniform to pull himself free they had used so much tape. It took the skin with it, which wasn’t as terrifying perhaps as the new note…or the shallow cuts on his neck…. a little ‘X’ to the right of his Adam's apple, tracing a scar he thought many never considered.
The note this time had said.
“We will finish what you started. - Or we will make them smile.”
There had been yet a third note in the Bathroom when he rushed to clean and escape.
“One didn’t fly so well… but lived. It would be a shame if the next fire took them while they slept. Like you slept when I visited.”
He had to find answers.
He had to keep them safe…. if he could find who had done this maybe…
Maybe he could explain. He ripped the note down and added it to the other, stuffing it in his bag and running. It was what he was so good at after all…
Running and running and running. This time though - he meant to run towards an answer, instead of away from it all.
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Posted: Mon Dec 28, 2020 7:37 am
Wolves at the Door -
Returning to the Hospital was the easy part… slipping past people when they weren’t looking by acting like he belonged, sticking with family groups… not flawless, but he got it done. He looked tired enough that he fit. Just another soul drifting in the bleach scented corridors, that fine layer of chemical a thin blanket over the sickness they combatted here.
It was armed with a cup of vending machine coffee that he finally had the chance to slip into Sterling’s room. Priam had wandered out looking empty and exhausted, he’d seen it from an empty room across the hall, peering out from around the thin glass rectangle barred with mesh, and he’d taken his chance, darting across the hall and closing the door behind him.
Machines hummed and beeped in a steady rhythm; IV drips tap tap tapping out their steady feed of medicine and hope for recovery from a deep unconsciousness that he thought that the doctors could likely, never understand. Not unless they were part of this… war.
He rechecked the hall before closing his eyes and powering up. No witnesses, he prayed. No other powers felt… and in that he was lucky.
What else he prayed for was complicated. The desperate hope that he had not done this to Sterling, the terrible knowledge that he had. Praying then that please, please, please let him wake up. Please let this be something that he could fix even now.
He pulled out that small crystal that had lost so much luster the further he had gone from a man, a knight he had believed to be dead, and approached the bedside. It warmed in his hands, the light intensifying, pulsed like a small heart in his hands, and he gave a half-strangled sound of a sob.
A conflict of emotions and knowing and not knowing. Of things said and done. He’d hurt Sterling, in a desire to protect him, he’d been hurt in turn because Sterling hadn’t known it was him… thought he pushed Priam off the roof.
He gently pushed the crystal against Sterling’s chest, and it sank home, HOME because that was where it belonged. He clasped a hand over his mouth somewhere between panic and grief. Because now he KNEW. He’d been fighting Sterling this whole time and the things he’d heard about what to do with that knowledge.
He had to talk to Cavansite. He didn’t want to… but he had to.
For two reasons, one for Sterling, and what he had to do…. and two, because someone had been draining him and his friends. The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that he was being hunted by someone within the very ranks of the ‘organization’ that he’d been drawn into what seemed like so very short a time ago, and simultaneously seemed an eternity past.
He heard feet in the hallway, drifting towards the door, and with a final glance, a squeeze of Sterling’s hand, praying for forgiveness he didn’t deserve, he vanished, on his way to the Dark Kingdom.
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