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 Posted: Sat Dec 20, 2014 12:30 am
as empty as that beating drum
Weeks and weeks and weeks from now, there is a night where he puts the pen to the page and freezes.
Think. What was it again, what were you going to write? Lift the pen. Consider. There are two words at the top, PERSONNEL FILES, not in perfect typescript but your own handwriting, written no less than seven times on separate labels to compare which looks best. People would mock him for the needless action if they knew (they wouldn't understand the need for threes or sevens that he has never had to reveal until the numbers started cropping up too much, that he has never had to wonder about because his mother's and grandmother's superstitions are not supposed to be his own), but the reality is that perfection did not happen the first time.
Think. (Seven legacies, seven kingdoms, seven colors.) Personnel. Too abstract a word? Too formal? Is that even possible for you? (Sevens in triple, now that's ingenious.) What about a different word: comrade? the ******** is this, Russian history? co-workers? perhaps, but still lacking, requiring more faith invested, doesn't it? friends? did actual friends write files about friends in some misguided if earnest attempt to understand them better? ******** no. (Getting too cluttered, too noisy, too--come on now, think of a third one--) So you can be friends in practice (friends he stresses, just as he used to emphasize acquaintances, as if one couldn't possibly hope for more) but not on paper? What exactly does that mean? It means you're being ******** stupid is what. Now what were you supposed to be filling in again?
Think. The pen touches the page again.
Silence.
He actually snorts at how easy it is to shut everything up. Pen up, chaos. Pen down, nothing. He wonders if this is how a writer feels. No, can't be. They write from the heart; he doesn't. He writes from the mind, from this supposedly unbiased perch far above everyone else because he knows better. But if that's the case, then why can't he write a damn thing?
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Posted: Sat Dec 20, 2014 12:30 am
i'll be home for
She comes back from her patrol in the Arctic base and sees the note after locking the door behind her. With tired eyes she scans it over after blindly searching for the light switch: Called on a mission. Be back in a few days. Stay safe. Love you. The words float like noodles in her soupy mind as she sheds her icy layers one by one, punctuated by occasional soft cracks of frost peeling form her clothes.
She knows what they mean, distantly. It means the bed will be cold tonight and there won't be tea brewing in the morning, but she's used to it; she's had a little over two years to understand the demands of the job. What once used to terrify her (separation, incapable of helping, the very word mission) now is glumly and grimly accepted as her reality. It doesn't stop her from her usual smiling attitude, but there isn't a point when there's no-one to smile at. So she allows herself to sag just a little in selfish disappointment that she's come back to an empty house, even though she knows it's not his fault at all.
It will be okay, she tells herself. It's gonna be just for a few days. Use the time to prep for his birthday. The idea makes her smile a little to herself.
But for now, Gale is out. The kids need a cuddle. Tink needs to be fed. A hot shower is in order. After she pulls her boots off, she finds her slippers, yawns, and bustles about the small apartment like a dutiful mother, her socks barely making a sound against the floor.
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Posted: Mon Dec 22, 2014 12:33 am
can you hear my heart
It feels good to have something in his hands. The busier he makes himself, the less he has to think beyond the peripheral: the feel of the handle of the broom, the sound it makes as he brushes the porch, the smell of window washers. Work is one of the few things that can swallow his nervous attention, which is why he puts such a whole-hearted effort into whatever he does: he is doomed to mess something up in the future, so he must start making amends for it in the here and now to weigh against those mistakes. He has to prove he is a Good Boy every day, just in case someone decides that maybe he isn't. Silence is a frightening thing, but loneliness is far, far worse--and that is all that awaits him when he returns to his room in the dungeon.
So he treats his visits to America's house with as much reverence as they deserve. While she leaves on too many missions for him to understand the need for (partially glad he doesn't have to worry yet and partially horrified because he realizes one day he will), he does his best to make sure nothing looks out of place before she gets back. When she's there, he aims to be as little a presence as possible in spite of his stature: he listens more than he speaks and ambles in her wake like a faithful dog waiting to be told what to do; only when it gets too quiet does he try to be more active, because he knows as well as she does what a lack of sound feels like in a big house. He bobs his head eagerly at Abbi when they work a shift in the infirmary because she always has something interesting to say about something else and he needs to learn. He spams Chris with texts during work and sometimes pretends he's Instagram and sends pictures of his food because moonbros. He waves if he sees Chance, too nervous to confirm that they're even acquaintances let alone friends because one fight doesn't seem enough, and he offers skittish smiles at Lydia but quickly shuffles on his way in case that Mountain Man happens to be nearby again.
He is afraid of reaching out for something that isn't there but even more afraid of being dismissed for trying; thus he clings to what he does have shamelessly.
He puts himself to work harder. Pipes cannot tell you yes or no if you talk to them. Infirmary work makes him light-headed but making someone hurt less means someone's day is a little better (even if the sight of blood makes him somewhat faint). A toilet can be full of s**t but the reward of a clean flush makes him smile. Things shine. Things smell clean. He can say that they're because of him, they are things he makes right. He doesn't have to think about the boat or the blood, the sound of red and the smell of screaming, the humid air he can barely breathe without drowning in. He doesn't have to think about the way Chel eyes him, the feral glimmer on the beach and the bed-lit eyes he chose to turn down, the ease and confidence of her hands. Or the smile: an actual Smile where the scar above her eye wrinkles away for just a moment.
He doesn't have to think about any of it, but he inevitably does no matter how hard he works.
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Posted: Mon Dec 22, 2014 1:21 am
let the good times roll
She lounges on her bed, now two whole mattresses off the floor with decently thick blankets and not just one pillow but several, and it's both sad and funny that these are improvements. Such is life in the basement.
There's a whole world beyond the base where zombies can be made and horsemen run rampant and Fear lives not just as an abstract concept but as a literal source of energy--but she doesn't care. She considers bothering Cee through texts after taking advantage of Tuesday Night's sweet palace of a bathroom. (A text is sent; she expects an answer within twenty minutes.) She thinks about going up to visit Evan's and wonders if she'll catch him in the act with another woman again, or if he'll be out and she can slink in and have it all to herself. She thinks about visiting Gale and remembers that he's moved out and now lives not across the way but a mere two floors above with a girl she still wasn't sure about. She remembers the sundry list of groceries she needs to get that she's been putting off, and now with the holiday rush everywhere it will probably be next to impossible to get it all done before Christmas. Wine. Wine will probably have to be scratched off at this point, damn. Perhaps she needs to take up Taym's suggestion about the peaches as well...
It isn't that she chooses to ignore her reality now that she's at Deus. She simply doesn't let it stop her from acting as she wants to. The world has always been a scary place, but the only thing that frightens her today is the idea that everywhere she looks will be out of her favorite Pinot Noirs and Rieslings, forcing her to look to cheap wine coolers instead.
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Posted: Tue Dec 23, 2014 1:08 am
listen to the music
Feel Good Music is the best way for him to vent: instead of nervously tapping his foot away as he sits on the ground--he remembers how it used to annoy people in school, how he had to be careful if he wore a jacket because the zipper jiggled even louder if he let his foot tap, how he sometimes got little stares from people who didn't understand he wasn't purposefully trying to distract them and in fact that it was one of the few ways for him to actually pay attention--instead of that
mark their necks from the jaws set the center lines to keep things in proportion where's that gouge wide he thinks the grain might be too tough to fight against with just a knife wide gouge it is
it bounces to the upbeat music playlist that can't possibly bother anyone. Lynyrd Skynyrd. The Doobie Brothers. The Rolling Stones. Creedence Clearwater Revival (he used to mix them up, used to say Creedwater Clearance Revival, and still sometimes he accidentally does). He can even recite all of the lyrics to "American Pie". (He can remember an astounding amount of things gleaned through the peripheral or through repetition, by making his mouth form the same words and creating a sort of muscle memory.) Recite, though, not sing. He's never been good for music besides appreciating it in his Tapafootian way.
round the neck define the face switch to the carving knife now details details muzzles and eye sockets make a stop cut along the perimeter and shave
That was Lori's domain anyway, music and lyrics. And what channel the television was on, and the best spot on the couch, and whether he had gotten enough on her good side to gain entrance to the matriarch's palace. (Maychirk she pronounced it, better than princess or queen and lots more fancy sounding.) Nine years old and his niece already knew what she was going to do in life: graduate college with a bachelor's in veterinarianism (or as she called it, vetrinarinarinarinariiiism), marry one of the Kardashian grandkids if they stayed rich, and get her the bestest ride money could buy: horses of course, not cars or bikes or boats or planes. Well, maybe one private jet plane; horses couldn't cover everything.
round the eyes to make them pop carve the hooves remember the tuft they always have a tuft of fur at the back wait wait too small use the detail knife better careful leg stop shaking thank you
You shouldn't keep doing this to yourself.
He knows. But he barely survived Thanksgiving, why should Christmas be easier? Why can't he be allowed to remember the good times if he's stuck in a place that seems to be all about the bad?
Because I know what you're thinking of doing, cub. It's against the rules for a reason.
His mouth twists
now to add the individual details special marks that will make them Gifts and not just machine made don't screw it up now concentrate think of who these are for
but he doesn't argue. His silent stubbornness speaks for itself. He knows what he's done, he knows he owes them all an explanation beyond just the newspaper heading detailing the grisly deaths in the Amazon. The Graces took him in of their own volition; repaying them with blood feels as sacrilege and blasphemous to him as an upside-down cross. And the more he thinks about it, the less he can handle simply bunkering down at Deus and pretending he doesn't owe them more than just one life's worth of gratitude.
Five minutes. That's all he asks. Just five minutes with one of them to give them something more than just grief, to in fact give them just a sliver of Hope.
now for the twigs there's got to be some appropriate ones near the jungle get up fatass it's time to go a'huntin'
Wouldn't that be the best kind of Christmas Gift?
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Posted: Wed Dec 31, 2014 11:20 pm
going viral
Zombies. Paranoia. Red eye. Merlin. He lies awake in the cot with itching bandages and tingling burns and eyes wide open as he remembers. Nobody is safe. Everyone is infected and he only has one vial of anti-virus.
He sucks on the candy cane like a pacifier.
Just one. Finn is bitten. Ripley is exposed to an unknown liquid. Chel is at the mercy of an all-powerful being. Peyton, Leslie, America, and others are infected with red eye. And everyone, everyone at the base when the outbreak occurred...the hallucinations had to be connected. He saw patients with them. He sees them himself. Sometimes they are serpentine with sunken faces, or faces twisting with demonic delight, or a weightless loss of control that jerks him awake painfully with a cry, or sometimes there is just a formless noise pressing down on his body peeling away layers until he is forced to see what and who he is, but that is the least of them all. He wishes he remembers those nightmares. Maybe they could give him a better direction than the one he is heading in now. But all he remembers is teeth and copper and cold air and the earth slipping beneath him and visions of death over and over and over.
His only comfort is that he wakes up every time before the process completes--that every time no matter what, he will wake up to the true waking nightmare that is his life. It is for that very reason that he chose it, after all: a life of intrigue, constant risk, and exploration. Of challenges.
But he wishes he had more than one solution on hand. He will admit it to no-one, but he's scared of what will happen when (when) it all comes to a head. Nobody is safe. Nobody is ever safe. And nobody also means him. (Isn't that what he always wanted?)
He examines the new candy cane shiv with a critical eye and then hides it under his pillow before attempting sleep. It will have to do until he can retrieve his runic knife.
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Posted: Wed Jan 14, 2015 12:10 am
but what of the wretched hollow? (tw self harm)
(take it in. breathe.)
What will you tell the boy with the blackened hand?
(The man now, the man, remember?)
What will you tell him when he returns (because he will, because he must), what will you say?
The question lingers like one of many ghosts over you and that means you're just like him: No matter how different you are now you are remarkably similar, because you both know the past is more painful to let go than it is to remember.
(She lies awake at night thinking maybe
turning
maybe it's better to give in sometimes
tossing
maybe it's okay because
stare and stare and weep at the emptiness in the ceiling
some things are required to hurt
if it doesn't hurt then she doesn't feel anything at all and it's so much worse than any pain.)
That is what he taught you before, that is just one more common thread binding you to Jack, the one who watched like a lazy cat, like it was nothing, nothing, at the mission briefing, who didn't so much as approach you afterwards, who acknowledged you enough to remind you that this shouldn't be. You think the silence is worse than anything else. Even without communication, even with just one look, he still has a modicum of power over you and that shouldn't be either.
But what can you do? The man you love is away. The man you once cared for is too close. The people you call your family would see you for what you are if you explained (something worse than weak, something dirtier and more subservient, the glimpse of the thing your brothers saw when you offered to be beaten for the sake of Tuck's love). Your skin crawls with the marks of your guilt still, the quiet but palpable reminders roving underneath. You can still feel them regardless of whether or not Gale's arms are around you; there's no escape aside from what you're forbidden to do and what you refuse to do, and there's certainly no escape from the moths you can't vomit out. (She's tried, she's had plenty of attempts.)
A shaky exhale, smoke obscuring the sob.
(stop. consider.)
So what will you tell them?
Will you tell them that the days you go through without heaviness in your steps are almost equaled by the number of days spent staying in your room? That the better days are not victories but the space in front of a revolving door? That the sacrifice of life isn't worth yours, the moral betrayal to yourself isn't worth suffering from, your company a pointless affair because you should have died? It doesn't matter if the horseman manages not to get its claws in you anymore, there is a taint of sin in your soul you can't escape even without considering the bugs infesting her body. Or maybe it isn't sin at all, maybe it's something crueler: not the truth that you would always sacrifice someone if it meant saving more, but the results of it, the agonizing hours of the aftermath, the martyrdom that always accompanies a difficult decision. You want to be pitied, you long to be told it's okay, and you know now that that's exactly what you'll get if you spin it the right way--if you show them just how much you hate yourself to fish for that sympathy.
(She longs to do it some hours. On the nights she can't sleep she mulls over it for timeless moments and Thane always has to sharply reprimand her. Remember the boil. And she does. On the worst of worst nights she does and she feels resentment rise like bile in her throat even though she knows it's wrong.)
When you hold the runic knife to your skin, you can hear them as clear as day. Sometimes you take your time and you listen to them all: your brothers' firm threats, your younger sister's impassioned arguments, your cousin's quiet pleads, your mentor's fierce objections, your father's critical deconstruction, your employer's silent judgment. You can hear him say, I can't live without you, and you can hear her say, I'm lonely here, waiting for you, and your hand shakes and scrapes against the shield Thane stubbornly tries to reinforce against this bleak madness.
But if there is a lesson you've learned at Deus, it is this: all things give in eventually. Your willpower is subject to this and so is your shield.
It isn't a fever dream. The knife is real, the cut is real, the blood is real, the rush is real. Bugs and pus don't froth from the wound, but for just a moment you forget the shame. For just a moment all there is to you is a few seconds' worth of relief, throbbing gently with your heartbeat. You let the knife go and press your hand against the spot and stitch your lips shut and close your eyes and that's it. Just one and you feel better, so much better than with a cigarette. But the high will drop, and it does, and you have to wonder if one really is enough. If three will be enough. If anything will ever be enough.
So you sit on your bed and smoke and gaze at the wound that shines in moonlight, and you're forced again to circle back to that damn question: what will you tell them?
I'm nothing. That's a lie.
I don't know what to do. That's what we're here for, to figure it out.
I can't do this. Just go to sleep, you'll feel better.
I can still hear her. It wasn't your fault.
But it was. It wasn't anyone's.
I killed him. You did.
I killed them both. If that's what you have to tell yourself to feel important.
I can't keep doing this. Then don't. Stop.
But I can't.
I can't.
I can't.
I'm so ******** weak and I don't want to.
I'm still alive and I have to be punished.
The knife is back in your hands, and you're welcomed by the chorus of voices you've learned to appreciate but shut out.
And why is that? Thane is distant and cold, anger and disappointment solidified and cooled into the make of his bones. You give him the same simple answer every time.
Because that's the least I deserve. Because it isn't dying and therefore no-one can get mad at you for it. Because it's easy. Because it stills the ghosts and lets you breathe a little more. Because you need it, God help you but you need something.
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