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Nov. 23rd, 2014 07:58 pm[He feels like a very large hand squeezed into a too-small glove, like when he stretches he can feel the seaming of his skin stretch with him, like all too soon he will burst. It's all somatic and he knows it; he's fine, he's been reassured of that. So fine that he doesn't even remember it happening, or where his soul went after it was eaten, which really - isn't that better than the alternative? He doesn't want to remember the metaphysical gullet of a shattered star. He doesn't want to know why his mind feels fractured, or what could have happened in his absence from himself to make that happen.]
[Except if he knew, then at least he would have that measure of control. Would not be walking blindly through his days without any comprehension of where he's been or what he's been through. There's great power in knowledge, power that he's being denied.]
[So sick of being denied.]
[He spends a restless hour in the chapel, because he thinks maybe he has brushed shoulders with God or the Devil and he might as well acknowledge the fact. The closest he can get to prayer is a copy of The Cask of Amontillado, which he reads in the back pew, although it's less reading than reciting from memory in his head, he knows it that well. The longer he stays, the more he reads, the angrier he looks, until in the end he flees and leaves his assorted works on the pew. Brick by brick he's trapped more surely; he won't reinforce it with words, not today.]
[A while in the art room, then, not doing anything precisely but looking at what other people have done. There are charcoal works hanging on the walls that remind him of Emma, whose work he never saw, but heard of. She had talent, so much talent. It's too bad they never saw eye to eye.]
[He'll pick up a pencil and start to sketch if anyone looks at him funny, but he has no incredible or even average skill. Everything he draws comes out lopsided and a little strange, and anyway, it all tends towards mouths today, great and wide and dark human mouths with fat hungry tongues. Soon enough he stops, his brows drawn tight, and vacates the room.]
[It's not so long after this that he begins hovering outside the pub, waiting for a likely warden to let him in. He can't decide, as he leans against the doorframe, whether he wants it to be someone he knows well who can distract him, or someone he doesn't know at all who will leave him alone. There are merits to any kind of self-medication, and truth be told he doesn't know what he needs right now.]
( horatio. )
( c'rizz )
[Except if he knew, then at least he would have that measure of control. Would not be walking blindly through his days without any comprehension of where he's been or what he's been through. There's great power in knowledge, power that he's being denied.]
[So sick of being denied.]
[He spends a restless hour in the chapel, because he thinks maybe he has brushed shoulders with God or the Devil and he might as well acknowledge the fact. The closest he can get to prayer is a copy of The Cask of Amontillado, which he reads in the back pew, although it's less reading than reciting from memory in his head, he knows it that well. The longer he stays, the more he reads, the angrier he looks, until in the end he flees and leaves his assorted works on the pew. Brick by brick he's trapped more surely; he won't reinforce it with words, not today.]
[A while in the art room, then, not doing anything precisely but looking at what other people have done. There are charcoal works hanging on the walls that remind him of Emma, whose work he never saw, but heard of. She had talent, so much talent. It's too bad they never saw eye to eye.]
[He'll pick up a pencil and start to sketch if anyone looks at him funny, but he has no incredible or even average skill. Everything he draws comes out lopsided and a little strange, and anyway, it all tends towards mouths today, great and wide and dark human mouths with fat hungry tongues. Soon enough he stops, his brows drawn tight, and vacates the room.]
[It's not so long after this that he begins hovering outside the pub, waiting for a likely warden to let him in. He can't decide, as he leans against the doorframe, whether he wants it to be someone he knows well who can distract him, or someone he doesn't know at all who will leave him alone. There are merits to any kind of self-medication, and truth be told he doesn't know what he needs right now.]
( horatio. )
( c'rizz )
