Eoin Costigan (sg_eoin) wrote in supergleerpg, @ 2011-11-05 19:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | !type: narrative, !type: text, !type: thread, -2011: november, character: gracie hewitt, character: quinn fabray, former character: eoin costigan, ~complete |
Narrative/Text: Eoin goes apeshit
Who: Eoin and a whole host of NPCs.
Where: Rick's Gym, mostly
When: Saturday 5th, afternoon
What: Eoin's powers reveal themselves in spectacular fashion
Warnings: Language, and I guess violence, although mostly implied and against inanimate objects? Also, kind of long.
If it was this hard facing Da's birthday, what the hell was it going to be like facing the day he'd died? It was a heavy thought, and a dull, sawing pain in Eoin's chest. Anniversaries were hard in Ireland, when the pain had been rawer and fresher, but at least then he'd been able to spend it with his family, in the places his da had loved. This time last year, they'd left flowers on the beach for him.
Eoin had bought flowers this year, too, out of some sense of duty. They'd lain on the table while he and Uncle Brendan had cracked open a bottle of Guinness each and toasted Eamon Costigan, and they'd been left there, petals already starting to wilt a little around the edges, when Brendan and Eoin had headed out to the bar.
But the air in the pub had been stuffy, oppressive. Too much. Everything was too much. He wanted to cry and scream and punch things and just let it all out; he wanted to be angry, be upset, be open for once in his fucking life. But he couldn't just let it out, could he? If he started crying, so would Brendan. The guy had lost his brother, after all. And if he let himself be angry, somewhere like that, somewhere public, where the all-day drunks would probably be up for a fight... that Costigan madness was still swirling in the pit of his stomach, swelling, waiting to rise up any time he let himself be angry. So he couldn't be angry. He couldn't. He didn't know what it was, making that insane rage bubble under his skin, but he'd heard stories of the kind of anger his family could have. They'd killed people.
He could kill people.
The air had seemed thicker than ever when he'd thought that. The anger fed off his misery, and his misery off his anger. He missed home. He missed his family. He missed his da.
They'd been taken away from him. All of them had been taken away. By the army, by the banks and the businesses whose fuck-ups had led Eamon into the army in the first place, by Ellie, by Ted, by the whole fucking world and, most of all, by him. Eoin fucking Costigan himself.
He'd finished his drink and left the bar, not drunk but close to it, as it started to turn to evening. Brendan let him go; grief, they both knew, was a private thing. And Eoin had wandered around Lima, vague and confused, with his eyes red with not-quite-crying and his cheeks red with the cold. But that anger, futile and all-consuming, was growing in him, and walking around wasn't going to clear his head nearly enough. What he needed was an outlet.
Which was how he ended up at the gym, maybe half an hour from closing time. He hadn't changed, just shoved his shirt up to the elbows and taken off his tie; who gave a shit if it got sweaty and ruined, anyway? Lifted a few weights, just in case that would help; it did nothing. Nothing did anything, did it? Jesus Christ, what the fuck had he thought he was playing at? Hadn't he known this would happen from the moment he decided to leave Ireland? What the hell had he expected, to just leave all the anger and the pain behind? Well, he hadn't. All he'd left behind was how to cope.
He shoved the weights back on the rack, harder than was necessary, and strode over to the nearest punchbag. He was getting funny looks, from staff as well as customers; he didn't give a shit. Why the hell should he care? Why the hell should they care? He was sick of needing to always think what other people thought, sick of walking on eggshells, sick of always watching what he said and what he did... just now, they could fucking suck it up and let him get on with it. Fuck what people thought... fuck what he thought... fuck everything that had happened... fuck, fuck, fuck!
That was his last conscious thought before it all came boiling out of him, the pain and the fear and the fucking impossible, uncontrollable thing which had been lurking at the back of his mind, that anger, that power...
When he came back to himself, God only knew how long afterwards, it was with a dizzy, sick feeling, his heart thudding wildly. His knuckles were bleeding, he realised slowly, in a detached kind of way, and then, slowly, as the rest of the world started to seep back in around the edges, how the hell are my knuckles the only thing bleeding?
The gym was empty, except for him, and he didn't blame them for leaving, because the place looked like a tornado had hit it. The windows, all but one, were broken, the wall cracked, equipment scattered across the floor and the street outside. Several ceiling tiles had been knocked down, above where the punchbag had been - had been, because now there was only the chain which had held it in place; the punchbag itself lay, thoroughly destroyed, against the wall. In the rapidly-approaching distance, he could hear sirens.
His knees were shaking. For a moment, he had to collapse onto all fours, his stomach heaving and his head whirling. Already, he was starting to ache, the sullen, steady ache of pulled muscles.
Oh, God. This wasn't just Costigan madness. This couldn't be just Costigan madness.
Oh, God...
With a shallow, choked sob, as the flashing lights of the police cars started to become visible down the street, he shoved himself to his feet and, blindly, wildly, he ran.
[Texts, sent a few minutes later:]
To: Quinn F.
From: Eoin
so I have a power and shitty doesn't start to cover it your rainstorms kind of look tame
To: Gothperson
From: Eoin
help