InsaneJournal

Who: Shane (closed, narrative)
What: Oh, you know. Fun and games. Aka emoface Shane.
Where: 601
When: Post-Boydgate
Warnings: Sad?



Somewhere in the middle of talking to Boyd, and Daniel, and Rosalie, and Vaughn, trying to figure out what had happened, what had gone so wrong, Shane gave up.

Whatever he'd done to push Boyd over the edge, she didn't want anything more to do with him. And unless Vaughn was lying, this wasn't something he could shift the blame for. Boyd was cutting all of them off, starting fresh without them.

He'd thought things had been getting better. And what had she said, about being less hateful? She'd said all the things she knew would hurt him most, apparently that desperate to cut him off.

It kept the spark of suspicion alive, but struggling. Maybe it was all paranoia. He didn't want to believe that she didn't want him anymore because he'd been so hopeful. Things had seemed better, finally moving in a brighter direction for a change. And now this, so out of the blue, so sudden.

She didn't want him. And whether she was sleeping with someone else or not, that was what really mattered. Who did he have without her? Approximately no one. Acquaintances, passing relationships. Even the people he knew better didn't really know him the way she did. If this was it, could he really expect anyone to come after her? He'd been lucky, incredibly so, and somehow, he'd fucked it up.

Unless, of course, it was all an act. Unless Vaughn was lying, or the Giancoma were pulling her strings for some unforeseen reason. Unless, unless. Every time he doubted it, he felt guiltier and guiltier. He was acting like a stalker, the ex who didn't know when to give up and just respect what she wanted. But not many people were in such volatile situations as they were, with as many enemies as they had. Manipulation, here, was a real possibility.

Unless. Unless he was being paranoid.

He paced around the apartment after shutting his computer down, nails tucked against the base of his palms, nail beds itching madly. Every time he thought about Boyd, about losing her again to some mystery, about not getting to see her or touch her or kiss her, claws dug a little further into his palms, and he thought about how easy it would be to find some lowlife somewhere, something to release him from the maddening circuit of thought, dull the pain a little. He would think about killing, and he would stop, think about Boyd, think about all he owed her, think about the fact that she no longer cared, and think about killing. And around and around.

The clamor was insane, rattling around inside his head. He wanted it to stop. He wanted to not think.

Finally, he gave up, gave in, and just let it wash over him and take him where ever it wished. There were black and white pinpricks behind his eyes, shut tight. He felt his body twist and crack, and it was a distraction, something to cut his thoughts off, pull them to a standstill.

He shook himself, ear cocked to the ceiling, listening to see if anyone had responded to the pained shouts he'd been unable to choke off. He was somehow unsurprised to find himself a wolf when he made it to his feet. Things seemed quieter, simpler, easier to understand. Maybe this was it. Maybe impotent frustration and jagged misery reduced him to his natural state. He was a wolf--one of the many reasons why he was no good for Boyd. She deserved better than someone built to tear things apart.

For his part, however, he was tired. The shift was tiring, and he'd been drained long before that point. All the lights in the apartment were off, and he still went for the darkest place. He slunk underneath the bed, where it was warm and quiet, and curled up on the carpet.

He didn't know whether or not he would wake up a man. He no longer particularly cared.