Shane Marion (wolfishane) wrote in bellumlogs, @ 2009-12-11 00:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | big bad wolf |
Who: Shane (closed, narrative)
What: Shane doesn't react well to stress.
Where: 104
When: Just after the anon meme.
Warnings: Some mild self-harm.
Boyd had slept with someone else.
Shane didn't know this as a fact. He knew it was a guess, a guess fostered by anonymous chatter. There was no proof, nothing to back it up, and it could easily have been lies. But the idea of it, just the idea, so fast on the heels of his conversation with her, was too much. She'd been terse and angry. She had every right to be. And he had no claim on her, not after the way he'd treated her.
He was thinking about R1 and how likely it was that it had really happened, considering the man never left his apartment. Rational thought dissolved swiftly. He felt sure for no reason that it must be true, and no amount of logic disputing the minute amount of evidence could halt the roaring in his ears. His fury twisted in his chest like a live thing, barbed and lithe.
Everything in him wanted to go somewhere, do something about this. Go find Boyd, go up to R1--but neither of those were options.
If this was any other day, he would have already been out the door by now, pounding the pavement, looking for a target to receive the runoff of his coiled frustration, leaving him settled and able to think. But he was bound to this bed, unable, even, to get up the stairs.
That didn't stop the wanting, the desperate need to go find R1. He wasn't sure what he'd do when he came face to face with him. Kill him, maybe. With that came the nagging thought that, more important than removing this challenger, he ought to go see Boyd. Rescind everything. Make it clear in no uncertain terms who she belonged with.
He was leaned over the bed, resting forward on his hands, trying not to retch, shaking. He had no idea where these urges thrumming in his blood had come from.
He couldn't go upstairs. Not to Boyd, not to R1. All the logical, sane reasons aside, there were also the physical. He wasn't sure he could even make it up the stairs, let alone confront R1, without ripping his stitches open and bleeding to death. The cold reality of the situation did nothing at all to calm him. When he reached for his usual control, always accessible even when it wasn't easy to wield, it simply wasn't there. His hands twitched, and he thought about throwing the covers off, about going to the foot of the stairs. He imagined pounding up them, all twelve flights to the roof, and in this vision there was no pain in his side.
He looked down at the wound in his stomach, healing but still bright, and he dug his thumbnail in between the stitches.
The pain made him bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He did it again, harder, raking his nail along the length of the wound. He made a small, choked noise, almost inaudible, and doubled over. The stitches didn't break, but a little blood welled up between them stark against his skin, blossoming on the comforter where it touched.
There, though. Quiet. The need for immediate violence had disappeared, pushed down by the need for the pain to go away. He'd just needed a reminder that, even if he wanted to, even if he was willing to indulge this insanity, he wasn't physically capable of going upstairs--and that was that.