InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "meow kitty"

Cole Evans {Ichabod Crane} (blackcatsrbad) wrote in bellumlogs,
@ 2010-01-15 16:00:00

Entry tags:

ichabod crane, plot: memories

Who: Cole
What: Other people's memories.
Where: 802
When: The afternoon after the Landlord's post.
Warnings: TBA.

Cole had no idea what the Landlord meant with that post of his, aside from informing the building that two more people had died. He didn't want to know what they would be finding out in the next few days, and he decided he wasn't going to find out. No, he was staying inside his apartment until he was sure whatever it was either wasn't going to happen or was already over. He was fairly confident in the fact that he would be safe there - from ghosts, at least - and any more solid intruders would have an English teacher wielding a baseball bat to deal with.

He checked his computer for updates, found none, and decided to make himself some coffee. He took a seat on the couch, choosing to re-read Frankenstein because it was the closest book to him, and settled in for what he thought would be a pretty uneventful evening.

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takingsides
2010-01-15 11:53 pm UTC (link)

You're getting tired of listening to the guy across the counter babble. He's saying things, and they're in English, but you're not listening, because none of them are what you want to hear. You're watching the sweat bead on his receding hairline, and you're watching his eyes dart to the security camera he's got in the corner of his store, and you know he's just trying to stall until the police come because he doesn't know you're the police.

You're not actually there on police business, so you don't want him to know that, and finally he waves a hand at you. Watching it go by in slow motion, you decide you're tired of waiting for this guy to tell you what it is you want to know, so you catch it. You dig your fingers under his knuckles and you pull his first finger back against his hand with your thumb, easy as anything, and the guy dips down onto his knees because if he doesn't, you'll snap his finger like a pencil.

"What time does he come in?"

"I told you, I dunno the guy you're--"

More pressure. The guy wails. Most men think they'll never wail, but this guy, he wails. He grabs your arm with his other hand. You let go, but only long enough to free your wrist easily from his grasp by pulling it through the separation of his thumb and fingers--a vital weakpoint in a one-hand grip. This time when you take his hand, yours goes over the back of his, and you pull his thumb back toward his wrist.

He tells you when Tommy Giancoma comes in his for his morning coffee. You smile. You let go. On the way out, you pick up a breakfast bar, and you think, Tommy's getting sloppy.

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blackcatsrbad
2010-01-16 04:20 am UTC (link)

Somehow he ended up on the floor, staring up at something white and peeling - the ceiling, he realized, once the scene had faded away into nothing.

"Fuck," he hissed, scrambling to his feet. What the hell was that? Cole had no idea what he'd just seen, since he didn't recognize the man across the counter and he knew he'd never done anything like that to anyone. Who was... Tommy Giancoma, anyway? Why was he seeing it as if--

His train of thought stopped abruptly. Oh God, had he just had a vision - could that be what it was? Of the past, or maybe the future? Whatever it was, it was the most unsettling thing he'd ever experienced, and he hoped to God or whoever else might be listening that it didn't happen again.

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ex_sepulchre370
2010-01-16 12:59 am UTC (link)

College, your final year, and you're in orchestra. You can smell the wood polish from the violin at your shoulder, and you're impossibly happy. You're not very good with the bow in your hand, and you know it, but you're confident enough not to really care, and you pull it off somehow. You usually manage to pull things off somehow.

Three seats down, the First Chair is staring at you, moon-eyed. He thinks you haven't realized it, but you have. It's impossible not to, seeing as he does nothing but look at you when you're in the same room. His name is Sam, you know, because you asked your roommate. She thinks he's sexy in a geeky way. You tell her that he's too clean cut, that he won't be able to traumatize your parents in any useful way. And you both laugh.

The door is immediately visible from your line of vision. For a brief, brief second, someone looks in who has nothing to do with music. He has a book in his hands (probably Frankenstein, which he tried reading you the day before), and he has glasses and dark hair and eyes so smart you think he can see into your soul. He definitely won't be able to traumatize your parents in any useful way. He smiles at you, and you point your bow at him and miss your notes completely. His name is Charles.

And you're impossibly happy.

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blackcatsrbad
2010-01-16 04:35 am UTC (link)

Cole thought it was over, that the first one was the last, and he'd just picked up Frankenstein when the next one hit.

This time he didn't end up on the floor, but when it was over he was momentarily disoriented. His apartment seemed unfamiliar as he tried to memorize what he'd seen - Sam. He knew Sam, but it wasn't his memory. He didn't know who Charles was, either, but he kind of reminded him of... well, himself.

He looked down at the book beside him. Frankenstein.

Cole threw the book across the room and grabbed his coat. He couldn't stay inside anymore.

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newprometheus
2010-01-16 02:54 am UTC (link)

The movers are going to be there tomorrow.

You're looking at a piece of machinery that you must have made, because you feel a strange pride thrumming in you as you look at it. Even now, even after everything. It's still yours, this thing you've put your life's blood into.

The metal is blue-white, and it looks like something used to scan the body for disease. Wide strips of metal arc over it, four of them in all, but otherwise it's uncovered. There's a great deal of wiring behind the panels in the base, and you trace it in your mind as your hand falls on its cool, smooth expanse. You can see a distorted reflection of yourself, scattered, dark curls the only thing that's really clear, set around a pale face smudged by the angle of the reflection.

Then you snatch your hand back. No, it's over. This is one thing you won't be taking with you. Other emotions, held back by the momentary trance, lurch back in. Despair, grief, misery, guilt, regret, stinging and painful.

You feel like you're choking, trying not to cry as you go for a sledgehammer leaning against the wall. It's heavy, and you're not very strong--it's hard for you to lift it, but then you bring it down--

You think of your sister.

The sledgehammer hits the floor, narrowly missing your foot. You wrap your fingers around one of those wide arcs of metal and bite your lip hard enough to turn it white, caught by indecision, by knowing what you ought to do to this thing, and the physical pain it would cause you to destroy your dream made reality in perfect, smooth, blue-white metal.

And you know, in that moment, that you are not as good a person as you thought you were.

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blackcatsrbad
2010-01-16 04:40 am UTC (link)

Halfway down the stairs, he just managed to grab the railing before his surroundings vanished and another memory took its place. He'd stopped thinking of them as visions, but for some reason he was seeing things and feeling emotions that belonged to other people.

This one was just as unfamiliar as the others. The machine was practically alien to him, something he'd never seen before, but he wondered why emotions like guilt and regret were associated with it by someone.

What was the machine, and what could it do? What had it already done?

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backoff
2010-01-16 03:52 am UTC (link)

You're watching the guy that just introduced himself as Mr. Evans, sizing him up, getting a feel for who he is and how he feels things. You like the way the table feels: someone who enjoys food sits at it, and that's always a good sign. The apartment feels okay, too: it has the air of being lived in, of being comfortable, even if there's a sense that it's not quite home. You're being sure to play it cool and make sure this Evans guy doesn't know how scared you are that he's going to reach out and touch you, not because you're scared he's mean or a pervert or anything, but you just don't like knowing what a person's soul feels like unless you know what you're getting into. He seems okay, though; he's sort of nervy, and you like that about him, just like you liked him the first time you sat in his classroom, because he's got a lot of good will that comes out of him when he talks about lame literature stuff, and you like good will, it reminds you of dad. He offers you cookies, and the cookies feel like somebody motherly touched them, and you love that feeling, even when it's a little stale like this, since no one ever feels that about you. You take one. It tastes okay, but the emotion feels better. You're half-listening to him as he talks about books, but mostly you enjoy your second cookie and your third, and finally he stops talking and you get your chance to make the bid about paying for the lessons.

You desperately don't want Shiloh to pay for anything you need, because he earns the money by letting awful people touch him and that scares the hell out of you. So you're going to make this guy give you something to do so you can pay for it. It's not super smart, but it's something. You got the other tutor to go for it, and you're pretty sure you can convince the nervy earnest nice guy to do the same. You like him.

You miss your dad. You wish he wasn't dead.

The memory fades.

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blackcatsrbad
2010-01-16 05:09 am UTC (link)

Not even the bitter winter chill could block out the memories, and it seemed no matter where he went they found him anyway.

He was in this one, and it was beyond strange to be looking at himself, even if it was through the eyes of another. Cole had never felt such strong emotions, although the fact that whoever this memory belonged to liked him was slightly cheering.

Shiloh. He knew that name, and once it was over he found he could focus much easier. Wasn't he Aaron's guardian? Could it have been Aaron's memory he'd seen?

He thought it was sad, that feeling of missing his - Aaron's - father. Cole never had a father to miss, but now he knew what it would have felt like if he did.

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metrogingham
2010-01-16 06:53 am UTC (link)

You're seven. You just woke up, the dust ruffle making you sneeze. It's high pitched and you wrinkle your nose.

You've been hiding under your bed for a week now. It was understandable, and no one in the family faulted you for it. Everyone was probably still downstairs. Well, someone. You didn't know exactly, only that a peanut butter and jam sandwich has been appearing on chipped blue plates in front of you, the empty ones taken away just as mysteriously.

Today, you think, it's time to get up. You can't hide forever. So you gently push aside the plate and shimmy toward the light. Sniffling, you rub your eyes and then try to wipe off the dust bunnies off your sheep pajama pants. You take one good hard look in the mirror and cringe at your red rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks. Your hair could use a good comb through as well. You look terrible, and you want nothing more than to hide back under the bed where nothing bad ever happened and you could escape, just for one moment longer.

But you remind yourself that your momma and daddy didn't raise you to be a quitter and crybaby, and gosh darn it, you weren't gonna start now. So with determination, you pick up your sandwich and plate, and head downstairs.

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blackcatsrbad
2010-01-16 07:09 am UTC (link)

Cole doesn't mind this memory so much, even though once it's over he's left with a lingering sense of sadness. He wonders why the girl was hiding under her bed and what she was trying to hide from.

When he was a kid and his classmates became too cruel, he would hide behind a big tree that grew in the corner of the playground. At home he'd hide among his books, even once creating a fort constructed solely of hardcovers.

He also wondered if she'd ever managed to cope with whatever it was that had driven her under the bed in the first place.

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thatsjustright
2010-01-20 04:44 pm UTC (link)

This is a relatively short memory, but it is dense with emotion. There is skin, sliding against skin, slick from sweat and warm. The skin contrasts with the roughness of bedsheets, wrinkled and pulled out from underneath the mattress, lumping up underneath arching bodies from the movements made by long, lean limbs.

You feel ecstatic--you feel in love and high and there are lips on your neck trailing down, down down past your rib cage and running across your bellybutton to your hip bone, licking and nipping with tongue and teeth, following with fingers that touch softly but are rough in feel. The sounds that fill the air are soft, natural, hanging in the warm summer night air like dust floating in a beam of sunlight coming in through a crack in a wall. There's a mirror across from the bed, and you turn your head slightly, see yourself in it, see the open window and night sky and trees outside and think how perfect this is, how you will never forget it.

Then the tongue reaches between your thighs, and you're arching your back, clutching the bedsheets, gasping and moaning and sliding your hand up to tangle with curly brown hair, to dig into the soft pale skin of the man's neck, his muscled, broad shoulders. His hands press your hips down back onto the bed, not in a harsh way but instead, quite lovingly. He is licking and there are fingers sliding and then a profound sense of pleasure washes over you and you are shaking, twisting against the sheets underneath you, biting down on your lower lip and clutching the curly brown hair under your fingers before the memory fades away.

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blackcatsrbad
2010-01-20 08:41 pm UTC (link)

Holy shit.

This memory wasn't entirely unfamiliar - he'd had sex before - but it wasn't like this. He knew right away that it wasn't his memory, partly because of the sensations but mostly because of the reflection in the mirror. As far as Cole knew, he wasn't a blonde girl.

He felt everything she did, which was more than a little disturbing for more than one reason, but despite that it wasn't one of the worst memories he'd experienced. This was one of those things you tried so hard to remember, even if things went to hell afterward, because for one moment it felt like everything was perfect. He wondered what happened after the memory faded, with the girl and her boyfriend or whoever he was.

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