InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "I knew Crazy Eddie."

Samuel Jessop (newprometheus) wrote in bellumlogs,
@ 2010-01-15 22:58:00

Entry tags:

plot: memories

Who: Sam
What: Memory post
Where: P5
When: Just after the Landlord's post.
Warnings: N/A

Sam was sitting at the kitchen table with a ripped open digital camera in front of him. Tinkering with electronics often took his mind off of the piece of machinery he generally wished he was still tinkering with, and was a welcome distraction. He had a pair of goggles on for safety and magnification, and had a tiny screwdriver buried in the camera's workings, delicately pulling out a screw that was holding a microchip in place. His mind was totally in his work, absorbed to the point of forgetting everything else, which was good. That was the point, after all.

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labete
2010-01-16 05:13 am UTC (link)

Jude is across the table and she's talking to you like she knows you, cigarette in one hand. You know what she is, and she's familiar to you the way gunfire is familiar to soldiers on the battlefield. She's pushing at you, pushing because she knows what you are and why you are and she thinks it's funny that you're suffering the same way she has suffered, and maybe does suffer.

You know she's lonely, even though she hides it so well. You know she's lonely because she hides it well. You banter with her a little while. She's smart, sexy, aggressive, and you find the game to be familiar the same way she is even if you met her only a little while ago.

To you, she is transparent. You feel sorry for her. You even like her, even when she's a bitch, and even when she's tearing at you to find out how you tick. You get up from the table to leave when she gets too close and you can't hide it anymore, but you glance back at her face, and the pity wells up behind your own depression. Strange that you all end up the same...

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newprometheus
2010-01-16 05:25 am UTC (link)

When Sam came out of the vision he was leaned back in the chair, the heels of his palms pressed against his closed eyelids.

What the hell.

He took deep breaths.

He'd seen Jude. Jude alive, not Jude dead, not Jude alive-dead, unless she was, he didn't know.

But he hadn't been himself. That had been someone else, someone he didn't think he knew--but how could you possibly know if you were someone else who you were? He was getting a headache.

He finally dropped his hands to the table, staring at his former project without seeing it. Was he going totally nuts? It had felt so real, though, so like a true memory or experience, with emotion and everything.

And Jude had been in it. And he'd thought she was lonely, sad. Was she? Had she been? The fact that he honestly had no idea just escalated his panic further for some reason, and he got up, walking into the main room of the penthouse.

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stringthetrail
2010-01-16 05:49 am UTC (link)

You're nine years old. Everything is white, metallic and bland. If you didn't know any better, you'd say it was heaven but your mom told you it wasn't real. Maybe you're in hell. But then your head and sides start throbbing something fierce and then you remember.

You're in a hospital. There's wires and tubes and already you don't want to be here. You just want to go home. If it was still there. Through the viewing window, you can see a man in a white coat and a man in a blue uniform discussing things, occasionally glancing over at you, which you don't like. You hear big words you don't understand, like "concussion" and "fracture" and "custody."

The man in the blue uniform knocks before entering. He's an officer. "Hey kid," he starts, apparently trying to be friendly, "How are you feeling?"

You don't look at him and you don't answer, because you don't know how you feel. It's and odd vacuous space threatening to fill you up until it carries you away to somewhere else. It's what you had to become in order to just live. Thriving wasn't an option. He likens it to the feeling his arm gets when he falls asleep on it, just before the prickly sensation rushes in. There's never the latter, only the former. To the officer's question, you shrug.

You hear a sigh and look at him. "It's gonna be okay Robert, I can promise you that. Everything is going to be okay," and with that he tried to carefully pat your head. You flinch. He stops and retracts his hand. Leaving, you're alone once again. Sliding further onto your back, you opt to sleep and wait for you mom and step-dad to pick you up. Inside the empty space, you remember a song that was played so many times on the stereo that your dad liked so much. You fall asleep with Georgia on My Mind.

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newprometheus
2010-01-17 07:04 am UTC (link)

Sam had just made it into the living room when another memory hit. When he came to he was on the floor, head propped awkwardly against the edge of a discarded bottle.

He'd been young, and in the hospital. Robert? Where had he heard that name before? ...That guy from the forums, who'd been talking about music.

It was like a memory. Exactly like one, in fact. He'd been there, empty of emotion and stuck in the hospital bed, and it was immediately apparent that this was not the same person from the memory he'd seen before.

What the hell was going on?

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blackcatsrbad
2010-01-16 05:51 am UTC (link)

You're on a boat in late evening, surrounded by warmth that comes from more than just the sweater you're wearing. A thick book is on your lap, open to Poe's The Black Cat, which you've just finished reading. The woman sitting on the couch beside you enjoyed it and she says so, telling you that you might just make a reader out of her after all.

She's different but you like her anyway, even though you're not sure what kind of like it is just yet. She makes you feel like an awkward teenager all over again, but at the same time she can make you feel the complete opposite.

Things are going well, you think, until something goes wrong. Suddenly her expression changes, turns blank and confused, and she calls you Charles. You're about to tell her that you don't know who that is when she gasps and doubles over like she's about to be sick. Panic and confusion compete to become the stronger emotion as you stare at her, unsure of what to do. You ask her if she's okay - Jude? What happened? - but she barely even looks at you.

Once you get back to the docks she leaves you on the boat in the darkness, and you have no idea what happened but you know it was bad and you know it was probably your fault. Hopelessness rises with the darkness to swallow you whole until there's nothing left.

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newprometheus
2010-01-17 07:15 am UTC (link)

His panic was only getting worse when the third memory hit. This time he managed to grab the wall before he fell again, blinded by the strength of the image.

He was talking, reading from a book. He didn't recognize the story, but spotted the title and the author at the top of the page. Poe. Matched with that voice, and he could only be one person in this memory.

He'd know Cole's voice anywhere, even from inside his head. And up until he turned to the woman beside him, that was what he was focused on--he'd seen something from two people he didn't know, and one person he did, making this only more confusing.

But there--Jude.

This definitely wasn't Jude Then. This was the same Jude from the other memory, Jude the way he remembered seeing her laying on ice in his lab. Pale, older than she'd been when he knew her in college. Recent, this was very recent.

When the memory faded the hopelessness remained.

Jude was here, somewhere, still in the city.

And she was very unwell.

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ex_sepulchre370
2010-01-16 07:23 pm UTC (link)

You sit up.

Panicked.

Confused.

Scared.

It's freezing, and you're on a park bench, and when you look down you don't recognize the cheap clothes on your body or the even cheaper shoes on your feet; they hurt when you stand up, because they aren't even the right size.

How did you get here?

You know, even through the panic and fear and everything else, that it wasn't a wild night or a crazed party. You left that all behind when you found Charles and warmth and happiness.

You press your hand to your forehead, and you try to remember what you last remember. The Townhouse, and waiting for Charles to get home from work. After that, there's nothing.

More panic.

More fear.

Your body moves, almost on its own and without any help from you, and you find yourself in front of the window of a store across from the park. You see your reflection, and you look pale as death, and your skin feels just as cold. For a moment you think you aren't breathing, and you can't see a pulse at your neck. You panic again.

But then you breathe and your heart beats.

You blame the coldness of the park and the park bench, even though something inside you tells you that it's something more, something else. Vague memories of pain and falling and unadulterated fear course through you, and your knees buckle, and you have to hold onto the glass in front of you to stay upright.

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newprometheus
2010-01-17 07:19 am UTC (link)

Sam locked his door. He went into the bedroom and laid face down on his bed, trying very hard not to hyperventilate.

It was like all of his fears were coming true in succession of one another. He knew that dress, those ill-fitting shoes, that face, that settled chest that didn't breathe the way it should.

The panic was crushing, mingled with fear and regret and utter helplessness. He'd hoped against hope that Jude had gone home to her fiance and that she was fine, happy, given a second chance to finish out her life cut short far too young. But she didn't seem fine, not at all. She seemed miserable and sick and it was his fault, his.

He squeezed his eyes shut very, very tight and tried not to scream.

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