Mason (![]() ![]() @ 2011-06-21 01:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, mason halloran |
WHO: Mason Halloran [POPPET] with cameo by Jacques DuFaux [ANGER ISSUE]
WHAT: Something's been bothering Mason ever since that trip to Hell and it's starting to get worse.
WHEN: Backdated to Sunday afternoon, but covers the last few weeks as well.
RATING: PG-13.
It's left him on edge, anxious and irritable. Granted, he hadn't been in the running for Miss Congeniality even before this, but now? Now he can barely make it through class without mouthing off, his tirades about doing something absolutely goddamned awful to Robin are becoming more and more frequent and something dark and violent twists up in his gut every time he sees his roommate. He's still the same Klaus, insane and bright and obnoxiously fucking chipper and Mason's almost used to that but then he sees the boy sleeping. Peaceful and passed out after whiling the night away on his perverted little pictures or sprawled out for days on end completely carefree and it makes Mason want to break every bone in his body, because it's like Klaus is just rubbing his face in it.
He hasn't had a full, peaceful night's sleep in weeks now. Whenever he lays down, waiting in the dark, a low fear creeps up his body slow and crawling as his gaze drawn to the end of the bed feeling like the moment he closes his eyes it'll be there. Something dark and hideous, twisted and snarling. Whatever it is that he swears has been following him finally taking form, ready to strike him down.
It sneaks its way into his dreams when he finally weakens, exhausted enough to slip into a few hours of fitful sleep. Once over-amorous hands twist and tear, ripping him at the seams and slowly pulling him out piece by piece. He hangs on hooks, limp and lifeless. Bound at the wrists and ankles, strings pull him into dances and pratfalls as he struggles to fight it. Echoes and whispers mocking him throughout.
And when he wakes up, wary and fraught with worry, the whispers follow him still. Barely there, quiet and crafty as they sneak up on him.
Freak. Monster. Rag-a-doll. Broken little toy. Send it back.
Too proud, too stubborn and too damn sure that he'd just be laughed at to ask for help, he tries to tough it out. He drinks like a fish. He snaps, cruel and vicious, taking sick satisfaction when he actually offends someone. And he takes his sleep in bursts, wherever and whenever he can find time and space that feels safe enough to risk closing his eyes. Hallways, the lounge, even the quad.
It comes to a head on Sunday. The nightmare's vivid; smoke and fire and his skin singeing away, inch by inch and when he's shaken awake, he panics, fear gripping him tight. It's a blurred mess of noise and pain and violently lurching movement before he even realises what's going on. That he's gone and stabbed Jacques of all people. Angry and scared, he snaps and swears as he stomps off, fleeing the scene with a glare and a snarled curse for anyone who gets in his way.
He sits on his bed for hours after that, anger and confusion and all kinds of things he can't even begin to name hammering through him and twisting him up. His fingers shake as he replies to each text from Jacques, his eyes watery and bleary as he tries to focus on the screen. But finally things start to calm, his breathing slows, the twitches work their way out of his muscles and he starts to feel something close to peace.
Poor little Doll...
They speak as one. A chorus of voices creeping out of shadows, slow and deliberate with their words. Mason freezes, afraid to even breathe as they carry on,
We will unmake you, worry not. Stitch by stitch and then you'll suffer no more, just you wait...
Once he's sure that they've stopped, that they're gone, he launches himself onto the floor, scrambling underneath his bed. He's upended half his stash before he finally pulls the brilliant green bottle free, wrenching the cap off quickly.
If he can't find peace, if he can't get sleep, then a drunken stupor will have to do.