Doors Masquerade (doorsmasquerade) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-03-27 23:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | plot: masquerade |
Who: Puppet Strings -> ???
What: A reveal.
Where: Passages Hotel -> home
When: Immediately following the masquerade.
Warnings/Rating: None
After his companion had taken her leave, the puppet had found a place to sit, wooden limbs falling still as he settled on the bench, watching with a blank, even expression as the rest of the party went on with him as an observer, quite the way he wished to be. There was enough to think about, what with the stranger and the woman with the wings, and he had no taste for further excitement that evening. The sun would rise soon, and hopefully, bring an end to all that had happened that night.
As the sun peeked over the horizon, the puppet who sat in the foyer started to change. Wooden skin started to soften, loosing the sheen of varnish in place of something more dewy and lifelike. It happened slowly and brought no pain for the man in question, though as the moments ticked by and the real world replaced that of the masquerade, he felt a certain heaviness settle over him. Reaching up, he rubbed at his shoulder, shifting and pulling aside the collar of his shirt to reveal the fresh scar etched into his skin, pink and raised like an recent wound now healed. It was tender, itching, and he could tell at a glance that it was there to stay, a mark that he would carry for the rest of his days. He could still remember the stranger's knife as it carved into his skin, could remember the phantom pain that pulsed and throbbed.
The party should have been avoided, he thought as he tugged the collar of his shirt back in place, fingers brushing that sore spot once more, his lips pursed in something like disgust. Nothing good came of these sort of events, nothing to write home about or remember fondly. And now, as the sun rose, all he felt was tired, disgusted with himself.
It was an effort to get up to his feet, his stance unsteady, a hand shooting out to balance himself against the nearest wall, one hand fumbling in his pocket for his cell phone. There was no way in bloody hell that he was going to attempt to walk home. He'd call a cab, eat the fare, if only for a moment of peace and ease in the face of everything else that had happened. Stumbling out of the hotel and onto the city street, he pressed his back against the wall outside, listening to the phone ring before the cab company thought to answer. "I need a cab," he stated, giving the the address before he shoved his phone back in his pocket, forehead beaded with sweat with the small amount of exertion it had taken to even get himself outside amid the crowd of partygoers that were recovering and making their own way out. He avoided meeting gazes, going so far as to turn his back on the door, arms folded over his chest in a distinct 'leave me alone' sort of posture. It was as he stood there that his fingers worked up over his bicep, his expression forming into something akin to disgust as he felt the grooves left behind, the shallow depressions from where the knife-wielding stranger had carved bits and pieces of him away. It made his stomach churn, roll over, and it was all he could do to keep himself from simply throwing up all over the walk. The cab had perfect timing, it seemed, pulling up moments later. Covering his mouth with the back of his hand, he limped over to the cab and slid into the back seat, ignoring anyone else who looked to want to share, having no mind for pleasantries or the awkwardness of sharing a cab with someone he either disliked or did not know in the slightest.
Giving the address, he settled back for the ride, watching the city pass by, quiet in its early morning slumber. He must have fallen asleep, for he arrived sooner than he thought possible. Paying the cabbie with a few bills that he found in his pocket, he limped out and made his way to his ground floor unit. Keys were fumbled with, lights ignored, and he made his way to his bedroom to simply collapse upon the covers, face down. It had been more than he expected, more than he cared to deal with. So Micah would hide away for a while until he felt brave enough to look at the world once more. Raw feelings and raw skin needed time to recover.