ʀɪᴄʜɪᴇ (beepbeep) wrote in evaluation, @ 2020-01-12 08:29:00 |
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He just needed like, fifteen minutes. Just a little catnap. Something to help take the edge off the guilt he felt for not trying to trigger a vision sooner and something to give him a charge because right now? His brain was running on about five-percent battery. Usually he was in some sort of state where his physical body needed to rest and yet his mind continued charging on, a way to burn the anxiety right out, thoughts clanging and banging like ping-pong balls back and forth, but at least at this very moment it seemed both were equally tired. There were extra blankets down in the basement, Richie knew that for a fact. While the storm continued to surge outside he headed for the spot where most of the supplies were squirreled away, bleary-eyed and unshaven (his five o'clock shadow was looking, well, pretty damn shadowy), finding a nest to build where he could just let his mind become a blank slate for a few minutes - he'd gotten better at meditative practices, using them in conjunction with scrying, but he didn't want to scry now. He just wanted to sleep. Unfortunately, it seemed as if the hot garbage fire that was his mind had other plans. As soon as he closed his eyes, it was like that mind of his slipped on a goddamn orange peel and fell right into another vision, ass over feet and fuck, he was just tired - But he had no control over it. His eyes flooded with white fog, erasing the look of pupils and ice-blue irises, and he landed smack dab in the middle of the study in the haunted house that was the first room. And Jesus, it seemed like so long ago - months and months, when it was merely weeks. Yet so much had happened since then. It looked the same - the oak writing desk, the cracking and dead plants, the hoarder trinkets and pieces of art covered with nearly impenetrable layers of dust - and it felt the same; he was there, fingers curled around the fire poker he'd once toted as a weapon. In front of him was Reginald Carstairs, holding the same chalice from before - the way it played out, Richie swung the fire poker and the apparition disappeared, lost diary page dropping to the floor in Carstairs' wake, but now it was like he was frozen. He stopped before he swung. Because ol' Reggie didn't look as menacing as he once had. He looked fucking terrified. Then, after unceremoniously being yanked from that vision, Richie bolted up again - so much for sleep, fuck each and every aspect of his life. Though as he scratched fingers over a bristly cheek, he realized that he'd seen the haunted house before in a past vision, back in Schitt's Creek. Now here it was again, the past as a window to the future - that seemed confusing as fuck, and he didn't have time to parse it all out. Later. Once they'd all survived the storm, a potential volcano, and whatever else lay ahead. |