harlow is a motherfucking monster (monsterrmash) wrote in immune_ic, @ 2012-05-09 01:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2012 [05] may |
WHO: Finn and Harlow
WHAT: Phineas Tango does not appreciate trespassers
WHERE: Finn's growing scrapyard, Sing Sing
WHEN: May 8, 2019
RATING: Medium
STATUS: In progress
There was only one thing Harlow could see when he walked around Sing Sing: walls. Vast, sprawling stretches of unmarred wall space, varying textures of cement and brick, endless slabs of virgin concrete. The whole place was an untouched canvas, and Harlow was practically vibrating out of his skin just looking at it all. There was just one problem-- he was feeling far more destructive than creative.
Seeing Adelaide in quarantine had been difficult, despite how composed he had remained while there. Once he was out? He wanted to scream. He wanted to smash his fists against those bare walls until his bones scraped the concrete, he wanted to throw his body against the ground to try to slam the frustrated anguish out of it. It hurt him more than he had anticipated to see Adelaide locked up in that cell, waiting to die. He had known it would be rough, but he really hadn't been fully prepared for it. Her whole family would die with her, Harlow knew that after spending only a few minutes with them in the cell with her. There was too much love there. There was no way those two men could go on if she was gone. It broke his heart to think of Adelaide slipping away, and to think of what would be left of the two men whose worlds seemed to revolve around her entirely.
It made his own memories sharp in his mind, too. The hurt he felt over his loss was constant, always lurking beneath the surface like a circling shark. It was liveable most of the time, an ache he'd learned to bear. But sometimes the anguish sank its teeth in deep, bit down into his heart and didn't let go. Memories would flood him, hitting him in disjointed waves, glimpses that made up a whole. All he had now was a Frankenstein's monster version of the boy he had loved, flashes of him that never quite seemed whole. A memory of the way he'd smelled one night after they'd been burning a campfire for hours. A memory of the way his skin tasted with rain water on it. A catch of the corner of his smile, the few times Harlow ever saw it. A wispy sort of recollection of what it felt like to knot his fingers in his hair when they wrestled on the ground. There were more concrete memories-- Harlow remembered so many things-- but those little catches were always what hit him hardest.
And now? Now he just wanted to fuck something up.
The restless, heartbroken rage he felt needed an outlet, and after an hour of wandering, he found it. He came upon what looked like trash to him, piled up in the southwest corner of the prison grounds near one of the perimeter buildings. It was all scrap, slabs of metal and mechanical parts. Harlow was sure it was there for a reason, but he didn't really care what that reason was. His head dizzy with frustration and hurt, he took up a crowbar he found amongst the junk and started to swing. He slammed the crowbar into a truck hood, denting it, tearing through the metal, beating it until it warped and shredded. He smashed hunks of engine, strips of aluminum piping, shattered hubcaps. He crashed the crowbar against anything he could find, anything he could break. If it wouldn't give, he kept hitting until it did. He wanted to break everything in sight. He wanted to destroy it all.