Matt Murdock (blindlawyer) wrote in incompletedata, @ 2017-10-06 00:47:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | marvel: mcu: matt murdock |
Who: Matt Murdock (& open to anyone in Alpha)
What: Being a complete spaz the morning after
Where: Alpha
When: Day 12
His entire ordeal in the arena had only lasted for less than two weeks, but when Matthew jolted awake in the recovery ward gasping for air, his senses came flooding back in and he felt like very much like he’d been buried under a ton of old bricks, trying to claw himself out of the rubble and dust clouds. The instincts kicked in within less than a second and Matt was scrambling out of the bed like it was trying to swallow his legs. The blindingly hot smell and taste of hospital grade bleach in the air made his eyes water and facial hair that hadn’t been tended to in a couple of weeks felt like they were coarse enough to shower his chin and neck gratuitously with papercuts. The bassline of multiple heartbeats pumping away at different speeds in the vicinity drowned out the muffled background noises coming from beeping machinery, the TVs outside the ward and the people crowded around them talking, the constant buzz of electronic communication devices. “Get off me,” he exclaimed, distraught and confused, getting his legs entangled in the blanket whilst trying to kick it away. The fibres felt like a wire brush digging deep into his exposed skin, gouging into his shins and calves like meat hooks burrowed deep into his muscles. He could feel every single speck of dust - the invisible, normally unnoticeable kind that danced under the sunlight - tickling his nose when he breathed. His own racing heartbeat was echoing thunderously in his skull. Having everything abruptly taken away and then dumped back onto him all at once was proving too much for him to bear. Matt wasn’t sure how it happened. How whatever got him here happened. Couldn’t remember much. Didn’t even know if any of it was real. There had been a moment - an all too brief moment where colour came back into his new world of neverending black - and he thought he’d been a world away from here at the time, with grains of dirt getting into the lines on his palms and the sound of grass blades rustling in the howling wind tunnel created by cold cave walls. He didn’t know where he was, who these other heartbeats belonged to, whether he was alive or dead or something in between. He just knew that he wasn’t where he was before, but with his world set alight all he could sense was indecipherable red and grey smudges on his ivory black canvas. He had spent over twenty years learning how to perfect painting the world around him with watercolour, and now someone had come along and shoved him into the ocean. Defined red lines were blurred streaks all around him and he couldn’t make out any words in the discordant voices. Everything was too loud, too bright, too hot, too intense. Finally he achieved some small measure of success when he clumsily collapsed onto the floor with a loud thud, and it was only then he could free his legs from the violent, relentless blanket hanging half off the edge of the bed. He scared himself when his back collided loudly against the wall, cold and rough like the jagged rocks he’d made his bed next to over the past week and a half. He could hear and feel his bones shifting, clicking and popping into once-familiar configurations, protesting against his panicked flurry of uncoordinated movement. Whimpering and visibly upset, Matthew was in a sorry state, sitting on the floor curled up against the wall while his mind screamed ‘I DON’T LIKE THIS I don’t like this I don’t like this I don’t like this I don’t like this’ over and over and over again. One cold hand covered his ear while the other reached over behind his shoulder to tug blindly at his shirt collar, wanting to get rid of what felt like a t-shirt made out of 100% steel wool threatening to file down his scar tissue to level out against the rest of his taut skin with every move he made. Even the shirt tag felt like a swarm of termites gnawing on the back of his neck. Until he could regain control of- well, anything, it didn’t seem as if Matthew cared at all how veritably, unquestionably, certifiably insane he looked or sounded right now. If he wasn’t blind he would probably be screaming at his own shadow. “Stop- don’t- what is this- get it off me get it off me.” |