Malcolm Reynolds (accordingtoplan) wrote in indarkness_logs, @ 2010-09-23 21:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2032 09, malcolm reynolds |
RP: Emo Mal is Emo
Characters: Malcolm Reynolds
Time/Date: Evening, September 23
Location: His room
Warnings/Rating: None
Summary: Mal is emo.
Status: Probably... closed.
He'd closed and closed his windows and doors, and turned on all the lights just to be aware of when the Dementers were nearby and when they weren't. He wasn't honestly sure if it was helping anything or not. Sure, his mood would get worse as the light flickered, and then he had an excuse, but... what about when the power was steady? Who could he blame then?
He had no concept of time. The world swirled around him and sometimes it just went black and dark, and it wasn't always because the lights went out. He felt small, helpless... useless without his ammo, not that it mattered because these things couldn't be shot, and that just cycled him right back into uselessness. He couldn't help Jaime, because he was too far gone his own self. He had a crew here, but wasn't able to really be a Captain, and his purpose was slowly dwindling. He'd tried to keep himself busy, but who was he fooling? Take away his ol' junkyard of a spaceship and you were left with a man who by all accounts really should have died in the war, but didn't, because he's a lucky sonoabitch.
"We are just too pretty for God to let us die."
"You died, Mr. Reynolds. If you die, I can't hurt you anymore."
"Mal. Guy killed me Mal. He killed me with a sword, how weird is that?"
"When I talk about belief, why do you always assume I'm talking about God?"
"I'm a leaf on the wind..."
In a sudden fit of rage and desperation, Mal whipped his Blackberry that he'd been clutching in his hand across the room, enjoying the brief satisfaction of it shattering into a million pieces. But the satisfaction passed. It always seemed to pass, leaving behind this empty void of unfulfilled promises, secrets he wasn't able to keep, lives he wasn't able to save because he was useless and he'd tried to carry the weight of having lost that battle for so long and now it was consuming him. He could feel a dull throbbing pain in his foot, which had probably increased since yesterday - glancing down at it he wondered if he was imagining that he could see red from having knocked a stitch open, or imagining that the dull throb was punctuated only by his breathing, which was getting harder and harder to do. In fact, he didn't know why he hadn't just... stopped breathing altogether. Who was gaining anything from his continuing to drink up all the oxygen? Maybe that was the next plan. The folks in charge would zap all the air out of the place, and then he could feel guilty because he'd taken so much of it now...
His head tilted to the side, just sort of gazing at the empty space next to him forlornly. It was around that point that he started the painful process of getting up. He felt like all of his joints had welded in place since he'd laid down on the bed... hours... days... weeks ago maybe? Truly, no sense of time. And now he'd destroyed the clock that he'd been looking at. Not that it helped, much. For all he knew, he went out for 24 hours and 3 minutes whenever he looked at it again.
He did finally manage to get sitting up, and from there it wasn't too hard to get standing on his wobbly feet, heading over to the desk that houses his computer. He flicked it on with a groan at how bright the screen was - despite the lights being on in the room - and waited for it to load. He intended to just load the network screen and leave it on to refresh every few minutes, tilt it towards his bed and then head back there, but his fingers were typing on the keys before he really was aware at it.
He stared at the words that appeared on the screen after he'd typed them, blinking somewhat confusedly at them, his fingers hovering between the delete button and the submit button. He finally closed his eyes, pressed down until he heard a click, and then turned away to stumble back to bed.
If he got a reply to it, that'd be all the better. If he didn't... he'd assume he'd deleted it. Not... like it made a difference, at this point.