Marco (thatdarnoctopus) wrote in mountzenithrp, @ 2019-04-01 16:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | #day 020, chase, marco |
Who: Marco & Chase
When: Late morning, around 11
Where: Utility room
Earlier in the day, Marco had thought he had an advantage over everyone else when it came to loud, annoying music. There wasn't a day that went by that Marco didn't hear loud things, or repetitive things, or annoying things, that no one else could hear, and he was generally good at ignoring that. It's A Small World was annoying, and loud even in his room, but it was far from the worst thing he'd heard. Hell, he wasn't sure it was the worst noise that They had pumped in here. So Marco went about his day. He even managed to fall back asleep for a few minutes.
Not long enough, though, and an hour after Marco woke up a second time, he started to realize just how exhausting the constant, loud sound was. A light headache introduced other sounds in the music, and not long after that, Marco had the secondary irritation of loud auditory hallucinations, pounding and screaming and laughing along with the very real music. It brought on the insulting voices, and demands for him to do things that he didn't want to do, and holy shit, he needed that to stop before the strain got worse, and the fucking octopus showed up.
Had anyone tried turning it off?
He'd try turning it off.
So, with toilet paper stuffed in his ears and the same lamp that he'd used to murder Hathaway in his hands, Marco took a trip up to the fourth floor, to that fucking creepy statue that no one really liked on days where it wasn't playing music. He circled it a few times, looking for some kind of switch, or outlet, or even just the speaker. When he found none of those, he just went ahead with what he'd known he'd end up needing to do in the first place, and he started beating the crap out of the statue with the base of the long lamp, swinging the thing like a bat.
Apparently, the statue wasn't only loud, it was tough. It wasn't long before the lamp snapped, and unfortunately the break was close enough to Marco's hand that the jagged broken edge scraped across it, slicing his finger. Marco cursed and dropped the lamp, and started to bring the wound to his mouth, as you do, before deciding that it was bleeding too much for that and wrapping his hand in the hem of his shirt. He retreated from the statue room and the fourth floor, leaving the evidence of his attack behind.
But now he'd bled on his shirt. Greeeaaaat.
So, Marco wrapped his bleeding finger in toilet paper, changed his shirt, and brought the mound of laundry that he'd been delaying washing downstairs, all the while cursing at himself and the voices laughing at him for his failed attempt, and not caring who saw it. He was just glad that that damn song was quieter down on the first floor, and once he'd made it to the utility room and thrown everything into the wash, the sound from the water swishing, mixed with the toilet paper still shoved in his ears, was kind of working as white noise. Marco wasn't usually sure about how he felt about white noise, but today? Today he wasn't sure that he'd leave the washing machine's side. He plopped himself down on the floor, leaning his back against it. He focused on the swishing sound, rather than the banging and screaming that were making him twitchy, or that damn song coming from upstairs. How many times could he wash the same clothes?
He'd find out, he supposed.