Marco (thatdarnoctopus) wrote in mountzenithrp, @ 2018-10-27 00:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | #day 006, levi, marco |
Who: Marco & Levi
When: Around 9:30
Where: His bedroom, then various parts of the first floor but mostly the kitchen
It was stupid to be excited to wake up in his own room, Marco realized, but maybe he was just looking for something to be excited for, and some natural euphoria couldn’t hurt. He probably should have tried to be excited over the idea of his friends maybe coming back today, but as things stood, he just felt a little queasy over the idea that they would come back, and nothing had changed. So, he spared a quick glance at his computer, and when the little light didn’t blink, he rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but only succeeded at staring at the wall for twenty minutes.
Waking up meant consulting his checklist, which he didn’t follow exactly because it neglected things like brushing his teeth, and he wasn’t in the mood to shower, but he could just wash his face. And, of course, come hang out, since Juno and Lennon weren’t there. Fine. It’s fine. Everything was fine.
He was still groggy when he went to the bathroom, and awareness came to him as he brushed his teeth. Not of anything wrong, just that he existed, and he was awake. He rinsed his mouth, grabbed for soap, and lathered it in his hands.
And at first, things weren’t bad. Marco was surprised, of course. He jumped, and cursed at the mirror in every language he could think of, but he only cared enough to knock his knuckles against the mirror, leaving a soapy splotch on the glass, as his act of rebellion against his situation. Because of course they would draw an octopus on him. Of course it would be as realistic as they could make it, even if it wasn’t shaded or colored. And of course it was strangling him, just like that fucking picture Chase had drawn him once. He hated it, but it wasn’t like there was another living octopus in his toilet, or a corpse in his bed or anything. As much as it bothered him, he knew to expect the tentacled tormentor whenever They wanted a rise out of him. So he lathered the soap around the drawing, scrubbed, and rinsed it off. Then a second time.
Then a third time.
Then a fourth.
Then things were bad.
Marco had just thought that the octopus had been drawn on with marker, maybe a Sharpie at the worst, but after it hadn’t faded even a little, he recognized the henna for what it was. There were always henna artists at the street fairs where he had been doing tarot readings with Madame Ophelia. The two stands were almost always near each other, and Marco could remember overhearing several times a day how henna worked, and how long it lasted, and Marco could not have an octopus drawn on his throat, strangling him for a month. Yes, it was there, and it was real, but he couldn’t have that constant reminder living on him that he was fucking spiraling constantly downward, and that no one wanted him around when he was crazy, and fuck, maybe he was already crazy and just couldn’t tell. And now he could feel it tightening it’s grip on his throat. Or maybe he was just panicking. He clawed at his throat as if he could pull the damn thing off, but only managed to scratch himself up.
Maybe predictably, he got the lamp again. The one that had killed Hathaway, or the replacement of that lamp, or whatever. He couldn’t smash he octopus, but he could smash the fucking mirrors so he couldn’t see it. He screamed as he did. He screamed as he smashed the cameras that he knew of, too.
The crying came after. The shaking stuck around once the tears stopped.
Maybe get high? he considered, but no. He needed the octopus off. He forced himself to breathe, with mixed success. Then he went downstairs, to the billiard room, grabbing a bottle of vodka. He carried it to the utilities room, where he found a bottle of bleach. He dragged both out to the kitchen, where he doused a hand towel with both and scrubbed at his neck, while making a run for the public bathroom to see the effect. There wasn’t any, it just stung like a bitch.
He ran back to the kitchen, pulling open a cabinet and a drawer to find anything that might do the job. His newest choices were a steel wool sponge, or a cheese grater.