Rorschach is "Mike Caulfield" (whisper_no) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-04-26 12:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | eric draven, maleficent, rorschach |
Who: Melinda, Jack, Rorschach, and civilians
What: Rorschach finally loses it
Where: Aubade Lobby
When: This afternoon (Tuesday, 4/26)
Warnings: Violence and Rorschach being Rorschach
To say that Rorschach was on edge would have been a gross understatement. He had been suspecting for some time that something was wrong, that he was doing things improperly. It was in the way his prayers formed in his head, the feeling of gutter-scum noses snapping against his fists. It was the same, but different. He couldn’t quantify it, couldn’t explain it. But his skin wouldn’t stop crawling, and his ability to stay in one place for prolonged periods of time was fast evaporating.
That inability to sit still was likely the only reason he had been leaving the apartment with some regularity during the daylight hours. He had once gotten eight hours of sleep a day consistently, spending his waking daylight hours rather passively. Now, he was lucky to sleep for four, and he was coming and going at all times with seemingly neither rhyme nor reason. Where he was going and when he’d be back were always in flux, no concrete destination or goal in his mind. It was movement for movement’s sake, driving a spike into his brain.
Why am I doing this? he asked himself. Why am I so restless? he’d cry. Maybe that was why the visions came. The first time, he remedied things - he left Sam, he returned to his work. But then like a whipped puppy, he came back to distraction. He returned to the communicators, the constant web of lies and nonsense. New people, old people, always in a state of flux, arguing and bringing their petty personal problems to the airwaves. He had ignored them, he had deafened himself, and yet the visions came again.
They were just as bad as the first time, overwhelming him with chaos and confusion. The feelings were rats nibbling on his brain, burrowing deep within his skull. He tried to pull them out, but they would dig their claws in and delve deeper. First Drake, then the animal, and the Dragon, and then Mockingbird. Even when your thoughts were your own, they belonged to someone else. Thought and action were in opposition, until one couldn’t predict the other. No actions were predictable, and so no thoughts could be monitored. You couldn’t trust anyone, even when they were trustworthy. Even the truth was a lie if you squinted the right way, so what did that say of darkness and light?
Walking beside Jack, Rorschach kept his gaze on the ground before them. Though Jack hadn’t been out at night in weeks - which was why Rorschach had stopped calling him Corbinian - their apartment was still in dire need of medical supplies. Rorschach’s injuries seemed to be unending, mostly to his hands and wrists. Scuffed knuckles, dislocated fingers, and forearm slashes were most common for him. They had purchased a brace and some bandages, antibiotic cream, the basics. Their trip on foot had been quiet, marked by only a few scattered conversations that fell into silence usually when Rorschach’s train of thought derailed.
They stepped into the Aubade lobby, getting the obligatory odd look from the doorman. Once, Rorschach had noticed it. Now, it was white noise. As they crossed the lobby, he glanced briefly to Jack. “Want dinner?” he asked, a reference to the evening hour. “Can cook.” Though Rorschach had never considered himself domestic, cooking proved to be eerily calming for him. It was movement, something to do with his hands. He liked that.