_kaegan (_kaegan) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2016-06-27 22:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2019 [06] june, kaegan vega-grady |
Who: Kaegan
Where: Somewhere around the University Medical Center
What: Narrative; dissociative introspection.
When: [backdated] June 07, 2019; evening.
They tell him he’s getting better though he can’t remember which, or if they’re trustworthy. Even so, he chooses to believe they are, and that he is. He’s very proud of this, in the moments he remembers to be…between the tears and the self-loathing and the paranoia and the tufts of hair curled around his knuckles when the dissonance buzzing in his ears gets so loud that he wonders if this is all a nightmare. Maybe in another plane of existence he’s still curled around Sydney, hands soothing her swollen belly as she addresses the sonogram with different names, kissing at the nape of her neck because he never thought he could be so happy amongst upright decaying corpses.
Rosemary. He could hear music—a symphony—in three syllables. It was the only name that made sense. They were on the rooftop under the star speckled sky; she was holding a pot of rosemary when she told him. They agreed on the symbolism.
But he’s not there; he’s here. He keeps reminding himself of this. It’s a work in progress.
It isn’t a perfect system by any means—some may define it as denial—but having them around helps, sometimes. He’d blanche if he ever said this aloud—or maybe he has already, he doesn’t know—but they’re not always an intrusion. The voices are dependable, though they could be considered old friendships tethered only by toxicity and familiarity. Even after they’ve left, he can still feel their bruises. But it’s nice to know he’s never alone even if he appears to be.
His campus counselor had referred him to a demi-god in a white labcoat back when the sky was blue and grass was green; after being poked and prodded, he’d been given abbreviations he didn’t quite understand or remember, more focused on the sound of his shoes squeaking against the pristine floor every time his knee bounced. It drowned out the cracks in the mirror speaking to him.
Some days it’s easier to slot the fragmented pieces of conversation together, if there hasn’t been too many lulls or overlaps. Mostly, he’s still caught by surprise, eyes flitting around for the source only to find those around him staring placidly at something that is very much not in his general direction. His breath punches from his chest while panic prickles under his collar; they’re always there, ghosts breathing down his neck. There is no escape from a residual haunting.
He still feels fleeting; set adrift in a slideshow of snapshots with the lingering suspicion they’re never quite in the correct order. Sometimes he wonders if they’re even his to begin with, excess musings leftover from recycled galaxies of nuclei, of neurotransmitters; electrical impulses like solar flares on loop. He’s stuck inside this skin that never seems to fit quite right no matter how often he pinches at it.
But he wonders if that's merely philosophy—can any philosophy be regarded as merely?—or a delusion of grandeur? If his thoughts were valid, would he have so many points of view? What is validity? He never did excel at syllogisms.
It’s very frustrating. Some things feel too infinite to fit in his head—they crash around but never seem to catch or work themselves free—even though they still manage to make a mess wherever he goes, a trail of rubble left in his wake.
He’s laughing at something—an inside inside joke—mouth slightly warm and numb. The stars observing him blink, confused. There's a chime in his ears, a rhyming note that feels oddly important though he doesn’t know why. He stands fascinated for a long time; he knows this because his fingers and toes are numb by the time he remembers to flex them. Gooseflesh flowers along his arms like insects, burrowing and biting. A spasm ripples through his cheek, an involuntary tic crawling toward his right eye.
“I’m here.” Kaegan proclaims, looking up.