Re: In person: Misha B/Damian W
[Do not misunderstand. Damian was fighting the gauze and webbing that bound him, internally. But, it was a slow, tiring thing, and there were times when it did not matter how he flailed, he could not see for the visions before his eyes, sugar plum and horror. But, too, he was pretending, in a sense. He ignored the stutters of reality and irreality (unreality, non-reality, areality), he ignored the way the world spoke to him through his feet (bare and still largely dirty; but dirt was earth and earth could speak). He did not feel the breeze of Misha's breath across the maw of his self-inflicted wound. He did not feel much of anything, save for the boy's closeness and the weight of blue gaze as it lifted to find him.
His hand was slack. He did not glance to Misha as the boy spoke to him. He sniffed, lifting his chin defiantly. It took him longer than he would admit to understand the question poised to him, as it sifted and shifted in tongue, but eventually, he understood.—Finally, he turned toward the angel, just the plane of his face and the lens of his gaze. He did not remember, but he knew the residue of the words in his mouth meant he had said them.] I told you. I told her I had defected, but that it did not matter, as I was stronger, made to be so. [He felt incredibly stupid and he fought not to look down, away, anywhere.] She told me that was my truth. That she could show me how it really was. [Immediately, thoughtlessly, he picked at the wrapping about his palm. He clenched his jaw, glared at Misha, then finally looked away.] I know it was stupid.