Johnny Truant (angryjohnny) wrote in spindlesend, @ 2009-07-13 21:04:00 |
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Entry tags: | david tweak, johnny truant, july, rated r |
Who: Johnny and OPEN.
What: Going off the deep end a bit, not quite broken or maybe broken far too many times. Either way, it isn't pretty.
When: Monday evening, after dinner but before light's out.
Where: Eventually, the courtyard.
Warnings: Language and violent imagery at the least.
The words...
They had been itching under his skin, scratching the thin walls of his veins, pushing up at the barriers of his fingertips, pressing and aching and striving for release, and though he feared them, though he twisted up in his sheets all sweaty and filthy, clawing at his ears to stop that voice that kept screaming bloody murder...though he realized the screams issued forth from his own throat, he still could not bring himself to press his pen to paper, to void the words like a dead man's bowels, to let them go in a rush and a stream and a twisting maze of language and conjecture, of story and tale and perfect non-fiction - no, he couldn't let them go at all, could only scratch at his scarred arms and imagine them fighting against the whorls of flesh, drowning in the waves of the choppy sea, falling prey to the whims of those stormy waters like so many Brazilians on so many Alaskan shores...or was he Portuguese? In the end, did it matter? The sea never had any whim to it, only bloodlust and vengeance...but no, that wasn't right either, and as he stared at his arms with bloodshot eyes, Johnny wondered very seriously what it meant, if any of it made a difference, and why the fuck he couldn't stop himself from screaming.
Any fool can pray.
He was halfway down the hall before he realized that he had left his room at all, struggling and wheezing, his ruined lungs unprepared for the exertion of running after too many cigarettes and far too many screams, far too much terror though of what he couldn't be sure, or perhaps could only be too sure and therefor strove to avoid. Either way he was twitching, trembling like a junkie, but the shit in his system couldn't be bought any more than it could be sold. The light dripped down the walls like honey, sweet and thick and full of promise but it wasn't a promise he could take, not even one that he could pursue and certainly not anything that could be believed and somewhere a voice told him that this was the first real light he'd seen in months and he yelped as it torched his eyeballs, the both of them liquefying, pouring out of his skull as he stumbled away, desperately tried to find his room, blind and oddly enraged, as though wondering why the fuck did this happen to me, now? was going to help anyone at all and he knew that it wouldn't but he was smashing his fist into the wall anyway.
The world went black and cold and still, and he knew full well that he had fallen through the mirror, that wonderland had surfaced and swept reality under the rugs and behind the couch in order to prepare for his company. Perhaps if he could only relax into madness' embrace, he could fight the power of those dark halls, but he had fought for long enough to know that any hope he could grasp was a fool's hope, that relaxation was little more than a ruse, and that there wasn't fuck that could help him, not anymore. An evil smell filled his nostrils, a dark taste slid over his tongue, and when the bitterness and stench became almost too much to stand, it was the piercing ringing in his ears that finally forced his sick and bloodshot eyes to open.
He was facedown in the courtyard, his sketchbook clutched tightly to his chest in bony fingers, legs splayed akimbo. At that moment he couldn't help but wonder when his limbs got so heavy, when his hand started to hurt so much, when he had gotten to this place and how. "Captain Kittinger," he rasped, confused, "You brought us an early fall this year." And as he spoke he realized that the taste in his mouth was truly vile, and bereft of any liquid to wash away the horrors of his psyche, he simply pulled his limbs into their right place and forced himself up, his aching muscles in too much pain to realize the state of his general being. Though he almost always covered his torso, his tattoos, and his myriad scars...they were all on full display, for he was wearing only a ratty pair of jeans. The wicked melted flesh of his forearms, the varying images that fell across the canvas of his skin; his identifying marks seems to stick to his sallow skin, traitors and with loose lips, all of them spilling the stories and the secrets that he didn't want to share, and he tried to stand and make his way back to his room, tried to force himself away from questions and charts and inquiring eyes, but enough starvation, enough pain, enough untold anguish kept him collapsed in place.
He couldn't leave, it wasn't even an option, and as he saw it, he had one option left.
Even mad, even shattered, even batshit insane he hadn't managed to forget his cigarettes, and he lit one know, taking a deep drag and letting his mind wander, which it did, but he didn't like where it was going and he wasn't quite ready to lose himself again. Were there others around him? Perhaps...he was far too involved in the complexities of his own mind to know, or really, to care. Sitting there, legs sprawled out, lips chapped, knuckles bruised and bloody, eyes red and the whole of him altogether too bony, too skinny, too scarred...he looked every bit the mental patient that he was.
The mental patient that he refused to acknowledge being.