Samir Marcus (night_song) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2013-01-26 06:53:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed |
Who: Samir Marcus.
Where: His bedroom in the beach house.
What: Dreams, nightmares, drugs.
When: Friday morning.
Rating: High.
Open: No.
Status: Narrative.
Half dazed by the painkillers he took last night, Samir wakes up with someone else's kiss on his lips and with a half smile brings his fingers to touch his lips. It's not quite Q's, but not quite real either and only just a wistful memory, but that's okay. He knows that, as he rolls over and is greeted by a big, empty bed, that it's exactly what he needed today. Or didn't need, because being reminded of a man you love through dreams isn't fun. Or the earth shattering realization that he's even more useless down here on the island, removed from the known and from memory sketched plans and schematics of the prison he's rumored to be in, no longer pouring over them like it's the only thing that ever mattered, because Kaya's had the sense to stop him. Arguably just in time. He was losing his mind- The people around him helped. Being in charge of rescue missions helped, because who knows, who really knows - the next poor man he manages to steal from the Alliance's greedy hands just might be Sam. There's guilt too, too many times over for all the occasions he never seized, all the people he could have used. Maybe the next time that he tries to go that far, he could die. Given the odds, he probably will. They look down on traitors - he probably wouldn't make it past the second session with the esteemed Richard Beauregard, who's more of a butcher than a doctor. He knew them all, having passed underneath their hands on stainless steel dissecting tables countless of times. But there's got to be others now, far more inexperienced and far too eager to inflict a lot of lasting damage. Of course there's always others. Samir rises from his bed with a low groan. Shoulders crack. Neck hurts. Put his feet down on the ground - the bones there crack too. And long before he's actually moving - stiffly, as always -, most of the bones in his body has cracked at least twice. Bad morning, bad morning, bad morning, bad morning ... When he looks in the mirror, it takes him a few seconds to recognize his reflection. He's that out of it, sees straight through his current self and finds the old Samir Marcus - the neat buzz cut, no facial hair, less scars. Angrier, blinder, hungry for violence. It's all still there, if you know where to look. So why couldn't he make the first move to rescue - He makes a face at the reflection, pulls himself away from the mirror and moves back towards the door and turns the lock. Someone's going to put the blame on him- He goes for the curtains and draws them shut. With every waking breath, every forceful step and every word he utters, Sam still haunts him - just like the formidable Big Brother he must've been before the Alliance got their paws on him. It never felt right though, never felt comfortable with everybody thinking that he only thought of saving his own hide during his 'daring escape', makes it worse. He has three scars that tell him that he tried- three of them that still flare red when he takes too hot a bath. Nobody cared enough to find out the truth, they just needed someone to blame. And Samir's never objected before, so he's easy prey. But only because he felt like he deserved it. Goes for the armoire where he's 'hidden' his stash, sits down and pulls the door open - tries to calmly decide what the poison of the day's going to be, but instead just pulls out bottles, pops off the lid and shakes out what looks like a good amount to take. Because it doesn't matter - the regeneration part of his whole being makes sure that it doesn't. It makes him careless as he's trying to chase after the perfect high, had only twice, when Randall felt like sharing- Is it even possible to love two men in the very same way? About four years ago, their paths cross in a small cell, painted white. And before too long, he feels something that he reckons can only be called love - and it's ridiculous. But he waits all the same. Waits until he's sure that this beautiful stranger named Sam Ashley will live through the torture. He waits a week, a longer grace period than usual, because they leave the prison in bags long before the first day's up - but Sam makes it through, far worse for the wear, but he's still breathing. And so it happens. Each other's hungry touches here and there, helpful hands when they're too drugged or too weak to do anything. Kisses. Sex. And Sam Ashley, he tore down all of Samir's carefully crafted and impenetrable walls before he could even begin to protest. But that's okay. He never expected to make it out of here alive, not twice anyway. So it's okay to fall in love, make love in front of all-seeing cameras who can - and will - use it against him. Because Samir is a dead man walking.And Samir's never objected before, so he's easy prey. But only because he felt like he deserved it. He wipes away a lingering kiss, eye falls on something of Q's and he draw in a deep breath. He's too much like him- so much that it hurts. The way they wear their glasses - he suspects that Q doesn't really need them either - He gets up, carrying his bounty in his hands, goes back to the bathroom and because he's desperate, smashes it all up, rolls up a piece of paper. Snorts. Waits. When it does hit him like a brick, he staggers back to bed. And stares at the ceiling. |