Eoin Costigan (sg_eoin) wrote in supergleerpg, @ 2012-02-14 03:53:00 |
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Entry tags: | !type: narrative, -2012: february, former character: eoin costigan, ~complete |
Narrative: Fight the real enemy!
Who: Eoin
When: Right after JBI's post
Where: JBI's locker
What: Eoin smashes shit up
Warnings: Eoin smashing shit up
It wasn't quite the blind, blacked-out rage he lived in constant fear of, but it was close. There was definitely something crazed about him as he stormed down the corridors, hands balled so tightly into fists that the tendons of his wrists stood out wildly and the cut on his palm threatened to open up afresh.
But he had control. Dammit, fuck it, he had control, and he wasn't going to let himself get at ben Israel, because if he started, he wouldn't stop, and assault and battery was one thing, but manslaughter was another entirely, and he couldn't. Mustn't.
But it hurt. Holding everything down, all the burning rage and violence and frustration in him, it hurt. Everything was falling apart, all his friends' lives crumbling at once like a fucking house of cards, and there was nothing he could do, and it fucking hurt. And there was Jacob fucking ben fucking Israel, sitting at the fucking middle of it and gawking and pointing fingers and fucking loving it, like people weren't getting hurt. Like Eoin's friends weren't getting hurt.
He stormed around the corridors without direction or aim, until he found himself in front of ben Israel's locker, where he'd dealt out the ultimatum to lay off his friends only a few hours ago. It hadn't been his goal, nor had he even considered it until the moment, but suddenly the placid metal door of the locker seemed almost as hated as the guy whose things were inside it. Eoin fed that feeling, his jaw tensed until he thought it might break, and turned to face the locker door, fists tight at his sides, face redder than his hair, eyes blazing above the swollen bruises.
His first punch dented the steel door. His third - or maybe it was his fourth - ripped right through the metal, gouging red lines in the sides of his fist as he withdrew it; he didn't care. The blind rage, and the surge of his hated powers, was on him again, and he went on driving his fists into the locker until all sense of time slipped away.
A look at the clock, when his senses came back, told him it had only been a couple of minutes. He took a step back, looking dispassionately at the twisted remains of the locker door, its torn, ruined contents, the dented back wall of the locker. Then, pressing his lips together so hard it hurt, he turned on his heel and walked away, wishing all the time that he could smash the problems his friends faced just as hard as he'd smashed Jacob's locker.
But he wouldn't make a difference like that. And already, the pain was beginning to creep back in.
Jesus Christ, but he needed a drink.