Pyro (controlledburn) wrote in the_next_step, @ 2009-05-20 01:18:00 |
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Current mood: | stressed |
Slow Descent [CLOSED]
Narrative
It was a cold night, but John barely felt it.
He'd slipped out of the window in the shared bedroom with Bobby sometime after his confrontational communication with both Adelaide and Jubilee and found a place to sit. It was suitably dark and he could be left alone, not even wolf-boy would find him out here.
The events of the last week or so weighed heavily on his mind, how Bobby had been slipping away in front of his eyes, and how everybody else had been hurting in one way or another. It wasn't that he didn't care, he was just... afraid of caring, because rejection was inevitable.
He clenched his jaw and cleared his throat, feeling his emotions lodged somewhere in there. His fingers picked at still healing cuts, peeling away surface tissue, opening the wound, making it bleed.
Nobody really understood that John hated himself more than anybody ever could, he'd been raised with the belief that he was nothing but a waste of space, good for nothing, not worth giving a damn about, and it wasn't something that went away overnight. He blew out a slow shaky breath and bit his teeth together, refusing to let his emotions get the better of him, they made you weak.
He reached up with the back of his hand and rubbed it across the bottom of his nose, ignoring the way it hit abused flesh. He welcomed the pain. His legs twitched with restless energy, the pent up frustration. There was so much to say and he couldn't, just wouldn't allow himself.
John bowed his head briefly and inhaled slowly, feeling the corners of his eyes burning. No. He bit the feeling back and tilted his head back, forcing his eyes shut until he could feel his temples pulsating with the strain. He was stronger than this, he had to be stronger than this, tears were for pussies and wimps or so his drunken father's words had slurred at him day after day.
It hurt to breathe, hurt to move, hurt to speak. Everything fucking hurt. He'd been in that cell with Bobby who had slowly been dying in front of his eyes and John hadn't been able to do anything. How fucking useless of him. John's gaze darkened and his fingers continued to pick at one exposed cut after another until all he could feel was a hot burning sensation in place of the emptiness he'd been feeling earlier.
He couldn't remember when he started doing this, using pain as a method of coping, but it had been with him for longer than he'd ever admit to out-loud . You'd think for a kid beaten to shit by his father every day of his life he wouldn't want to inflict pain on himself, but you'd be wrong.
God, he just wanted to self-destruct.
John pressed his lips tighter together and balled his hands into such tight fists that every knuckle turned white. It took pins and needles setting in for John to realise he was pressing too hard and even then it took him several more minutes to ease his grip.
"C'mon," he muttered roughly. "Pull yourself together. Stop being such a bitch." He scrubbed at his eyes and inhaled a breath, ignoring the way he'd left damp patches on the heels of his palms. He wasn't crying, tears had to actually fall for that to happen.
John eventually just closed his eyes and threaded his hands into his hair, simply slumping back against the wall.