Sidney "Onyxx" Green (_onyxx) wrote in utr_logs, @ 2008-08-03 11:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | onyxx |
Who: Onyxx. It's a narrative.
What: How Onyxx deals with stress and pain.
When: Probably early this morning. He's not having the easiest time sleeping.
Where: A motel somewhere not in New York.
Warnings: Descriptions of a few violent deaths. Other than that, nada.
Onyxx stared at the mirror in the cheap motel room he was staying in. He refused to stay with someone from the forums, both because he didn’t want to put them in danger and because if he needed to act, he didn’t want to have to go through them when they inevitably tried to stop him. Assuming Dick didn’t do as told and knock him the hell out in that sort of event.
He stared at the mirror and didn’t see himself. He wasn’t trying to do his hair or shave or anything petty like that. He did have some growth on his face, but he wasn’t shaving it. Not yet, anyway. Instead what he saw was the “clown prince of crime” as he’d been called. Saw him laughing in victory.
And then he saw his own hands reach into the mirror, place his thumbs against the clown’s temples, and push. Then he saw the clown on the ground and imagined stomping his head, shattering it into a million pieces. Then there was the one where he ripped off the clown’s arms and beat him to death with them.
And a million other violent, torturous deaths. Some were fast and some were slow. All were painful. All were messy. All of them were his final yell at the fucked up universe they now resided in.
And then, finally, he saw himself. He saw how he would be if something went wrong. First, a man with wild hair and a thick beard dressed in rags and covered in snow, as if from living on a mountain. Then a man with tree-trunk arms, a barrel chest, and huge legs, like some exaggerated superhero of the early nineties, wearing bracers and a breastplate and fatigues and more guns than the US military. Then a man covered in blood and gore, with a ferocious, wild look on his face.
Before he knew it Onyxx’s fist was through the mirror and into the medicine cabinet. A million shards of glass rained down around him, many of them bouncing harmlessly off his skin where they would have scratched and cut others.
Then, with a much less intimidating whimper, his legs gave out and he had to grab the sink to keep from falling into it. He turned slowly and slid down into a sitting position, his head resting against the vanity of the sink. He pulled his knees to his chest and folded his arms atop them, his face slowly lowering until it was hidden behind them.
And then, finally, the tears came. God, I hate this place. He bit his lip hard, hard enough that if his skin weren’t impenetrable he’d be drawing blood. Why can it never give the good people breaks? He lifted his face, the tears still streaming down his face, but his eyes were narrowed and his face twisted in anger. God, if you’re there, you better be watching out for her, because if anything happens to Candy I swear I’ll tear this whole universe apart.