Martin Riggs is a sand hobo (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} riggsanity) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} valloic,@ 2020-10-08 11:07:00 |
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When: Early morning of the 8th
What: Spookiness
Warnings: Mentions of death, small enclosed spaces, gun violence,
In the darkness his shoulder hit a barrier as he attempted to roll on his side. Startled from a tentative sleep, Riggs opened his eyes to nothing. He waited long enough to realize it wasn't his eyes needing an adjustment to the darkness. As he started to move more, his knees and elbows hit more solid barriers, limiting to barely enough room to flex his fingers, much less move at all. Slowly the realization settled in that his unseen prison had the shape of a casket.
He was in a casket. Fuck.
Slow movements became more panicked, fingers scrabbling at scratching cloth lining and knees hitting the wooden lid over and over, desperation settling in. His lungs started to burn as music began to eat away at the eerie silence, a church organ playing an eerie, muffled tune outside. Riggs started to yell, straining to be heard through the casket walls, over the music. He wasn't dead. There was a mistake, this wasn't supposed to be happening, not now, not when he was finally
Happy. When he was finally happy with Molly and Ben, the possibility of a home. Finding peace and resolution in his life, wanting to live for something finally. Going home to Texas, to his old job and the little cabin beside the lake.
He started throwing his body, the casket shaking as he gained momentum. Then he felt it, the wooden box tilting sideways, the heavy pause as it hung in the air...and then fell.
He hit the marble floor and rolled, gulping in fresh air to oxygen starved lungs as his arms remained pulled to his body as if he was still trapped. Riggs wasn't sure how much time passed before he sat up, blinking at the lit lobby of the hotel. Great. His avoidance never got him out of his therapy sessions back home and it certainly didn't keep him from that damn hotel.
He stood up, muscles aching from spending so long tense. The less time spent there, the better. Riggs finally found the door and started for it when a gunshot rang out through the lobby. The air left his lungs and he tumbled back onto the floor. Warmth spread across his chest, warmth and wet soaking into the fabric of his shirt, all too reminiscent of that day in the cemetery.
Then it started all over again.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth time he was already on his feet, searching for the source of the gunshot. Looking for his half-brother or his father or-
Himself. Holding the gun, finger poised on the trigger. Not the who. Nathan and Garrett couldn't hurt him here unless they showed up. That was why he was pulling the trigger, not them. He'd actually given a damn and attempted to live...and been rewarded for death. So on arrival in Vallo, he'd lost himself in alcohol and work again, keeping his distance amicably from the other Outlanders. Afraid to live again.
By the fifth time he pushed up from the ground and instead of waiting for the shot to come, instead of trying to take down the self-destructive image pulling the trigger, he turned and ran. Ran for the door, ran for freedom.
Ran like a man who wanted to live again.