Marco (thatdarnoctopus) wrote in zenithrp, @ 2017-11-03 17:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | #day 097, jaime, marco |
Who: Marco, Jaime, OPEN
When: Around noon
Where: Billiard Room
Marco tried to avoid whiskey when he could. Whiskey seemed like a sad man's drink, and while it had been the fact that he was sad that had driven him back to the bar, drinking whiskey seemed like it was advertising how messed up he felt. But, fuck it, it was the first thing that he had grabbed, and if he was going to fuck up the whole not drinking thing, why be picky?
It felt wrong to feel as twisted up as he did. It felt selfish. He hadn't really been hurt, like Cecilia, or Chase, or Juno. He hadn't had to do anything horrific, like Tobias. Still, he wasn't handling what had happened well. He had been gone, again. Simms had turned him back into that loathsome, chittering, paranoid, psychotic version of himself that he wanted nothing to do with. The default Marco. The real Marco. The good Marco, who could hold conversations and show emotions and almost pass for normal, had disappeared just as easily as the pills had.
It brought him back to the days where he had been living with his mother, spending days locked in a little room, finding or losing himself depending on her paychecks. It made him think about the years he had spent on the street, when he could do nothing more than scream at streetlamps and passersby, and try every damn thing he could to self medicate and get just a few hours of silence.
Finding himself sane again was hard every time. Of all the things that he could forget, he wasn't lucky enough to forget what he was like when he was psychotic, and seeing it with his head back on fucking hurt. He was crazy. He was fucking crazy. Whether that meant he was weird, or dumb, or scary, it didn't really matter. He had been barely a person. And it was just a matter of time until it happened again.
And that was where Marco's thoughts had been the day before, once he had taken his meds and come back again. Bearbear was nice to have around, but he had needed to talk. He just wanted someone to listen to these thoughts, and then maybe he'd feel a little better. He put out that network post, then waited for someone to talk to him. He had built up this support network, hadn't he? But no one had messaged him but Juno, and she didn't want to see him. She didn't even have the decency to tell him that she wasn't okay. Which... Well, there was a lot of that going around.
He spent the night in his peapod, with Bearbear cradled to his chest, and hoped that if the depression didn't pass by morning, maybe someone else would message him. But, no. Marco was, once again, without the network that he clearly needed.
So Marco did what he did best when left unsupervised: self-medicated. He had wandered down to the kitchen for food, and to step outside for a smoke. Really, that had been the plan, but the bar was right there. He hadn't had a drink since that first punishment, but he needed something to make the voices quiet. He needed something to make his thoughts quiet. And there was that bottle of whiskey. He drank directly from the bottle, until he was drunk enough to think that sitting on the bar was a good idea. So he sat up there, legs crossed Indian-style, the much less full bottle cradled there. He swayed now-- not rocked, which had become so commonplace over the past few days, but swayed --and quietly shushed the empty room, and the voices that found him there. This was better. He was... Well, he was still sad, but in a tolerable way. In a familiar, numb way. His cigarette sat carefully balanced on an upside-down glass, smoldering, and mostly forgotten, but when it did occur to him to take a puff, it made this stupid day better. More mellow. Not euphoric, which was something that he didn't want to think about now, but if he could just have a day of whiskey and nicotine and quiet, then he imagined that that would be about as good as it was going to get. This was just fine.