Who: Oliver [Narrative] Where: Oliver's Room When: 7:40am
Oliver wasn't entirely certain what he'd just done, even as he stared down at the sea of carnage the past few minutes had created in something akin to detached confusion. He loomed in front of the open window the heavy rain spitting angrily against him, soaking his face and thing material of the gray t-shirt that covered his chest. It was cold, but somehow it felt as if it sizzled against him, putting out a fire that wasn't there. It was nice. It was soothing. It felt real. No, that was wrong. The window wasn't open at all. It was shattered into a million pieces, most of which lay in a glistening sea around the abused gadgetry below.
He'd done that. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it, but for a few seconds the memories only manifested as an image of a Godzilla-sized Oliver Greer-McGowan destroying a miniature version of Mount Zenith. It made him snort to himself, which felt even more ridiculous than the truth. This was his doing.
Now he looked on with something akin to fascination, at the scattered carcass of the monitor, the tower, and the larger chunks of the camera that had once rested on the ceiling above him. After everything that had happened yesterday, all of the hurt, the panic, the loss. After hours on hours of laying alone in the tub, the ache in his back and neck still painful evidence of it, he hadn't felt depressed at all that morning. From the time he'd opened his eyes, something in him boiled and surged. He wanted to breathe fire, squeeze the life out of something. He'd gotten out of bed so quickly that the entire mass of it moved toward the wall, and then he'd paced. And paced. And paced. And waited. Ever time he made it to one end of the room he looked to that damn computer, waiting for that infuriating blinking little light that would tell him what knew fuckery They had planned for the house. It was the only way They communicated, the fucking cowards that they were. And the ring, Jason's fucking ring, the same ring he'd worn every day since they'd gotten engaged, right up until the day he'd died, was still fucking gone. He'd paced, and boiled, and glowered at the camera, knowing they were watching, and that ball of fire in his stomach and chest grew, and grew, until it threatened to burst out of him.
Bits and pieces came back to him. Pain in his hands as he tore the monitor from the wall and turned. He'd stretched to his full height, and backed the strike with all the rage, all the strength, and all the defiance he could muster. And then there was more, the heat burst out, snapping the leash on something primal and dark and hungry. It felt like all of the pain and grief and anger of the past year compressed and projected, and through all of it, something in him sang. The screen had smashed to pieces in his hands, the entirety of it nearly cracking in clean halves, but the camera had practically dissolved against the strike. He'd let both drop to the ground even as he turned his fury on the rest. The computer's tower had felt as if it weighed nothing, but the ease in which it shattered the window proved otherwise, as did the sound it made a second later when it landed. He didn't quite recall picking up what was left of the camera and monitor and throwing it out afterward, but there they were.
Now that he'd successfully replayed the scene in his head, twice, he glanced back toward the desk and saw that the speakers were on the floor, but the mouse and keyboard seemed completely undisturbed by everything that had happened. For some reason, his brain told him that it was like sparing the children of a horrible enemy, and that made him laugh again.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
His fingers moved to cover his mouth, as if the noise was completely undignified despite how good it felt, and something wet and warm streaked across his chin. Pulling his hand back, the smile faded for all of two seconds before he realized he had a few sizable gashes across both sides of his hand.
"Uh oh," he chortled, as if it was more ridiculous than alarming, then moved his other hand to try and close the window, only to realize a second later that technically it was closed. "Eh, whatever." He offered a limp salute to the trash on the lawn, then stepped carefully across the floor, avoiding class and bits of camera and monitor on his way to the bathroom. He could shower first, then go see if Cecilia had any bandages so he could patch himself up. He felt lighter than he had in months.