| Close To The End |
[24 Nov 2005|02:08am] |
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mood |
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 listless |
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------ Non Journal Entry ------
Blood had made for a rather neat makeshift pillow and one that Joseph was putting to good use. He hadn't moved since he had been thrown into the depths of the small box and left there to rot though the demons promised to come back for him later. Something about setting an example. He coughed and his entire chest seemed to shudder and he really didn't like the rattling sound that seemed to come from his ribcage.
Joseph could barely open his eyes and he didn't dare lift his head away from the ground because the moment he did, his entire head would spin and he'd nearly puke. He didn't think his body could handle the effort it took to throw up, he definitely couldn't handle the convulsions because he already felt like he was dying, and he really didn't need to torture himself in the process.
Shock had already begun to set in and as hard as he tried, he couldn't stop his body from shaking. He'd even latched his arms around his stomach and curled his bloody fingers in what remained of his shirt and it hadn't made a difference, not in the slightest. The ring Rhiannon had given him had become smeared in both his and the demon's blood, it was no longer recognisable as the ring she had given him all that time ago. Ironic when you thought about it, given how things stood between them right now.
If he could smirk, Joseph would have, but as it was, he couldn't move his jaw and he had to wonder if it was in fact broken. Blood pumped from the various wounds inflicted upon him by the demons and he had been told very firmly he wouldn't be fed. The demons weren't the sort to play around, Joseph had known this from the get go and his last shred of hope rested with Kael.
His dark hair was a mess around his face but he lacked the strength it would take to move it so he dealt with it as best he could. Joseph almost slipped into the unconsciousness that threatened to claim him but the sensation of metal leaving his skin caused his eyes to snap open and with a frantic movement, he pulled every single one of his injuries to search the ground of the box almost frantically.
"Where is it?" He muttered softly, his voice was choked and broken. His fingers continued to scrabble across the black surface beneath him and his eyes sought every square inch for a glint of metal. "Fuck me, where is it?" He repeated as panic continued to rise steadily and he was almost close to hyperventilation.
Eventually his fingers snagged on something cool to the touch and he wrapped his entire hand around the circular piece of metal that felt like the only thing he had left of the woman he loved. Joseph slumped heavily against the side of the tiny box and he fought back the nausea that overcame him. Joseph pulled the ring from its place in his palm and he slid it back onto his thumb but a dark look filled both of his eyes as the ring wouldn't stay and just slipped right off.
"Fuck.." He murmured softly, he couldn't even wear the ring.
Joseph clenched his teeth together as he lifted his hips and slid the ring away into the hip pocket of his jeans before he very slowly eased himself back down onto the ground of the box.
"I hope you made it, Kael." He spoke quietly as he closed his eyes and sunk into a familiar darkness.
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| Blisters |
[24 Nov 2005|09:04am] |
It's cold in here.
Water meets skin in a rhythmic beat. Pounding against sore muscles purple and bruised. I pull my knees in tight, up to my chest, and feel that I'm real. Solid. Body hasn't left me, but my mind keeps drifting. Something's in there, sifting through the mess. Rummaging deeper and tossing the waste aside in a search for a bottom line. One single, coherent thought of who I am now, where I'm to go, and what I'm to do.
No, it's not that way. That's incidental. It's looking for who to blame next. Where to turn it all.
Same as before.
I rub my palms over flesh. Thighs, knees, calves. Try to push the raised goosebumps back into place. I wrap my hands around my toes and curl them under. My eyes fit neatly over kneecaps, and blot out the sight of water splattering against the curtain. Running so clear. The air smells like vinyl.
The switchblade is where I left it. All the red's dried to near-black, and crusted in the crevice where blade meets hilt. Could I tear into myself, the way I did to her? Could I point the knife into my stomach, peel the layers back, and dig until I found the tar? Scoop it out in handfuls. Wipe it down the walls to get my fingers clean. Like a child.
My knees push harder, harder until muted colors play across eyelids.
In his place, it's so still and cold that breath hangs in the air after you spend it. All the scents of him are gone. Its just things, his and mine, but I'll take mine away. Erase how love was held in the palm of my hand, and traded away for something else. Vengeance so pure and sweet that no questions were asked. My vengeance and hers. The will of Leviathan in the guise of my heart on a sleeve.
It's all excuses. None of it changes what's to be done.
Familiar weight dangles from my right wrist. What he gave me months before, to protect with its charms, taken off the night I went for her, and now forced into place with gritted teeth and tears.
I lift my head, and watch as blisters bubble to the surface. They break beneath the strain of skin allergic to an irritant. A ring of rawness stretches from heel of hand to wrist, in the places where the bracelet eats at the corruption underneath. Not enough to melt it away. Just enough to let me hang on.
Me.
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| Hanging by a Thread (or a corner) |
[24 Nov 2005|12:58pm] |
He'd give his left nut for a pair of nail clippers.
Three showers and Whistler still couldn't get the grime out from underneath his fingernails. He scrubbed and scraped with soap and the disposable razor he'd purchased from the nearby all-night pharmacy, but it was still there. Sure he could've bought a pair (if he'd thought of it). But the scraggly beard was his main priority. It had grown in salt-and-pepper, no doubt from the stress. At least he'd hoped it was from stress.
And Rhiannon hadn't teased him about it either.
Aside from a few nicks and cuts, he looked like himself again. Fifteen pounds lighter, with dark circles under his eyes and dirty fingernails.
But it was a definite improvement.
She made a fist and rapped the door hard. Loud enough to wake him, if he slept. It wasn't a priority, no matter how bad you wanted it. A pulling of sleeves over wrists, her molars grinding together at the stinging pain caused. The blisters were weeping and made her cuff feel damp.
Rhiannon reached back and pulled the gun out of her waistband. Busied herself rechecking the clip while waiting. Her hair was wet still, and a lack of make-up made her face seem gaunt, but the clothes were fresh. No holes or rips to show how she'd spent her time.The heel of her hand forced the clip back inside, and she rapped the door again.
"'Bout time," Whistler said to the reflection in the mirror. Everone promised thirty minutes or free, but they always showed up at thirty minutes plus fifty-nine seconds. It was enough to give a guy heart palpitations.
He wrapped a threadbare towel around his midsection, fished out a few small bills off of the dresser table. He wasn't feeling generous, so the pimple-faced delivery guy definitely wasn't getting a tip.
Whistler swung the door open wide and nearly lost the last of his self-respect when the first thing he saw was a gun and a distressed Slayer.
Rhiannon glanced up and caught the distinct flavor of 'I'm about to piss myself' in the air. Her shoulders slumped in exasperation, head cocking to one side. "Are you kidding me?" She extended the gun to him, grip first. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd kick in the door."
"Just not how I envisioned this," Whistler stammered in reply, waiving his free hand towards the gun. "And I've spent a lot of nights thinkin' about it."
He stood to one side, leaving enough room for Rhiannon to enter unimpeded.
( Envisioned What? )
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| White Walls |
[24 Nov 2005|07:53pm] |
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mood |
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blank |
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White walls everywhere.
White walls every time I open my eyes.
White walls blinding me.
I wonder if they know how uncomfortable the walls make their patients?
Could just be me as everything makes me uncomfortable.
Can't sleep and haven't eaten, kind of hard to do the things you're so used to living without.
Quinn left, probably to speak with someone about what I told her, hopefully ...we'll be able to stop them, we have to stop them.
I didn't ...escape and Joseph didn't ..do what he did for us to fail.
Need to sleep, the walls are getting to me again.
Nurses will be back soon, something about ..a new IV drip, I didn't pay that much attention.
I really want out of this hospital room, I know it's bigger than I'm used to and yet....I can't seem to breathe.
Need to sleep.
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| The Road to Hell |
[24 Nov 2005|09:23pm] |
And I’m underneath the streetlight
But the light of joy I know
Scared beyond belief way down in the shadows
And the perverted fear of violence
Chokes the smile on every face
And common sense is ringing out the bells
It figured. The car he boosted, his transportation to Searchlight, contained a Chris Rea cd.
Whistler actually tried to play the situation straight. Went to Rent A Wreck and slapped down the deposit on a mini.
But his driver's license had expired. Another 'fuck you' from the Powers That Be.
Luckily some old skills remained locked in his head, and now with the fading light of day he'd pulled the Ford Focus in front of Unseen Insight, the (fortunately) only bookstore in the tiny little town Rhiannon had pointed him to. And more surprising, it was an occult bookstore to boot.
He consulted his chicken scratch again. Hayden Maragos, lives upstairs.
Try him first, then anyone working in the bookstore. Then the bar. Because when all else failed, buying a round got people to talk.
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anxious