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recolle2017-09-18 06:52 pm
roseblooms) wrote in recolle2017-09-18 06:52 pm
Entry tags:
[OPEN] ❁ behold the demons that I freed
WHO: Kit Fawkes and YOU
WHERE: A nightclub in Tisse, and later Hollingberry Field in Viea Village.
WHEN: Sometime mid-September; time is a flexible illusion.
WHAT: Hallucinomemories are catching up with Fawkes, but you know what they say: pressure turns coal into diamonds.
WARNINGS: Prompt A includes dark themes, reactions to a traumatic hallucinomemory, and direct canon quotes from a killer with a taste for sadism. Both prompts have the potential for those themes to come up, but A puts them more directly front and center.
I: OUT ON THE TOWN
[They say that time heals all wounds, and that's not exactly true, but it turns out it does at least blunt them a little bit. The hallucinomemory of the creature called Karasu is more distant now, less vivid; he's not jumping at evey shadow he sees move out of the corner of his eye, not fighting off the rapidly mounting apprehension that comes on the heels of false notions of being followed.
(It wouldn't have been so bad, maybe, if it weren't for that clever little bit of sadism, didn't you say you refused to be afraid of things you can't see? There's a reason they say that nothing is scarier than the alternative — because nothingness leaves far too much room for the idle mind to fill in the worst, and then some.)
Still, weeks have passed, and he's admittedly not fine, but he's functioning. He can distract himself; he can put it behind a wall of sorts. He's determined to keep on doing the things he always does, without letting the ugly hallucinomemories catch up with him.
Though admittedly, maybe opting for a trip to the nightclub wasn't the most sensible of ideas, because tonight the surroundings are going more toward making him anxious than they are helping him to unwind — the dark atmosphere, the crowd of bodies moving, the flashing light and dancing shadows. It's hard to let go and just move, when club music designed to get the heart rate up is doing precisely that, but not in the way that he would prefer.
And soon enough, pale gray thought bubbles start to coalesce around him, as he moves and sways on the dance floor. Eventually, his apprehensions get the better of him, and he starts to move for a an empty table — and by the time he does, those thoughts are fully-formed:
Shouldn't you be taking this time to pray?
You know that's why I've decided to leave your beautiful face unharmed?
Make this easier on both of us and give in.
Seems you have a masochistic streak that wants indulging.
It's a shame I can't keep you.Just do it, we don't have all day!
Was that really me?
Well, well, isn't this just the worst case of Pop-Up Video: Trauma Edition. He drops his face into his hands, trying to breathe slow and get control of himself, but eventually finds the atmosphere too overwhelming to remain in and hurriedly makes his way back out into the warm autumn night.]
II: THEY CALL HIM TUXEDO MASK
[It's a fair distance from Tisse to Hollingberry Field in Viea Village, but frankly, he could use the exercise and the opportunity to wind down from his earlier apprehensions anyway, so the distance and time it takes to get there doesn't really bother him much. The park is quiet at this time of the evening, anyway, and that's precisely what he wants — something quiet and the right amount of lonely, but not uncoincidentally, someplace populated all around with things that are green and growing.
He'd grown plants in his sleep, when he'd first had that nightmare of a hallucinomemory. He'd panicked, and the plants had reacted, and he'd woken up to a jungle of vines and leaves crisscrossing his apartment, forming a tangle that nothing could possibly get through without striking them first. Had he been trying to protect himself, then? Somewhere in his subconscious, had he tried to leave no room available for dangers to penetrate, whether he could see them or not?
Feeling wrung-out and oddly exhausted, he flops down onto his back in the grass, staring up at the night sky and letting its strange, nebulous gravity wash over him. The fox in him hadn't been afraid of the crow that was out for his death; he'd even managed to turn the tables and claim the advantage, for a while. So why? Why had it disappeared? Why withdraw, when it'd said itself — he was fortunate I could come. He wouldn't have survived that without me.
But he didn't survive it anyway, did he?
The sky, however, lends him no answers, and after a while he sits up and brushes grass from his hair, digging into the pocket of his coat after the packets of seeds he's started carrying with him at all times. His fingers feel clumsy and fat as he pries the paper open, shaking out a seed into his palm and willing it to sprout, the way he's been practicing for the better part of two months now. Soon enough, it blossoms into a lovely long-stemmed rose, and for a few seconds he simply turns it in his fingers by the stem, minding the thorns as he tries to recall what he'd seen in his memories.
At first, he gives it a shake, snapping his wrist like he's brandishing a magic wand. Nothing comes of that, save a little wear and tear to the blossom; soon after, he tries throwing it, and being as limber and unaerodynamic as it is, it simply wobbles a few feet before pitching into the ground, discarded.
Making a vaguely dissatisfied face, he wrinkles his nose and reaches for another seed, sprouting another rose in short order, and trying again.
He's not having much luck at it, so far. But then, he's also got plenty of seeds in his packet, and all the time in the world to try.]
[OOC: Please be sure to let me know your comfort level in threads regarding the warned-for topics in this post, if there are any subjects you'd prefer I avoid! Otherwise, it's fairly likely Fawkes will end up discussing the things that are eating at him, so expect the warned-for topics to crop up in interactions with him in this log!]
WHERE: A nightclub in Tisse, and later Hollingberry Field in Viea Village.
WHEN: Sometime mid-September; time is a flexible illusion.
WHAT: Hallucinomemories are catching up with Fawkes, but you know what they say: pressure turns coal into diamonds.
WARNINGS: Prompt A includes dark themes, reactions to a traumatic hallucinomemory, and direct canon quotes from a killer with a taste for sadism. Both prompts have the potential for those themes to come up, but A puts them more directly front and center.
I: OUT ON THE TOWN
(It wouldn't have been so bad, maybe, if it weren't for that clever little bit of sadism, didn't you say you refused to be afraid of things you can't see? There's a reason they say that nothing is scarier than the alternative — because nothingness leaves far too much room for the idle mind to fill in the worst, and then some.)
Still, weeks have passed, and he's admittedly not fine, but he's functioning. He can distract himself; he can put it behind a wall of sorts. He's determined to keep on doing the things he always does, without letting the ugly hallucinomemories catch up with him.
Though admittedly, maybe opting for a trip to the nightclub wasn't the most sensible of ideas, because tonight the surroundings are going more toward making him anxious than they are helping him to unwind — the dark atmosphere, the crowd of bodies moving, the flashing light and dancing shadows. It's hard to let go and just move, when club music designed to get the heart rate up is doing precisely that, but not in the way that he would prefer.
And soon enough, pale gray thought bubbles start to coalesce around him, as he moves and sways on the dance floor. Eventually, his apprehensions get the better of him, and he starts to move for a an empty table — and by the time he does, those thoughts are fully-formed:
Shouldn't you be taking this time to pray?
I promise it won't hurt too much.
Make this easier on both of us and give in.
You're weak. You're tired. You're powerless. You're pathetic.
It's a shame I can't keep you.
Do it already! Kill him! Kill him!
Was that really me?
Well, well, isn't this just the worst case of Pop-Up Video: Trauma Edition. He drops his face into his hands, trying to breathe slow and get control of himself, but eventually finds the atmosphere too overwhelming to remain in and hurriedly makes his way back out into the warm autumn night.]
II: THEY CALL HIM TUXEDO MASK
He'd grown plants in his sleep, when he'd first had that nightmare of a hallucinomemory. He'd panicked, and the plants had reacted, and he'd woken up to a jungle of vines and leaves crisscrossing his apartment, forming a tangle that nothing could possibly get through without striking them first. Had he been trying to protect himself, then? Somewhere in his subconscious, had he tried to leave no room available for dangers to penetrate, whether he could see them or not?
Feeling wrung-out and oddly exhausted, he flops down onto his back in the grass, staring up at the night sky and letting its strange, nebulous gravity wash over him. The fox in him hadn't been afraid of the crow that was out for his death; he'd even managed to turn the tables and claim the advantage, for a while. So why? Why had it disappeared? Why withdraw, when it'd said itself — he was fortunate I could come. He wouldn't have survived that without me.
But he didn't survive it anyway, did he?
The sky, however, lends him no answers, and after a while he sits up and brushes grass from his hair, digging into the pocket of his coat after the packets of seeds he's started carrying with him at all times. His fingers feel clumsy and fat as he pries the paper open, shaking out a seed into his palm and willing it to sprout, the way he's been practicing for the better part of two months now. Soon enough, it blossoms into a lovely long-stemmed rose, and for a few seconds he simply turns it in his fingers by the stem, minding the thorns as he tries to recall what he'd seen in his memories.
At first, he gives it a shake, snapping his wrist like he's brandishing a magic wand. Nothing comes of that, save a little wear and tear to the blossom; soon after, he tries throwing it, and being as limber and unaerodynamic as it is, it simply wobbles a few feet before pitching into the ground, discarded.
Making a vaguely dissatisfied face, he wrinkles his nose and reaches for another seed, sprouting another rose in short order, and trying again.
He's not having much luck at it, so far. But then, he's also got plenty of seeds in his packet, and all the time in the world to try.]
[OOC: Please be sure to let me know your comfort level in threads regarding the warned-for topics in this post, if there are any subjects you'd prefer I avoid! Otherwise, it's fairly likely Fawkes will end up discussing the things that are eating at him, so expect the warned-for topics to crop up in interactions with him in this log!]
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