Post by Mister Stewart on Jan 22, 2011 2:39:24 GMT -8
Time: Day 4, Late Afternoon (After the confrontation in the Clock Tower.)
Weather: Very Cloudy.
Warnings: Gore, Blood, Vomit, Disturbing Content
Characters: Michael Tillotson (CLOSED)
Just for a few minutes, he had told himself.
He had known, of course, that he was in no state to drive. Even as he had left Charlotte in the library, even as he ducked out, insisting that he could make it home, that he would be fine, he had realized that it simply wasn't the case. He wasn't sure what it was that had made him so insistent upon it - wasn't sure why he had sat behind the wheel of his station wagon, glaring irritably at the cracked passenger side window as he pulled out of the parking lot.
His vision had wobbled, darkened - he didn't realize he was swerving until a care behind him honked, snapping him awake for another moment. Grudgingly, he pulled off the road, coming to a stop in a rest area. He unfastened his seatbelt, folding his arms over the steering wheel to rest his head upon.
Almost immediately, he found himself plunged into the smoke - the flames spun around him, the screams down the hall, the cold fear and the searing heat and they were calling for him crying out for him and he couldn't see, he couldn't see in the smoke and a loud ticking, grinding sound filled his ears, a sick, dark jealousy filling his chest, a thunderous BANG rang out -
Michael awoke screaming, clapping his hands around his leg, sweat dripping down his forehead and sticking his bangs to his face. He shook - it hurt, it burned, everything was too hot, too HOT, his scars felt like they were on fire...he broke completely from the haze of drowsiness the moment he saw the crimson stains blossoming out beneath the clean white fabric of his suit. His leg...his wrist - his hands and palms were slick with blood as well, but a moment of cold panic settled in when he noticed the blood soaking around his wrist.
He fumbled to roll up his sleeve, noticing in the process that he was missing a fingernail on the opposite hand...and his face blanched as he noticed the deep gouges in his flesh, warm (hot, too HOT) blood dribbling down his forearm. His gaze flicked from the wounds to the missing nail, to the blood under his remaining fingernails. Had...had he done this to himself? The thought made him queasy - but the wounds were not deep enough to be fatal. His leg - his leg hurt so much worse than anything else, he was scared to look...bending down, he rolled up his pantleg, trying not to see the blood that had pooled on the floor of his car. What he found made him freeze - the bottom dropped out of his stomach.
There was a hole in his leg. A deep, gaping wound...a...bullet wound? But that was impossible - he couldn't have - he looked around his car, trying to find something he could have used to make such a wound....
...But all he could find was a lit cigarette, still burning away in the ash tray. Reaching out mechanically, he picked it up, holding it between bloody, shaking fingers. The sides were stained with blood...and his own bloody fingers matched up. He glanced up, towards the rear view mirror; the reflection that started back blinked dimly, burnt, cracked, bleeding skin peeling as it widened his bloodshot gray eyes, the vessels bursting as blackened lips opened wide along with the scream of terror that tore out of Michael's own throat.
Blindly, he threw open the car door, falling out onto the pavement - his scars wailed with the force of impact, but he could hardly feel them now. Not above the searing pain in his leg, his wrist - not above the terror at what he had just seen, the nightmare image that made his face feel stiff, tight in empathy - he could taste smoke, ash, BILE -
Crawling over to the grass hurriedly, his stomach heaved, body shaking as his stomach expelled its contents. His eyes were wide in panic - he couldn't shut them, he wouldn't, the smoke would be there, he couldn't see it again, he couldn't -
Panting, he crawled backward away from the grass, heading towards his car - he had to get home, he had to get back to Mister Stewart, he had to get back to where things were normal and he could just get his work done and read late at night and forget about the fire until he had to sleep....
Clawing his way up into the driver's seat, he wrestled his seatbelt back on, starting up the car and pointedly not looking into the rearview mirror. The cigarette was back in the ashtray again - hadn't he just dropped it? - still burning...tears coursing down his cheeks, he threw it out the car door before slamming it shut.
His bleeding hands gripped the wheel, white-knuckled, slick and sliding with blood.
I have to get home. I have to get home. Mister Stewart is waiting. I just have to get home. I have to get home I have to get home IhavetogethomeIhavetogethome He started to drive, taking the back roads, the sound of his rasping breath and the squelching of the blood around the pedals his only companions, one thought, one single, dark thought trying to break through his little mantra the whole way.....
"...You are going mad."
Weather: Very Cloudy.
Warnings: Gore, Blood, Vomit, Disturbing Content
Characters: Michael Tillotson (CLOSED)
Just for a few minutes, he had told himself.
He had known, of course, that he was in no state to drive. Even as he had left Charlotte in the library, even as he ducked out, insisting that he could make it home, that he would be fine, he had realized that it simply wasn't the case. He wasn't sure what it was that had made him so insistent upon it - wasn't sure why he had sat behind the wheel of his station wagon, glaring irritably at the cracked passenger side window as he pulled out of the parking lot.
His vision had wobbled, darkened - he didn't realize he was swerving until a care behind him honked, snapping him awake for another moment. Grudgingly, he pulled off the road, coming to a stop in a rest area. He unfastened his seatbelt, folding his arms over the steering wheel to rest his head upon.
Almost immediately, he found himself plunged into the smoke - the flames spun around him, the screams down the hall, the cold fear and the searing heat and they were calling for him crying out for him and he couldn't see, he couldn't see in the smoke and a loud ticking, grinding sound filled his ears, a sick, dark jealousy filling his chest, a thunderous BANG rang out -
Michael awoke screaming, clapping his hands around his leg, sweat dripping down his forehead and sticking his bangs to his face. He shook - it hurt, it burned, everything was too hot, too HOT, his scars felt like they were on fire...he broke completely from the haze of drowsiness the moment he saw the crimson stains blossoming out beneath the clean white fabric of his suit. His leg...his wrist - his hands and palms were slick with blood as well, but a moment of cold panic settled in when he noticed the blood soaking around his wrist.
He fumbled to roll up his sleeve, noticing in the process that he was missing a fingernail on the opposite hand...and his face blanched as he noticed the deep gouges in his flesh, warm (hot, too HOT) blood dribbling down his forearm. His gaze flicked from the wounds to the missing nail, to the blood under his remaining fingernails. Had...had he done this to himself? The thought made him queasy - but the wounds were not deep enough to be fatal. His leg - his leg hurt so much worse than anything else, he was scared to look...bending down, he rolled up his pantleg, trying not to see the blood that had pooled on the floor of his car. What he found made him freeze - the bottom dropped out of his stomach.
There was a hole in his leg. A deep, gaping wound...a...bullet wound? But that was impossible - he couldn't have - he looked around his car, trying to find something he could have used to make such a wound....
...But all he could find was a lit cigarette, still burning away in the ash tray. Reaching out mechanically, he picked it up, holding it between bloody, shaking fingers. The sides were stained with blood...and his own bloody fingers matched up. He glanced up, towards the rear view mirror; the reflection that started back blinked dimly, burnt, cracked, bleeding skin peeling as it widened his bloodshot gray eyes, the vessels bursting as blackened lips opened wide along with the scream of terror that tore out of Michael's own throat.
Blindly, he threw open the car door, falling out onto the pavement - his scars wailed with the force of impact, but he could hardly feel them now. Not above the searing pain in his leg, his wrist - not above the terror at what he had just seen, the nightmare image that made his face feel stiff, tight in empathy - he could taste smoke, ash, BILE -
Crawling over to the grass hurriedly, his stomach heaved, body shaking as his stomach expelled its contents. His eyes were wide in panic - he couldn't shut them, he wouldn't, the smoke would be there, he couldn't see it again, he couldn't -
Panting, he crawled backward away from the grass, heading towards his car - he had to get home, he had to get back to Mister Stewart, he had to get back to where things were normal and he could just get his work done and read late at night and forget about the fire until he had to sleep....
Clawing his way up into the driver's seat, he wrestled his seatbelt back on, starting up the car and pointedly not looking into the rearview mirror. The cigarette was back in the ashtray again - hadn't he just dropped it? - still burning...tears coursing down his cheeks, he threw it out the car door before slamming it shut.
His bleeding hands gripped the wheel, white-knuckled, slick and sliding with blood.
I have to get home. I have to get home. Mister Stewart is waiting. I just have to get home. I have to get home I have to get home IhavetogethomeIhavetogethome He started to drive, taking the back roads, the sound of his rasping breath and the squelching of the blood around the pedals his only companions, one thought, one single, dark thought trying to break through his little mantra the whole way.....
"...You are going mad."