Tim W█████ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
postictal) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2015-01-23 02:46 pm
postictal) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-01-23 02:46 pm
Entry tags:
regards [open]
God, not this again.
Unclenching his jaw floods his mouth with a tacky, iron wash of blood, head pounding with that familiar dull ring. Drawing his senses into a hazy knot, Tim places himself.
Fluorescent lights. Mirror. Bathroom floor. Headache. Okay. So that’s. Not good. Headache means -
“God damn it,” Tim hisses. He is so done with this. It’s been months since last time. He rolls onto his stomach, palms pressed against the cool white tile, levering himself to his knees, that’s step one, then to his feet. One white-knuckled hand grips the sink’s cheap porcelain edge as he hauls himself upward. He can do this. He can think past the blinding agony of his knees right now.
He really doesn’t want to look into the mirror. It’ll confirm what he’s suspecting or deny it, and either option suffuses him with dread.
Well, whatever. He’ll get it over with. So yeah, this is so plainly the kind of thing Alex would film, something appropriately hipster-y and pretentious and beyond fucking cliché, Tim, I want you to look into the mirror and ~contemplate your life~, a million years and half a dozen inaccurate diagnoses ago, wow so that’s not a train of thought Tim needs. Big red neon sign there. But it distracts him from steeling himself to stare at the mirror because when he comes back to himself, he’s already staring at it.
“Mm, good for you,” his reflection says dully, the pale and trembling thing with sunken eyes and the thin dried dribble of scarlet running from nose to upper lip, blazing against the ashen of his skin. He groans and leans forward until both elbows are supporting his weight on the sink’s immutable edges, two fingers against each temple and both thumbs hooked under his jaw in a symmetrical downward tilt of silent agony. His forehead comes to rest against the mirror, eyes slipped shut. Focus on that sloppy pyramid of fixed points, good job. “Good job, buddy.”
Both eyes crack open dazedly for a second look at the same time everything changes. The abrupt lack of sink-related support sends Tim smacking face-first into the ground. Into the - grass? Wait. For the second time in what feels like as many minutes but probably isn’t, Tim forces himself upright into a disorienting sway. The brilliant contrast of the midday sun versus the clinical glare of cheap fluorescent bulbs sears his retinas for a minute, intensifying the scraping spike of double-edged pain behind his eyes. His vision fades into a cluster of photobleached splotches for a terrifying minute until everything clears.
So this is definitely a city? And he was definitely in his bathroom?
A hollow clap resounds in his chest as Tim sits on the patch of grass with a weary bump. So, again. Again. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to assess. How many weeks has it been, how many miles from home, what complete bullshit did he do this time, and oh, look at that, his nose is bleeding again. Makes sense. Why wouldn’t it be?
Not this again.
Unclenching his jaw floods his mouth with a tacky, iron wash of blood, head pounding with that familiar dull ring. Drawing his senses into a hazy knot, Tim places himself.
Fluorescent lights. Mirror. Bathroom floor. Headache. Okay. So that’s. Not good. Headache means -
“God damn it,” Tim hisses. He is so done with this. It’s been months since last time. He rolls onto his stomach, palms pressed against the cool white tile, levering himself to his knees, that’s step one, then to his feet. One white-knuckled hand grips the sink’s cheap porcelain edge as he hauls himself upward. He can do this. He can think past the blinding agony of his knees right now.
He really doesn’t want to look into the mirror. It’ll confirm what he’s suspecting or deny it, and either option suffuses him with dread.
Well, whatever. He’ll get it over with. So yeah, this is so plainly the kind of thing Alex would film, something appropriately hipster-y and pretentious and beyond fucking cliché, Tim, I want you to look into the mirror and ~contemplate your life~, a million years and half a dozen inaccurate diagnoses ago, wow so that’s not a train of thought Tim needs. Big red neon sign there. But it distracts him from steeling himself to stare at the mirror because when he comes back to himself, he’s already staring at it.
“Mm, good for you,” his reflection says dully, the pale and trembling thing with sunken eyes and the thin dried dribble of scarlet running from nose to upper lip, blazing against the ashen of his skin. He groans and leans forward until both elbows are supporting his weight on the sink’s immutable edges, two fingers against each temple and both thumbs hooked under his jaw in a symmetrical downward tilt of silent agony. His forehead comes to rest against the mirror, eyes slipped shut. Focus on that sloppy pyramid of fixed points, good job. “Good job, buddy.”
Both eyes crack open dazedly for a second look at the same time everything changes. The abrupt lack of sink-related support sends Tim smacking face-first into the ground. Into the - grass? Wait. For the second time in what feels like as many minutes but probably isn’t, Tim forces himself upright into a disorienting sway. The brilliant contrast of the midday sun versus the clinical glare of cheap fluorescent bulbs sears his retinas for a minute, intensifying the scraping spike of double-edged pain behind his eyes. His vision fades into a cluster of photobleached splotches for a terrifying minute until everything clears.
So this is definitely a city? And he was definitely in his bathroom?
A hollow clap resounds in his chest as Tim sits on the patch of grass with a weary bump. So, again. Again. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to assess. How many weeks has it been, how many miles from home, what complete bullshit did he do this time, and oh, look at that, his nose is bleeding again. Makes sense. Why wouldn’t it be?
Not this again.
no subject
"What about, like." The half-formed sentence chops itself off and Tim has to start over. How can he not be specific about this? "'Cause I have this thing, like, I need to take my, just this prescription pretty regularly. They've got places where I can refill that, right?"
no subject
"You'll need to get a phone," he says. "If you had one it won't work now. He reaches into his back pocket to check for his wallet. "I know a couple places you can get 'em for relatively cheap, and there's people who can connect you up to the rifty network. I could probably front you the money for it, if that's okay with you. You wouldn't owe me or anything. My, uh, situation - money's not really an issue." Best to just leave it there.
no subject
"If you're really okay with it, I guess." He shrugs, cautious and noncommittal. Contact to authorities might be helpful, maybe, but if he can help it he won't be connecting to anyone. Alone. Apart. That's where he's best at. "Got a little cash but, you know, think I'll save that for a hotel."
Cities, though. Tightly-packed, overpopulated, confined. Avoidance is going to be an issue unless Tim can wall himself up, make himself so thoroughly unlikeable...Tim can manage that, yeah. Managed it well enough in high school.
no subject
Set him up, get his information, and cut him loose. That's basically what happened with him. He'd had Jodie, that had been nice, but - just the feeling he gets from Tim, something that projects loner.
He jerks his head to indicate follow me and starts walking.
no subject
He brushes his knees off and follows. His life never changes, just the backdrop. He'll do what he's always done. He'll keep his head down. He'll be Completely Normal.
Everything will be fine.