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)
bigapplesauce2015-03-09 07:31 pm
postictal) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-03-09 07:31 pm
Entry tags:
sweet chemical indifference, predisposed to perpetual sickness [open to multiple]
It’s barely been ten days, and he’s already halved the amount of precious white capsules he has on hand, and it’s the compressing, painfully familiar fear worming its way through his chest, down his throat, that drives Tim out of the hotel in desperate search for the clinic he knows has come down to his last hope. A medical center specifically for rifties should be capable of figuring out what the hell is in his medication, and from there somehow get him more of it before anything goes wrong. They've got to have dealt with some pretty weird demands, right? Maybe they can just - synthesize it somehow. Tim doesn't know how that process works. It's just medicine, it's one part anticonvulsant and one part impossible-terror-be-gone; how hard can it be?
Things can be different here. Things can be different, and better, and normal, and right now Tim doesn't even want normal. He just wants to not wake up in some anonymous forest clearing with weeks of missing time scraped out of his head. That's it. That's his bare minimum.
God, please let him find a way out of this head.
So. Clinic. This is his plan of action. He just has to actually get there, but he's doing a great job of it so far. It'll be okay. It'll be fine. No more missing time or coughing fits or getting his brain hijacked or seeing things in the corners of his vision. He's gonna be fine.
Irony nearly doubles him over with a clenching knot of pressure to the chest when he's slammed in the lungs by a fresh surge of ragged coughing, which not only collects a whole lot of weird looks from the other pedestrians but earns him a wide walking radius as well. Oh, that's nice. He doesn't dignify any of them with a glare, just keeps shuffling forward, trying without any real success to suppress the coughs that leave his shoulders quivering and him staggering along like he's contracted a deadly plague of some kind.
[ooc: Tim needs to socialize more, so he's taking a nice long route from a hotel by Central Park to the rifty clinic and back again. Feel free to run into him at any point. Don't mind the coughing, it's just, er - chronic.]
Things can be different here. Things can be different, and better, and normal, and right now Tim doesn't even want normal. He just wants to not wake up in some anonymous forest clearing with weeks of missing time scraped out of his head. That's it. That's his bare minimum.
God, please let him find a way out of this head.
So. Clinic. This is his plan of action. He just has to actually get there, but he's doing a great job of it so far. It'll be okay. It'll be fine. No more missing time or coughing fits or getting his brain hijacked or seeing things in the corners of his vision. He's gonna be fine.
Irony nearly doubles him over with a clenching knot of pressure to the chest when he's slammed in the lungs by a fresh surge of ragged coughing, which not only collects a whole lot of weird looks from the other pedestrians but earns him a wide walking radius as well. Oh, that's nice. He doesn't dignify any of them with a glare, just keeps shuffling forward, trying without any real success to suppress the coughs that leave his shoulders quivering and him staggering along like he's contracted a deadly plague of some kind.
[ooc: Tim needs to socialize more, so he's taking a nice long route from a hotel by Central Park to the rifty clinic and back again. Feel free to run into him at any point. Don't mind the coughing, it's just, er - chronic.]