Jay Merrick (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deadeyedchild) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2015-06-28 01:00 pm
deadeyedchild) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-06-28 01:00 pm
so I am grateful for this, this consciousness oasis
[OOC: Whooooo sorry this is so long. It is also spoilerific, if that matters to anyone haha.
Overall TW for gun violence and blood (in the main post), and pain, panic, PTSD, emotional surrender and coping with assumed impending death.]
Get back here! screams Alex, his voice reverberating, crackling, distorting through the woods.
Jay runs.
What! Alex shouts, challenging, it always sounded a little silly when Jay first heard it, this awkward nerd posturing in the woods to forces stronger than him, sure, it sounded silly before he'd seen, felt, what Alex was capable of.
The next time I see you I'll kill you!
Jay runs, frantic, his breathing labored, darting haphazardly between trees, he has to keep moving because it'll find him if he stands still for an instant, it will or Alex will, either way, he'll be dead.
He takes a sharp turn through branches that seem to be reaching out to seize him, and suddenly there it is, the gaping, glowing mouth of the tunnel where nothing good ever happened, he skids to a halt and he doesn't want to turn back but going forward is not an option, not here; he turns, out of the tunnel, into
into
a hallway
lower level of Benedict Hall, where everything is dirty and cracked with water damage, and at the end of the hall stands Alex, staring him down, gun in hand, gun raised and turned on him but Jay doesn't run, doesn't cower; this is the first time, he realizes, the first time he's seen Alex since before this began, the first time he remembers, because every meeting in between has been scraped out of his memory. This is it, the endgame, all he ever really wanted was to find Alex and help him, like he wanted, like he asked.
"Alex," he says softly, taking a shaky step forward. "Alex?"
The gun goes off and everything splits, the hiss of static filling his head, blurring his vision (or are those tears), it hurts so much, so fucking much, he can't - he has to - he staggers away, no clear aim, just away, into that little room, the little room with basement windows, blood all over his hand, oh god, he's going to die here, he's going to diewithout knowing he forgave Tim, without Tim knowing it alone
not alone
it's there, in the corner, watching, waiting, reaching out to take him, no no no no
He wakes up, abruptly, soaked in sweat, his chest seizing up. Can't breathe, he can't breathe. It's okay, it's all right, calm down, just a dream, just the same fucking dream you've been having every night, with only minor variations
why does he still hurt so much?
He struggles to get out of bed, twisted up in his sheets, falls face-first onto the floor. He curls inward, oh god it hurts so much, it hurts just like it did but it shouldn't, he's awake now, he's - his hand is warm and wet, he looks at it expecting blood, but there's nothing. Just sweat there too.
Rise above it, asshole. Stand up. Take a shower. Make some coffee. What time is it even?
The blinking light of his clock tells him it's just after three in the morning. He struggles to get up and he can't oh god what is wrong with him, what is wrong?!
"Tim?" he gasps, frantic and scared, but Tim isn't here anymore, he moved out, remember?
He's bleeding, maybe internally, something's wrong, something has to be wrong, because he can't breathe right, can't move, can't - he's dying, he knows he is because he remembers dying, remembers every second of it, it was lonely and frightening and now it's happening again and he doesn't understand why.
He gropes desperately for his phone and fires off a text.
Overall TW for gun violence and blood (in the main post), and pain, panic, PTSD, emotional surrender and coping with assumed impending death.]
Get back here! screams Alex, his voice reverberating, crackling, distorting through the woods.
Jay runs.
What! Alex shouts, challenging, it always sounded a little silly when Jay first heard it, this awkward nerd posturing in the woods to forces stronger than him, sure, it sounded silly before he'd seen, felt, what Alex was capable of.
The next time I see you I'll kill you!
Jay runs, frantic, his breathing labored, darting haphazardly between trees, he has to keep moving because it'll find him if he stands still for an instant, it will or Alex will, either way, he'll be dead.
He takes a sharp turn through branches that seem to be reaching out to seize him, and suddenly there it is, the gaping, glowing mouth of the tunnel where nothing good ever happened, he skids to a halt and he doesn't want to turn back but going forward is not an option, not here; he turns, out of the tunnel, into
into
a hallway
lower level of Benedict Hall, where everything is dirty and cracked with water damage, and at the end of the hall stands Alex, staring him down, gun in hand, gun raised and turned on him but Jay doesn't run, doesn't cower; this is the first time, he realizes, the first time he's seen Alex since before this began, the first time he remembers, because every meeting in between has been scraped out of his memory. This is it, the endgame, all he ever really wanted was to find Alex and help him, like he wanted, like he asked.
"Alex," he says softly, taking a shaky step forward. "Alex?"
The gun goes off and everything splits, the hiss of static filling his head, blurring his vision (or are those tears), it hurts so much, so fucking much, he can't - he has to - he staggers away, no clear aim, just away, into that little room, the little room with basement windows, blood all over his hand, oh god, he's going to die here, he's going to die
not alone
it's there, in the corner, watching, waiting, reaching out to take him, no no no no
He wakes up, abruptly, soaked in sweat, his chest seizing up. Can't breathe, he can't breathe. It's okay, it's all right, calm down, just a dream, just the same fucking dream you've been having every night, with only minor variations
why does he still hurt so much?
He struggles to get out of bed, twisted up in his sheets, falls face-first onto the floor. He curls inward, oh god it hurts so much, it hurts just like it did but it shouldn't, he's awake now, he's - his hand is warm and wet, he looks at it expecting blood, but there's nothing. Just sweat there too.
Rise above it, asshole. Stand up. Take a shower. Make some coffee. What time is it even?
The blinking light of his clock tells him it's just after three in the morning. He struggles to get up and he can't oh god what is wrong with him, what is wrong?!
"Tim?" he gasps, frantic and scared, but Tim isn't here anymore, he moved out, remember?
He's bleeding, maybe internally, something's wrong, something has to be wrong, because he can't breathe right, can't move, can't - he's dying, he knows he is because he remembers dying, remembers every second of it, it was lonely and frightening and now it's happening again and he doesn't understand why.
He gropes desperately for his phone and fires off a text.
no subject
Stay with me buddy, he tries to say it but the words creak out rusty and soundless. It's the same, it's always the same. It's like every nightmare, every time he's seen the footage scrubbed back and replayed.
It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.
Liar. Liar. Liar.
The thready little pulse fluttering in one of those too-pale, too-thin wrists stutters and flickers out.
It always happens like this, doesn't it.
Their endings were always going to be afterthoughts, pained scratches stitched over something achingly, profoundly unremarkable until one or both of them were nothing more than dead streaks on the ground.
no subject
He's more alert than he should be. Actually he's getting more alert all the time. His eyes slip shut and his arms and legs go limp, his heart gives out, but - he's still here, he can hear, or - sense? - Tim breathing. What's going on? Is he just trapped in his body now, is this what a coma is like?
And then his body is just gone. Blinks right out. Swept back up into some formless void.
But he knows he's here.
He still knows who he is.
Tim? he tries to say but nothing comes out, he is nothing, no body, just - consciousness, presence. Is he a fucking ghost now?
Whatever he is, he's adrift. Nowhere. Can't find Tim again. Can't find anything. Can't do anything. Inactive, intangible, but awake. Waiting. Fuck knows what for.
no subject
Tim supposes it makes sense.
The Rift must like to keep things tidy. Just like that thing that lurked in the fringes of their minds his mind now, just him again and whatever void it dwelled in. Maybe that's where Jay was always meant to go, and this was just the pit stop.
The fragments of the camera aren't fragments anymore, but the camera isn't a camera either. All the meticulously labeled cameras in Jay's careful stack have fallen apart, into sets of keys, plates, various household items, even an empty pasta box somewhere near the bottom, whatever items they were before Jay came along and altered the course of their structure.
Tim slides to the ground and folds his arms around his knees, head buried in them.
He never had a funeral for Jay before. He guesses this counts as a second chance after all.