His phone has been going off a lot today. Each time it's some different person Jay's never heard off complaining about - apparently, having the flu. Alllll right then. Is that really this newsworthy? Poor fuckin' them.
At least he can't get sick like this. He drifts away from his phone, out of his dark apartment, and over to Tim's. Still empty. He should be home from work soon.
He feels pathetic, like a stay-at-home spouse. He has to find some way to entertain himself that isn't just... drifting around.
Possibilities elude him. He was never good at filling his time.
He doesn't know why he does it, but: he floats into Tim's bedroom. There isn't much to see. Unmade bed, bottle of pills, some clothes.
The jacket.
He looks at it dully, hanging on the doorknob of Tim's closet. He wonders why Tim even keeps it. How did it even - end up here, with him? Was he wearing it when he came through?
Come to that, where did the mask come from?
The more he thinks about it, the more he feels an uncomfortable prickle running through his non-body, dread pooling in the core of his being.
He moves slowly into the closet.
It's small, and there's nothing in it apart from a few hangers, and a shoebox on the floor.
Jay stares at it for a while, then lowers himself down. He reaches out and rests his fingers over it, over the lid, and tries to let them settle there rather than pass through. It takes a lot of patience, but after a long time he starts to feel it beneath his fingers, solid, something to touch.
Okay. Yeah. He can do this.
He curls his fingers slowly and lifts.
It comes up. His grip is tenuous but it lasts long enough to tip the lid off, onto the floor.
He shouldn't be able to to feel his stomach lurch but he does. He recoils from it, that face he knows too well staring up at him. Why does he have it, why does he keep it?
He hears the door open, Tim coming in, but he can't bring himself leave the closet, still crouched in there, staring at the mask.
October 2nd
At least he can't get sick like this. He drifts away from his phone, out of his dark apartment, and over to Tim's. Still empty. He should be home from work soon.
He feels pathetic, like a stay-at-home spouse. He has to find some way to entertain himself that isn't just... drifting around.
Possibilities elude him. He was never good at filling his time.
He doesn't know why he does it, but: he floats into Tim's bedroom. There isn't much to see. Unmade bed, bottle of pills, some clothes.
The jacket.
He looks at it dully, hanging on the doorknob of Tim's closet. He wonders why Tim even keeps it. How did it even - end up here, with him? Was he wearing it when he came through?
Come to that, where did the mask come from?
The more he thinks about it, the more he feels an uncomfortable prickle running through his non-body, dread pooling in the core of his being.
He moves slowly into the closet.
It's small, and there's nothing in it apart from a few hangers, and a shoebox on the floor.
Jay stares at it for a while, then lowers himself down. He reaches out and rests his fingers over it, over the lid, and tries to let them settle there rather than pass through. It takes a lot of patience, but after a long time he starts to feel it beneath his fingers, solid, something to touch.
Okay. Yeah. He can do this.
He curls his fingers slowly and lifts.
It comes up. His grip is tenuous but it lasts long enough to tip the lid off, onto the floor.
He shouldn't be able to to feel his stomach lurch but he does. He recoils from it, that face he knows too well staring up at him. Why does he have it, why does he keep it?
He hears the door open, Tim coming in, but he can't bring himself leave the closet, still crouched in there, staring at the mask.