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rainbowfic2015-07-24 04:32 pm
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2015-07-24 04:32 pm
Milk Bottle 8, Alien Green 20
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Spenser
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Milk Bottle, Summer Carnival), Glitter (http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/axis-mundi)
Colors: Milk Bottle 8 (Fire Eater), Alien Green 20 (He's the most dangerous man alive, not so much because he believes in his actions, but because he believes these actions are the only ones life allows him.)
Word Count: 1,013
Rating: R
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Spenser can take what he dishes out.
Note: Almost hit the daily post limit for the first time ever with this one, but then it was midnight and I decided to finish cleaning it up in the morning. :P Comments of all styles welcome!
Two-Way Street
The struggle took us outside, into the rain. There’s mud on my pants, and blood in my hair, and I’m alive, and he’s dead. And we’re both equally wrung-out and wet.
He put up a fight. He really wanted to live, but I’m the one that did, and holy fuck, is that wasted on me. But, it’s the way things worked out. Things have a way of doing that.
Pushing up against me, trying to live, he smacked me in the head with a pry bar. Not hard enough to rattle my brain, but just enough to gouge my scalp, make me bleed all over my shirt and glasses. And now I can’t see anything, but I guess there isn’t anything to see, so whatever.
I push my hair out of my face, then pause over the wound.
And dig my fingers in real good, so it hurts.
When a target turns the tables and attacks me, I don’t worry about getting out alive.
I only want it to hurt.
If it doesn’t, I’ll make it hurt myself.
*****
I won’t try to justify anything I’ve done. That’s just worthless, pretentious, come-to-Jesus bullshit someone only recites when they want to look like a better person. And I have nothing invested in looking like a better person. There might be a passing interest in being one, but that ship sailed a long time ago. I got what I got, I am who I am, and I don’t have my shit together enough to even think of any excuses, even if I was of the mind to make them.
But, I do have a little something to say for myself. It won’t make things right, or take it all back, or save my figurative soul. All it does is give everything the barest amount of context:
I’ve never done anything to anyone that I wouldn’t do to myself.
And I really mean that.
Fuck, in a lot of cases, I actually made good on it.
I know how all the lower settings on all the devices I’ve built feel. The way I see it, I’d be really shitty at this if I didn’t. “This” can refer to either the hitman thing or the engineering thing, by the way. I need to know the relative effectiveness of each new model. And I need to know how it might feel to die.
By now, I think I do, and I’m pretty sure it’s no worse than some other things.
I really mean that, too.
When I’m out on the job, I always want to tell the person that it’s okay if they want to defend themselves. To come at me with everything they have. Even if I’m the one who winds up dead. It’s just as finished either way. And I can never stop anything until I’m finished, so by all means, finish me. Crush my head with a sledgehammer. Slice me open and pull out all my guts. Strangle me, cut me into little bits, back over me with your car. Whatever gets the job done. I don’t care anymore.
And I don’t think, even in the very beginning, I ever worried about getting out of those situations unharmed. But lately, I’m giving less and less thought to getting out of them at all. Which puts me in a really fuckin’ weird place. “I just do this to survive” is one of those bullshit justifications. If I don’t even want to survive, why am I still doing this?
Would you believe me if the answer was “I started, and now I can’t stop?”
I can never stop anything until I’m finished.
Because that’s how it feels. Like I’m on this blind rush to nowhere, going too fast to change directions or throw on the breaks. I race ahead of myself. I wander through my days, I fuck with my latest projects, I go to work, I do it again. If I sleep, I wake up. I think about dying, but I can’t pause long enough to actually do something about it.
I do it all over and over again, and I’ve mostly forgotten why. But, I keep doing it, because I honestly can’t think of anything else.
Finish me.
Maybe I mistook knowing how to tear things apart for knowing how they go together, and I just got confused. Maybe I realized that all I’m really good for is breaking things. No matter how much I tried to dedicate myself to fixing them. And from that point on, the only command I could give myself was, smash. Because if that’s what I’m here to do, I might as well do it. I got what I got, I am who I am.
Like I said, it’s nothing I wouldn’t do to myself.
Back when I was still a mechanic, I did this thing where I’d burn my arms because it impressed people. But then I kept on doing it, even when no one else was around. Even to this day. I guess the one I was really impressing was myself. I liked seeing how long I could drag it out, how long I could twist around in pain before I had to back off the heat and pull away.
So, maybe this is a little like that?
Maybe I’ve just forgotten how to pull away.
*****
When I can’t take it anymore, I untangle my sticky hand from my hair and hold it up to my face. It’s red, and it’s hot, and I’m leaking out of myself, getting everywhere, making a mess.
I wipe my hand on my pants.
Through the blood, and the rain, and all the static that never leaves my head, I look at the man on the ground. Nerves fried, wet burns still steaming from cold drops hitting hot flesh, face sinking in the mud. About to drown in it, on the unlikely off-chance that he isn‘t already dead.
I think that I wouldn’t mind being where he was.
That it would be easier to dismantle me than put me back together.
starphotographsStory: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Spenser
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Milk Bottle, Summer Carnival), Glitter (http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/axis-mundi)
Colors: Milk Bottle 8 (Fire Eater), Alien Green 20 (He's the most dangerous man alive, not so much because he believes in his actions, but because he believes these actions are the only ones life allows him.)
Word Count: 1,013
Rating: R
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Spenser can take what he dishes out.
Note: Almost hit the daily post limit for the first time ever with this one, but then it was midnight and I decided to finish cleaning it up in the morning. :P Comments of all styles welcome!
The struggle took us outside, into the rain. There’s mud on my pants, and blood in my hair, and I’m alive, and he’s dead. And we’re both equally wrung-out and wet.
He put up a fight. He really wanted to live, but I’m the one that did, and holy fuck, is that wasted on me. But, it’s the way things worked out. Things have a way of doing that.
Pushing up against me, trying to live, he smacked me in the head with a pry bar. Not hard enough to rattle my brain, but just enough to gouge my scalp, make me bleed all over my shirt and glasses. And now I can’t see anything, but I guess there isn’t anything to see, so whatever.
I push my hair out of my face, then pause over the wound.
And dig my fingers in real good, so it hurts.
When a target turns the tables and attacks me, I don’t worry about getting out alive.
I only want it to hurt.
If it doesn’t, I’ll make it hurt myself.
I won’t try to justify anything I’ve done. That’s just worthless, pretentious, come-to-Jesus bullshit someone only recites when they want to look like a better person. And I have nothing invested in looking like a better person. There might be a passing interest in being one, but that ship sailed a long time ago. I got what I got, I am who I am, and I don’t have my shit together enough to even think of any excuses, even if I was of the mind to make them.
But, I do have a little something to say for myself. It won’t make things right, or take it all back, or save my figurative soul. All it does is give everything the barest amount of context:
I’ve never done anything to anyone that I wouldn’t do to myself.
And I really mean that.
Fuck, in a lot of cases, I actually made good on it.
I know how all the lower settings on all the devices I’ve built feel. The way I see it, I’d be really shitty at this if I didn’t. “This” can refer to either the hitman thing or the engineering thing, by the way. I need to know the relative effectiveness of each new model. And I need to know how it might feel to die.
By now, I think I do, and I’m pretty sure it’s no worse than some other things.
I really mean that, too.
When I’m out on the job, I always want to tell the person that it’s okay if they want to defend themselves. To come at me with everything they have. Even if I’m the one who winds up dead. It’s just as finished either way. And I can never stop anything until I’m finished, so by all means, finish me. Crush my head with a sledgehammer. Slice me open and pull out all my guts. Strangle me, cut me into little bits, back over me with your car. Whatever gets the job done. I don’t care anymore.
And I don’t think, even in the very beginning, I ever worried about getting out of those situations unharmed. But lately, I’m giving less and less thought to getting out of them at all. Which puts me in a really fuckin’ weird place. “I just do this to survive” is one of those bullshit justifications. If I don’t even want to survive, why am I still doing this?
Would you believe me if the answer was “I started, and now I can’t stop?”
I can never stop anything until I’m finished.
Because that’s how it feels. Like I’m on this blind rush to nowhere, going too fast to change directions or throw on the breaks. I race ahead of myself. I wander through my days, I fuck with my latest projects, I go to work, I do it again. If I sleep, I wake up. I think about dying, but I can’t pause long enough to actually do something about it.
I do it all over and over again, and I’ve mostly forgotten why. But, I keep doing it, because I honestly can’t think of anything else.
Finish me.
Maybe I mistook knowing how to tear things apart for knowing how they go together, and I just got confused. Maybe I realized that all I’m really good for is breaking things. No matter how much I tried to dedicate myself to fixing them. And from that point on, the only command I could give myself was, smash. Because if that’s what I’m here to do, I might as well do it. I got what I got, I am who I am.
Like I said, it’s nothing I wouldn’t do to myself.
Back when I was still a mechanic, I did this thing where I’d burn my arms because it impressed people. But then I kept on doing it, even when no one else was around. Even to this day. I guess the one I was really impressing was myself. I liked seeing how long I could drag it out, how long I could twist around in pain before I had to back off the heat and pull away.
So, maybe this is a little like that?
Maybe I’ve just forgotten how to pull away.
When I can’t take it anymore, I untangle my sticky hand from my hair and hold it up to my face. It’s red, and it’s hot, and I’m leaking out of myself, getting everywhere, making a mess.
I wipe my hand on my pants.
Through the blood, and the rain, and all the static that never leaves my head, I look at the man on the ground. Nerves fried, wet burns still steaming from cold drops hitting hot flesh, face sinking in the mud. About to drown in it, on the unlikely off-chance that he isn‘t already dead.
I think that I wouldn’t mind being where he was.
That it would be easier to dismantle me than put me back together.
no subject
no subject
Man... I can't feel bad for Spencer, but I can ache for him a little bit.
no subject
I'm not generally a fan of this kind of visceral imagery but it seemed really necessary here, and also, I want to wrap Spenser up in a blanket, feed him hot chocolate, and put a cuddly kitty on his lap.
no subject
And thoroughly enjoy your blood. I just- the way you write violence and the minds of violent people is deeply enjoyable to me. It's like- you, as a writer, don't judge them. They only judge themselves and whatever's there is so untainted with things like social mores and...
Wait a sec. Flail incoming. Must... stop... a sec... and get it... out.
*FLAIL*