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rainbowfic2015-08-15 11:14 pm
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2015-08-15 11:14 pm
Baby Pink 27
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Summer Carnival, Lilith Fair Village Stage: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTTwlAT_AwU
Characters: Spenser
Colors: Baby Pink 27 (It's a vicious cycle, but it's not a vicious cycle I'm willing to break.)
Word Count: 763
Rating: Highish PG-13?
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: When all you have left is a hammer, you stop caring which problems are nails.
Note: Something from towards the end of Spenser’s organ trafficking career.
Smashed
It’s pretty nuts, how you can do something once because you didn’t know what the fuck else to do, and then you can just kick back and watch it turn into a compulsion. Before you even fully register that you did it the first time, you’re doing it every day. Then it creeps through the hours and takes up more and more of your time.
Right now, for me, it’s breaking windows.
I started because I felt myself about to flip out, and…
…Well, I guess I flipped out. Before I could stop myself, I’d put my fist through glass so dusty that I knew no one had been behind it in years. I was only vaguely aware that my hand was bleeding, and the hard splintering sound was playing over and over again in my head. And I’m not sure if it worked, but, when I crashed out in my car and woke up feeling the exact same way, I went out and did it again. Because I didn’t know what the fuck else to do. The third time, I took off my shirt and wrapped it around my hand, so I wouldn’t cut myself up. This let me punch out multiple windows in a row, and it was all over from there. I’ve been wandering the streets, shirtless and freezing in the dead of winter, ever since.
Hardly anyone lives here. You can’t get in trouble for breaking something no one gives a fuck about.
Where have I heard that one before?
Actually, I didn’t hear it, I just extrapolated it. I looked at the doctor’s computer, saw two versions of myself, listed like products. Next time I get in the front seat of his car, he’s not going to take me out on another job. He’s either going to send me to work for someone else, or take me to the facility, to the warehouses. Where I’ll be strung up with wires, laid out in white sheets, lined up in a long row with the rest of the barely-living-dead.
Where no one will look for me.
You can’t get in trouble for breaking something no one gives a fuck about.
But that’s… Well, I don’t know when that is. All that I know is that it isn’t now, and now is where I am.
And, now, I’m wandering down un-maintained streets, shirt wound around my right hand, smashing pane after pane of dirty glass, getting out of breath without realizing it, rolling accusations over and over in my head like a mantra.
You’re shit, you’re crazy, you’re trash, you’ve brought yourself to this point, it’s your own fault, you’re stupid, you’re vicious, what the fuck is wrong with you, someone should shoot you in the head, someone should push you in front of a train, someone should put you out of your misery, right now, quick, before you can do any more damage, you‘re shit, you‘re crazy, you‘re trash…
I’ve run myself ragged in my own head. It took me several minutes to realize I was now trying to punch out a car window. Car windows are stronger. You can’t just shatter them, but my hand didn’t know that, and now it feels bruised. Smashed. Mangled, like I could unwrap it and see splintered bones jutting out of swollen, chewed-up skin.
I need to check.
I’m also fucking cold.
So I unwrap my hand.
(The image of it broken and useless flashes through my mind again.)
(But I think I’m alright?)
My knuckles are turning purple, but everything is where it should be. Nothing crushed into fragments or dangling by just a few slimy fibers. My shirt is worn-out and ancient, and now shot through with little jagged rips. I put it on, and feel no warmer.
It dawns on my that this is the same shirt I wrapped around my hand before I broke the third window. That I’ve been taking it on and off for days.
That I don’t think I’ve slept since then, either.
What the hell did I even do in all this time?
Well, that’s easy:
I broke a bunch of fucking windows.
And I guess I’ll keep on breaking them.
I’ll keep smashing myself against everything else, until I can smash me back together.
You fucking shithead, do you really think it works that way, haven’t you learned anything, can’t you see it’s pointless, it hasn’t worked so far, nothing fucking works at all, you’re shit, you’re crazy, you’re trash…
You can’t get in trouble for breaking something no one gives a fuck about.
starphotographsStory: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Summer Carnival, Lilith Fair Village Stage: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTTwlAT_AwU
Characters: Spenser
Colors: Baby Pink 27 (It's a vicious cycle, but it's not a vicious cycle I'm willing to break.)
Word Count: 763
Rating: Highish PG-13?
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: When all you have left is a hammer, you stop caring which problems are nails.
Note: Something from towards the end of Spenser’s organ trafficking career.
It’s pretty nuts, how you can do something once because you didn’t know what the fuck else to do, and then you can just kick back and watch it turn into a compulsion. Before you even fully register that you did it the first time, you’re doing it every day. Then it creeps through the hours and takes up more and more of your time.
Right now, for me, it’s breaking windows.
I started because I felt myself about to flip out, and…
…Well, I guess I flipped out. Before I could stop myself, I’d put my fist through glass so dusty that I knew no one had been behind it in years. I was only vaguely aware that my hand was bleeding, and the hard splintering sound was playing over and over again in my head. And I’m not sure if it worked, but, when I crashed out in my car and woke up feeling the exact same way, I went out and did it again. Because I didn’t know what the fuck else to do. The third time, I took off my shirt and wrapped it around my hand, so I wouldn’t cut myself up. This let me punch out multiple windows in a row, and it was all over from there. I’ve been wandering the streets, shirtless and freezing in the dead of winter, ever since.
Hardly anyone lives here. You can’t get in trouble for breaking something no one gives a fuck about.
Where have I heard that one before?
Actually, I didn’t hear it, I just extrapolated it. I looked at the doctor’s computer, saw two versions of myself, listed like products. Next time I get in the front seat of his car, he’s not going to take me out on another job. He’s either going to send me to work for someone else, or take me to the facility, to the warehouses. Where I’ll be strung up with wires, laid out in white sheets, lined up in a long row with the rest of the barely-living-dead.
Where no one will look for me.
You can’t get in trouble for breaking something no one gives a fuck about.
But that’s… Well, I don’t know when that is. All that I know is that it isn’t now, and now is where I am.
And, now, I’m wandering down un-maintained streets, shirt wound around my right hand, smashing pane after pane of dirty glass, getting out of breath without realizing it, rolling accusations over and over in my head like a mantra.
You’re shit, you’re crazy, you’re trash, you’ve brought yourself to this point, it’s your own fault, you’re stupid, you’re vicious, what the fuck is wrong with you, someone should shoot you in the head, someone should push you in front of a train, someone should put you out of your misery, right now, quick, before you can do any more damage, you‘re shit, you‘re crazy, you‘re trash…
I’ve run myself ragged in my own head. It took me several minutes to realize I was now trying to punch out a car window. Car windows are stronger. You can’t just shatter them, but my hand didn’t know that, and now it feels bruised. Smashed. Mangled, like I could unwrap it and see splintered bones jutting out of swollen, chewed-up skin.
I need to check.
I’m also fucking cold.
So I unwrap my hand.
(The image of it broken and useless flashes through my mind again.)
(But I think I’m alright?)
My knuckles are turning purple, but everything is where it should be. Nothing crushed into fragments or dangling by just a few slimy fibers. My shirt is worn-out and ancient, and now shot through with little jagged rips. I put it on, and feel no warmer.
It dawns on my that this is the same shirt I wrapped around my hand before I broke the third window. That I’ve been taking it on and off for days.
That I don’t think I’ve slept since then, either.
What the hell did I even do in all this time?
Well, that’s easy:
I broke a bunch of fucking windows.
And I guess I’ll keep on breaking them.
I’ll keep smashing myself against everything else, until I can smash me back together.
You fucking shithead, do you really think it works that way, haven’t you learned anything, can’t you see it’s pointless, it hasn’t worked so far, nothing fucking works at all, you’re shit, you’re crazy, you’re trash…
You can’t get in trouble for breaking something no one gives a fuck about.
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