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rainbowfic2016-07-07 11:12 pm
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2016-07-07 11:12 pm
Meme Party 40, Olympic Gold 8
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Opening Ceremonies), Canvas
Characters: Martin
Colors: Meme party 40 (I Have No Idea What I’m Doing), Olympic Gold 8 (winter)
Word Count: 1,200ish
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: How Martin got (mostly) back in his own head
Note: I KNOW I HAVEN’T POSTED IN FOREVER! BUT! ...Err, there is no “but.” I’ve mostly just been dicking around and playing Witcher. (Also, I take it you can do Olympic Gold and the parties together?)
Those Few Things I Still Have
He died at the beginning of summer. There’s still a book bent face-down on his desk. Boxes in the corner, moved from here to the new apartment and back, never opened. The laptop is open and dark, and I can still picture the argument he was having, bitten off in the middle, someone else getting the last word while the pressure shift drove the bent metal through his ribs. I think there was a cup with a film of juice in it, but someone must have taken it to the sink.
It’s winter now, and I, his body and whatever else is left, am occupying his bed. His bed is uncomfortable, but he had different standards. I’m stuck lying on my side because I have tubes sewn into me. There’s plastic under the sheet, so what the tubes can’t funnel away doesn’t drain into the mattress and fester. I’m told I can, if I want to, come downstairs and watch some TV. But, I don’t want to. I don’t want anything. Wanting things has become a noteworthy event.
The last time I wanted something, I got in a shouting match with my father. I wanted to go back to the hospital. Actually, I wanted to go back to school, but if I couldn’t do that, I probably couldn’t really be at home, either, so I might as well be where they could watch me. Admire the consolation prize, the A-for-effort I’ve become. They couldn’t conquer death, but they could at least make a dead thing sit halfway up and almost look them in the eye, so I guess that’s something, at least. I guess I’m something, but I’m not sure what. It isn’t what I was before.
And, in the hours when I’m actually there, this pisses me off like nothing else. I want to be who I was. I want to get the last word. If they actually brought me back, I damn well want to prove it. So I wanted to go back to school, but I was being ridiculous. I can’t stand up for more than a minute or two. I’m leaking out both sides. I’d be lying down in hallways, paper towels stuffed up my shirt, tubes dangling, snapping at everyone who went by that I’m back, I’m fine, I’m here and kicking ass like always, a puddle of my own fluids growing around me on the tiles.
I finally admit I don’t really belong at school anymore.
I don’t say that I think I belong on an autopsy table. Gloved hands unsticking the dressings, letting my incisions split open and gape, pulling out my wires. Documenting how they ultimately failed to put me back together. I’d do it all myself, if I had the energy.
But my heart's still beating, if not entirely under its own power, so that isn’t a place for me, either. The hospital took back my room and replaced me with someone else. The landlord at the apartment building where I lived for about half a week did the same.
So, I guess this is the only place I can be. But I don’t belong here, either.
I feel like a human-shaped pile of rotten meat, heaped under the sheets while the person I was sneaks out the window for the night.
I don’t think he’s coming back.
And now I’m stuck here, holding his shape, filling the bed so they don’t notice he’s gone. They’d worry and start to look for him. And they’d start by looking inside of me. I don’t know how to tell them he isn’t here.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without him.
I’m the only person who has to figure this out.
Most people, finding their bodies uninhabitable, fade into nothing and let the body start to decay. It’s easy. You don’t even feel it. You aren’t there.
I do, and I am. Most of the time.
Because, sometimes, I’m not there. And I feel that, too. I can’t explain it, so I don’t have much to say for myself.
That, out of everything, feels the strangest of all. Before all this, I always had something to say for myself. A quick response. A comment nobody asked for or wanted. The last word.
Now, I find myself staring at the far wall, measuring the hours by the color, dimensions, and position of the shining rectangle of light, feeling myself pulling away from everything. Like the entire concept of hours, for example. And whatever made me want to go back to school, or the hospital, anywhere but here. The person I was, and everything he had to say. Even the attachment to any of this is retreating into the middle distance.
Except, maybe that last one.
Because I don’t have much to say for myself, but I still think I have a lot of things to say for him. And I can’t let go of any of them; those few things I still have. I’m just too damn stubborn.
That, too, I still have. And cannot let go.
The light is blue, and hanging in the space between the wall and ceiling. Somewhere, in the world that slammed a door in my face but couldn’t keep me out for long, it’s getting dark. I pull myself up from the stained sheets, the afternoon’s leakage dried in concentric rings. The desk chair is just a few feet away. I can probably make it. Make it, or fall and smack my head and be done with it all. I can’t lose.
I fall, but I don’t smack my head. One of the drainage bags bursts under me, slimy, sweatpants drenched, horrible dead smell. I’ll sit in the shower when I’m done. No big deal. I pull myself into the chair, and wait for the computer to turn on, staring at the ceiling.
I’m only half here. I’m cold and wet and leaking. I don’t have a pulse. But I guess I’ll get used to it. What am I, if I can’t even do that? The game is on.
Session resumed. Same blank reply box, waiting for me all these months. I shift in my sticky seat, and start typing.
Listen, asshole, I don’t know what you’re even trying to say, but from here, it looks like “I’m a fucking moron who can’t read, and I shoved my shift key up my ass because someone said they’d give me a nickel if I did. I eat dirt and have a bunch of bees where my brain is supposed to be.” We’ve all explained this to you a thousand times, so I’d suggest you either get your shit together or go walk into traffic.
(I mean, by now, you might have walked into traffic, for all I know. I certainly wouldn’t doubt it.)
P.S. excuse the necropost. I’ve been away for a while.
I hit “post reply,” stare at the screen, and wait to come back.
Thinking, I’ll hold my place until I do.
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Opening Ceremonies), Canvas
Characters: Martin
Colors: Meme party 40 (I Have No Idea What I’m Doing), Olympic Gold 8 (winter)
Word Count: 1,200ish
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: How Martin got (mostly) back in his own head
Note: I KNOW I HAVEN’T POSTED IN FOREVER! BUT! ...Err, there is no “but.” I’ve mostly just been dicking around and playing Witcher. (Also, I take it you can do Olympic Gold and the parties together?)
Those Few Things I Still Have
He died at the beginning of summer. There’s still a book bent face-down on his desk. Boxes in the corner, moved from here to the new apartment and back, never opened. The laptop is open and dark, and I can still picture the argument he was having, bitten off in the middle, someone else getting the last word while the pressure shift drove the bent metal through his ribs. I think there was a cup with a film of juice in it, but someone must have taken it to the sink.
It’s winter now, and I, his body and whatever else is left, am occupying his bed. His bed is uncomfortable, but he had different standards. I’m stuck lying on my side because I have tubes sewn into me. There’s plastic under the sheet, so what the tubes can’t funnel away doesn’t drain into the mattress and fester. I’m told I can, if I want to, come downstairs and watch some TV. But, I don’t want to. I don’t want anything. Wanting things has become a noteworthy event.
The last time I wanted something, I got in a shouting match with my father. I wanted to go back to the hospital. Actually, I wanted to go back to school, but if I couldn’t do that, I probably couldn’t really be at home, either, so I might as well be where they could watch me. Admire the consolation prize, the A-for-effort I’ve become. They couldn’t conquer death, but they could at least make a dead thing sit halfway up and almost look them in the eye, so I guess that’s something, at least. I guess I’m something, but I’m not sure what. It isn’t what I was before.
And, in the hours when I’m actually there, this pisses me off like nothing else. I want to be who I was. I want to get the last word. If they actually brought me back, I damn well want to prove it. So I wanted to go back to school, but I was being ridiculous. I can’t stand up for more than a minute or two. I’m leaking out both sides. I’d be lying down in hallways, paper towels stuffed up my shirt, tubes dangling, snapping at everyone who went by that I’m back, I’m fine, I’m here and kicking ass like always, a puddle of my own fluids growing around me on the tiles.
I finally admit I don’t really belong at school anymore.
I don’t say that I think I belong on an autopsy table. Gloved hands unsticking the dressings, letting my incisions split open and gape, pulling out my wires. Documenting how they ultimately failed to put me back together. I’d do it all myself, if I had the energy.
But my heart's still beating, if not entirely under its own power, so that isn’t a place for me, either. The hospital took back my room and replaced me with someone else. The landlord at the apartment building where I lived for about half a week did the same.
So, I guess this is the only place I can be. But I don’t belong here, either.
I feel like a human-shaped pile of rotten meat, heaped under the sheets while the person I was sneaks out the window for the night.
I don’t think he’s coming back.
And now I’m stuck here, holding his shape, filling the bed so they don’t notice he’s gone. They’d worry and start to look for him. And they’d start by looking inside of me. I don’t know how to tell them he isn’t here.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without him.
I’m the only person who has to figure this out.
Most people, finding their bodies uninhabitable, fade into nothing and let the body start to decay. It’s easy. You don’t even feel it. You aren’t there.
I do, and I am. Most of the time.
Because, sometimes, I’m not there. And I feel that, too. I can’t explain it, so I don’t have much to say for myself.
That, out of everything, feels the strangest of all. Before all this, I always had something to say for myself. A quick response. A comment nobody asked for or wanted. The last word.
Now, I find myself staring at the far wall, measuring the hours by the color, dimensions, and position of the shining rectangle of light, feeling myself pulling away from everything. Like the entire concept of hours, for example. And whatever made me want to go back to school, or the hospital, anywhere but here. The person I was, and everything he had to say. Even the attachment to any of this is retreating into the middle distance.
Except, maybe that last one.
Because I don’t have much to say for myself, but I still think I have a lot of things to say for him. And I can’t let go of any of them; those few things I still have. I’m just too damn stubborn.
That, too, I still have. And cannot let go.
The light is blue, and hanging in the space between the wall and ceiling. Somewhere, in the world that slammed a door in my face but couldn’t keep me out for long, it’s getting dark. I pull myself up from the stained sheets, the afternoon’s leakage dried in concentric rings. The desk chair is just a few feet away. I can probably make it. Make it, or fall and smack my head and be done with it all. I can’t lose.
I fall, but I don’t smack my head. One of the drainage bags bursts under me, slimy, sweatpants drenched, horrible dead smell. I’ll sit in the shower when I’m done. No big deal. I pull myself into the chair, and wait for the computer to turn on, staring at the ceiling.
I’m only half here. I’m cold and wet and leaking. I don’t have a pulse. But I guess I’ll get used to it. What am I, if I can’t even do that? The game is on.
Session resumed. Same blank reply box, waiting for me all these months. I shift in my sticky seat, and start typing.
Listen, asshole, I don’t know what you’re even trying to say, but from here, it looks like “I’m a fucking moron who can’t read, and I shoved my shift key up my ass because someone said they’d give me a nickel if I did. I eat dirt and have a bunch of bees where my brain is supposed to be.” We’ve all explained this to you a thousand times, so I’d suggest you either get your shit together or go walk into traffic.
(I mean, by now, you might have walked into traffic, for all I know. I certainly wouldn’t doubt it.)
P.S. excuse the necropost. I’ve been away for a while.
I hit “post reply,” stare at the screen, and wait to come back.
Thinking, I’ll hold my place until I do.
no subject
Also it probably says a lot about me that I didn't realize at first that Martin was being metaphorical and I thought he was literally sharing a bed with another dude's dead body. Um. Go me?
THIS IS AMAZING THOUGH because holy shit. Poor Martin. Also the reply box, holy shit.
no subject
I love the resumption of the internet argument!