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rainbowfic2016-08-17 08:03 pm
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2016-08-17 08:03 pm
Meme Party 29, Olympic Gold 14
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Lilith Faire August 17th Main Stage, http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/blackmoresnight/darkness.html)
Characters: Spenser
Colors: Meme party 29 (my brain is full of fuck), Olympic Gold 14 (rings)
Word Count: 600ish
Rating: PG-13 (I guess?)
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: What can you do when there’s not much of you left to lose?
Note: Just some non-narrative ramblings that I had fun writing. :P
Vessel
This really is what I wanted. What I needed all along if I was going to be doing this. It’s better this way.
In almost every single sense of the word, I’m more detached than I ever remember being.
But I’ve realized that I don’t, consciously or unconsciously, detach myself from my actions the way I did before. I don’t need to. Why should I? I’m barely a real person anymore. You’d be horrified to hear about a person doing some of the things I do, but when you’re talking about a short-circuiting automaton who may or may not have completely lost touch with reality, all bets are off. Of course I scrambled your spine and waited for the doctor to cut you open so I could go home and stare at the wall.
Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t I do anything? I’m just some downhill-careening, blank-plastic stand-in for a person that things happen around. I’m not there. I don’t think. Things get done anyway.
All day and night, I watch my own hands doing their thing. They feed me, when I remember. They drive me to Maria’s condo. They spit out incredible blueprints, which remind me that I used to have a real mind, that there used to be more to me than this, and oh god, how did I let this happen? The left one pins somebody down while the right jams the prongs into the soft gaps in the backbone. They draw me a bath, adding a little splash of bleach when I get too weirded out about being splattered with some stranger’s blood. I’m having enough trouble telling myself from everything else. I don’t need blood that isn’t mine muddying things up even more. If I’m going to be blank, I have to be clean.
Sometimes, they touch each other with hot soldering guns, trying to flush me out of my burrow for a few minutes. I dart out, look around, meet eyes with myself, and run behind a bush. I don’t have the energy to chase after myself anymore. I watch him go. I get to work.
Other times, I’m violently ripped out of my thoughts and realize the hands have been at it breaking windows again. Whatever. I just go with it. Who the fuck cares anymore. I’ve already done my worst. The rest is just retroactive context for everything I already do, already am. Too little, too late, too fucked-up and incomprehensible anyway.
And, if the hands always feel like they’re acting on their own, I’ll let them. I don’t have the presence of mind to control them anymore. You win, fucking asshole body. Fucking restless inner brain. I hate you.
(I hate you back.)
I haven’t slept more than an hour in the past week, and I keep drifting off behind the wheel, answering voices that were never there to call my name in the first place. The doctor is using me as an off switch for the human body. Maria is using me as a fucktoy. I’m using me as a vessel for the hands, a set of rickety casters on which my brain can roll. And I can’t slow down enough to let any of that sink in for real. It’s just a list of things that are theoretically happening to someone who used to be me.
But, I guess it doesn’t matter. If it reads like a list, and feels like a list, it really is just a list. And I just happen to be in the unfortunate role of list-carrier.
Maybe I’m the list itself.
I’m barely a real person anymore.
(It’s better this way.)
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Lilith Faire August 17th Main Stage, http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/blackmoresnight/darkness.html)
Characters: Spenser
Colors: Meme party 29 (my brain is full of fuck), Olympic Gold 14 (rings)
Word Count: 600ish
Rating: PG-13 (I guess?)
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: What can you do when there’s not much of you left to lose?
Note: Just some non-narrative ramblings that I had fun writing. :P
This really is what I wanted. What I needed all along if I was going to be doing this. It’s better this way.
In almost every single sense of the word, I’m more detached than I ever remember being.
But I’ve realized that I don’t, consciously or unconsciously, detach myself from my actions the way I did before. I don’t need to. Why should I? I’m barely a real person anymore. You’d be horrified to hear about a person doing some of the things I do, but when you’re talking about a short-circuiting automaton who may or may not have completely lost touch with reality, all bets are off. Of course I scrambled your spine and waited for the doctor to cut you open so I could go home and stare at the wall.
Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t I do anything? I’m just some downhill-careening, blank-plastic stand-in for a person that things happen around. I’m not there. I don’t think. Things get done anyway.
All day and night, I watch my own hands doing their thing. They feed me, when I remember. They drive me to Maria’s condo. They spit out incredible blueprints, which remind me that I used to have a real mind, that there used to be more to me than this, and oh god, how did I let this happen? The left one pins somebody down while the right jams the prongs into the soft gaps in the backbone. They draw me a bath, adding a little splash of bleach when I get too weirded out about being splattered with some stranger’s blood. I’m having enough trouble telling myself from everything else. I don’t need blood that isn’t mine muddying things up even more. If I’m going to be blank, I have to be clean.
Sometimes, they touch each other with hot soldering guns, trying to flush me out of my burrow for a few minutes. I dart out, look around, meet eyes with myself, and run behind a bush. I don’t have the energy to chase after myself anymore. I watch him go. I get to work.
Other times, I’m violently ripped out of my thoughts and realize the hands have been at it breaking windows again. Whatever. I just go with it. Who the fuck cares anymore. I’ve already done my worst. The rest is just retroactive context for everything I already do, already am. Too little, too late, too fucked-up and incomprehensible anyway.
And, if the hands always feel like they’re acting on their own, I’ll let them. I don’t have the presence of mind to control them anymore. You win, fucking asshole body. Fucking restless inner brain. I hate you.
(I hate you back.)
I haven’t slept more than an hour in the past week, and I keep drifting off behind the wheel, answering voices that were never there to call my name in the first place. The doctor is using me as an off switch for the human body. Maria is using me as a fucktoy. I’m using me as a vessel for the hands, a set of rickety casters on which my brain can roll. And I can’t slow down enough to let any of that sink in for real. It’s just a list of things that are theoretically happening to someone who used to be me.
But, I guess it doesn’t matter. If it reads like a list, and feels like a list, it really is just a list. And I just happen to be in the unfortunate role of list-carrier.
Maybe I’m the list itself.
I’m barely a real person anymore.
(It’s better this way.)