Michael
Out of darkness into the light
If you want me gone
If you want me gone
Trigger Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, paranoia, PTSD
Listen.
There are no good days. No bad days, either, that would imply there is actually something to look forward to. There are only DAYS. And nights. Those things defined by whether the sun is up or the moon is. Such stupid god damn terms, no one fucking cares.
no one
cares
How could they in a world like this? Voices in his head. Purple bullshit everywhere. Something tainted creeping, squeezing the life out of everything that isn't IT. Suffocating. Choking. Would have let it devour him whole had he not had that niggling sense of paranoia, that primordial gut instinct to not DIE. Hated that part of himself more than any other, that conscience in his head that fed him dewdrops of false hope.
Even still...
No one to turn to, no new ideas, stale bad memories and old beef jerky. Sleepless nights, a voice in his head he wanted to tear free, no way to stop it even in the unforgiving expanse of Hak Etme. Would have blasted a god damn hole in his brain to shut it the fuck up had he been even slightly less pissed about it.
Lucky for him, I guess.
Maybe one day he'd feed himself to the maroon alien jungle, but it wasn't gonna be today.
He trotted down the steps, each one familiar to him. Paranoia a constant, every detail noted and forged like a brand in his memory. Knew every busted lip on those stairs, every crack, what sound it would make when he stepped there rather than here, here rather than there. Knew how to survive for the most part, though as of late his adaptation skills had stumbled.
It was time to find a familiar face, and with any luck he'd find her here: The horned woman who had been there that day almost a year ago in the temple. She'd brought him to this place, down, down, down, to the Last Whisper.
More often than not these days and nights he called The Last Whisper home. Always on the move, ever restless. But always there unless he had other shit to take care of. Like food, water, and those fading glints of hope he resented as much as the spreading disease of their time.
Inside he went, barely the whisper of clothes as they brushed against the doorframe entrance. Loose-fitting, light for the new sun. Eyes still finding their use after so long in the dark, crystalline blue squinted against dark pupils. Shirt sleeves rolled up to just past his elbows. The one on the right different, skin warped and discolored. Thick scar tissue built over a year covered what amounted to a massive injury that spread up and over his shoulder. Healed since Maea had seen him last, though poorly. Roughly, gnarled like the haphazard trunk and branches of an aged oak.
An immediate assessment of the place, a flick of eyes sharp and wary. He prowled, strode to a chair and flopped heavily. Chair legs shifted, the seat groaned its protest. One elbow and forearm plunked against the table, and he ordered nothing just yet. Sat where he could see every entrance, where he had a view of nearly everyone in here. Gears in his brain on the move, ever shifting. Searching for patterns that he knew, waiting for one to click and alert him that she had arrived.
Or that she was already here.
You pull the trigger yourself
