i'll turn myself into a gun, because it's all i have, because i'm hungry and hollow
Anger buzzes uncomfortably in the cage of Nates ribs. Like it has no business being there, when there’s no blood to sing through him, no relief from biting his tongue or swinging a fist. Like it’s wrong for him to be so angry.
Somehow, it reminds him of his father. Reminds him of a mirror. Fists lifting when things go a little too off kilter, when kids run and play too loudly, when schemes get twisted, when the red and blue flashes through the front window. Nate feels skin that isn’t his, but that fits almost perfectly, wrap all around him.
This isn’t that. He isn’t a mirror, isn’t his father, and wishes that he could feel the fucking nausea that usually accompanied this train of thought. Just a little. Just so the ground under his feet feels real again. So his ears stop ringing and his eyes actually see the things in front of him.
Nate hasn’t been to the Slagveld yet. Hasn’t been to the Society. Maybe it looks bad, maybe he doesn’t give a shit. Somehow, he’d thought having his drama dragged all across town would be different, but this is a different town than the one he’d worried about, and he is angry.
Besides, whatever damage he’s doing to his reputation has to be mitigated by the stalls he’s helping to rebuild, hammering nails into wood like its half as satisfying as his fist into a face would be. Everyone else has been wise enough to leave him a wide berth, leaving him alone to hammer and stew.
Somehow, it reminds him of his father. Reminds him of a mirror. Fists lifting when things go a little too off kilter, when kids run and play too loudly, when schemes get twisted, when the red and blue flashes through the front window. Nate feels skin that isn’t his, but that fits almost perfectly, wrap all around him.
This isn’t that. He isn’t a mirror, isn’t his father, and wishes that he could feel the fucking nausea that usually accompanied this train of thought. Just a little. Just so the ground under his feet feels real again. So his ears stop ringing and his eyes actually see the things in front of him.
Nate hasn’t been to the Slagveld yet. Hasn’t been to the Society. Maybe it looks bad, maybe he doesn’t give a shit. Somehow, he’d thought having his drama dragged all across town would be different, but this is a different town than the one he’d worried about, and he is angry.
Besides, whatever damage he’s doing to his reputation has to be mitigated by the stalls he’s helping to rebuild, hammering nails into wood like its half as satisfying as his fist into a face would be. Everyone else has been wise enough to leave him a wide berth, leaving him alone to hammer and stew.
and just want something to call my own
NATE
