holy water cannot help you now
WHO: NORMAN OSBORN
WHERE: His bedroom...
WHEN: Saturday night, 11/5
WARNINGS: Violence, medication, Norman, etc.
SUMMARY: Norman is alone with his thoughts.
FORMAT: Solo.
Norman's fingers traced a long, jagged crack that ran down the mirror opposite his closet, a webbed crevice that extended from one corner to the far most side. The splintered glass dug into his skin, dragging out small pricks of blood. He moved away so as to draw the curtains, shrouding the room in darkness. In his other hand he held his Goblin mask tightly. He walked back to the mirror and sat down in front of it.
"Well, now what? There's no going back," he murmured to his reflection, feeling the mask in hand. He sneered, teeth gleaming in the reflected light. "No -- no one would have-- I know how to do this, don't patronize me. I've played this game for years. Be grateful I'm letting you back in at all. Just because the Iron Patriot is dead doesn't mean I owe anyone else a moment in spotlight."
He rubbed his temple to the bridge of his nose, tracking a small smudge of blood across his face. He saw it in the mirror but paid it no mind. He had to put it on, the mask -- but he was hesitant, still. Putting the mask on meant a commitment, a submission; he would be sacrificing something to put this face over his in a way he'd never had in the past. But things were different.
"What did I just say?" he hissed.
Covering up his eyes was always the worst part.
WHERE: His bedroom...
WHEN: Saturday night, 11/5
WARNINGS: Violence, medication, Norman, etc.
SUMMARY: Norman is alone with his thoughts.
FORMAT: Solo.
Norman's fingers traced a long, jagged crack that ran down the mirror opposite his closet, a webbed crevice that extended from one corner to the far most side. The splintered glass dug into his skin, dragging out small pricks of blood. He moved away so as to draw the curtains, shrouding the room in darkness. In his other hand he held his Goblin mask tightly. He walked back to the mirror and sat down in front of it.
"Well, now what? There's no going back," he murmured to his reflection, feeling the mask in hand. He sneered, teeth gleaming in the reflected light. "No -- no one would have-- I know how to do this, don't patronize me. I've played this game for years. Be grateful I'm letting you back in at all. Just because the Iron Patriot is dead doesn't mean I owe anyone else a moment in spotlight."
He rubbed his temple to the bridge of his nose, tracking a small smudge of blood across his face. He saw it in the mirror but paid it no mind. He had to put it on, the mask -- but he was hesitant, still. Putting the mask on meant a commitment, a submission; he would be sacrificing something to put this face over his in a way he'd never had in the past. But things were different.
"What did I just say?" he hissed.
Covering up his eyes was always the worst part.