[ LOG ]
Who: Akasun Sasori (this-mannequin) and Uchiha Itachi (crimson-prose)
Where: Sasori's apartment complex.
When: May 25.
What: Itachi - listless, hopeless, proverbially homeless and soaking wet - arrives at Sasori's apartment with bad intentions and worser ailments. Sasori is a decent friend about it, if a very alienated one.
Warnings: To be added as things progress.
(Your and my all-too-constant serpentine.)
Itachi's insides ache and his world is ruled by vertigo. (But he vomitted only a few minutes ago and he hasn't eaten anything recently, so it came up as just burning, foul taste; acid, thick and clean and clear of any debris.)
Rain is pounding the asphalt; April doesn't bring showers, in Oshima - it's May that really ushers in storm clouds. (The average precipiation Oshima recieves per year is one hundred and seven point two inches. Of that one hundred and seven point two inches, approximately eight are collected in the month of April. In comparison, thirteen are collected in the month of May.) The air is thick, humid, heavy with water and only ten degrees below his body temperature which is a good degree Celsius lower than it should be. (He's been outside a long time. He doesn't know how long. He doesn't care how long. Itachi doesn't care about anything, now. Not anymore.) It's not cold, but he's soaked to the brittle-glass bone so everything seems colder.
His clothing (he's never removed it since prom) are more than just a wee bit damp and clings to him like a second skin (like his only skin) - the coat and shirt are long skewed, he seems to exhibit similar qualities, his hair down, lengthened by it's wetness, by the rain water, slick and ebony, eyelashes clinging to one another like hens left out in a gale. He's colder underneath the eaves than he was in the park a short while ago - the ominous sounds of the downpour are all around him and he eyes the apartment building almost warily before retreating back and them losing himself against the cluster of raindrops, human likeness dissolving among them, his emotionlessness interchangeable with self-loathing.
Itachi doesn't really have the presence of mind to hate himself or anything. The only thing he has is the way he can't swallow, the nausea, the constant head ache, the throbbing pulse that whines too constantly against the back of his black eyes. (He can't feel it. He can't feel anything. The rain pounds against the street and the concrete of the building and against his sallow, sickly-pale skin that is deep with no food, no hunger, no drink, no sleep, no feeling. He looks waxen.)
There is an onyx stud in each of his ears and a silver one just below his belly button and there is no logical reason he's here. (Except that the name that's carved into his back has yet to- Bandages slathered thick and lazy over his skin. They're wet and rotting, he can smell them. He doesn't care. Itachi doesn't care about anything, anymore.)
If Itachi had the presence of mind to think about anything, he would think that he might be a little insane, at the moment. (The deranged rocking of the Earth, back and forth, back and forth, and that ever terrible feeling.)
But he doesn't really care.
(Itachi doesn't care.)
The lobby is wide, echoing, colder than outside and his skin tightens with chill, the mucles clinging to him prematurely, like small children. He doesn't care (about anything) for elevators (a quick death, a plummeting fall and the bones, the body can't handle the impact. You fly up against the roof of the elvator, your skull cracks, a long schisming blood line that erupts from the splinters of bone imploding upon themselves. Your spine snaps in half, your neck breaks, your head breaks, your shoulder bones shatter, and everything goes black - the pain is immense and the satisfaction is instant,) and so takes the stairs (a long treck upwards) not feeling, not seeing (not breathing-)
The door is unfamiliar, the key is unfamiliar, the cold is so familiar that it assuages the pain like something medicinal. (Suicide jumper you are my only love-)
Cold metal in his fingers.
He doesn't even follow it with his eyes. He simply traces the long, spider-like ends of his own fingers and has an insatiable urge to-
(Suicide jumper-)
It's all he can do not collapse once he's in, and he removes his sopping wet (feet) shoes almost habitually. Under any other circumstance he would look disdainfully around him (it smells like metal, like blood, like his blood, like Sasori's prowess) and think ugly thoughts about the fact that he was dripping on the hardwood floor.
Under any other circumstance.
But in this one he is dead (silent.)
Where: Sasori's apartment complex.
When: May 25.
What: Itachi - listless, hopeless, proverbially homeless and soaking wet - arrives at Sasori's apartment with bad intentions and worser ailments. Sasori is a decent friend about it, if a very alienated one.
Warnings: To be added as things progress.
(Your and my all-too-constant serpentine.)
Itachi's insides ache and his world is ruled by vertigo. (But he vomitted only a few minutes ago and he hasn't eaten anything recently, so it came up as just burning, foul taste; acid, thick and clean and clear of any debris.)
Rain is pounding the asphalt; April doesn't bring showers, in Oshima - it's May that really ushers in storm clouds. (The average precipiation Oshima recieves per year is one hundred and seven point two inches. Of that one hundred and seven point two inches, approximately eight are collected in the month of April. In comparison, thirteen are collected in the month of May.) The air is thick, humid, heavy with water and only ten degrees below his body temperature which is a good degree Celsius lower than it should be. (He's been outside a long time. He doesn't know how long. He doesn't care how long. Itachi doesn't care about anything, now. Not anymore.) It's not cold, but he's soaked to the brittle-glass bone so everything seems colder.
His clothing (he's never removed it since prom) are more than just a wee bit damp and clings to him like a second skin (like his only skin) - the coat and shirt are long skewed, he seems to exhibit similar qualities, his hair down, lengthened by it's wetness, by the rain water, slick and ebony, eyelashes clinging to one another like hens left out in a gale. He's colder underneath the eaves than he was in the park a short while ago - the ominous sounds of the downpour are all around him and he eyes the apartment building almost warily before retreating back and them losing himself against the cluster of raindrops, human likeness dissolving among them, his emotionlessness interchangeable with self-loathing.
Itachi doesn't really have the presence of mind to hate himself or anything. The only thing he has is the way he can't swallow, the nausea, the constant head ache, the throbbing pulse that whines too constantly against the back of his black eyes. (He can't feel it. He can't feel anything. The rain pounds against the street and the concrete of the building and against his sallow, sickly-pale skin that is deep with no food, no hunger, no drink, no sleep, no feeling. He looks waxen.)
There is an onyx stud in each of his ears and a silver one just below his belly button and there is no logical reason he's here. (Except that the name that's carved into his back has yet to- Bandages slathered thick and lazy over his skin. They're wet and rotting, he can smell them. He doesn't care. Itachi doesn't care about anything, anymore.)
If Itachi had the presence of mind to think about anything, he would think that he might be a little insane, at the moment. (The deranged rocking of the Earth, back and forth, back and forth, and that ever terrible feeling.)
But he doesn't really care.
(Itachi doesn't care.)
The lobby is wide, echoing, colder than outside and his skin tightens with chill, the mucles clinging to him prematurely, like small children. He doesn't care (about anything) for elevators (a quick death, a plummeting fall and the bones, the body can't handle the impact. You fly up against the roof of the elvator, your skull cracks, a long schisming blood line that erupts from the splinters of bone imploding upon themselves. Your spine snaps in half, your neck breaks, your head breaks, your shoulder bones shatter, and everything goes black - the pain is immense and the satisfaction is instant,) and so takes the stairs (a long treck upwards) not feeling, not seeing (not breathing-)
The door is unfamiliar, the key is unfamiliar, the cold is so familiar that it assuages the pain like something medicinal. (Suicide jumper you are my only love-)
Cold metal in his fingers.
He doesn't even follow it with his eyes. He simply traces the long, spider-like ends of his own fingers and has an insatiable urge to-
(Suicide jumper-)
It's all he can do not collapse once he's in, and he removes his sopping wet (feet) shoes almost habitually. Under any other circumstance he would look disdainfully around him (it smells like metal, like blood, like his blood, like Sasori's prowess) and think ugly thoughts about the fact that he was dripping on the hardwood floor.
Under any other circumstance.
But in this one he is dead (silent.)