[Backdated wake hallucinations ("nightmare"): Week 14, day 5] I try and I try
WARNING: It's kinda violent and gory-ish-except-not-idk? |D
[When the screen flares to life it’s all black for a moment, but then there appears to be… well, something, though it’s impossible to tell.
It’s all a bit of a blur. Lavi’s not entirely sure just what is happening, but he doesn’t like it. It hurts, it’s painful as hell, and it makes his mouth taste like blood and makes his throat burn and maybe he’s even coughing blood every now and then, he’s not sure. There is something rippling through him continuously , like something cutting straight through him but yet it doesn’t kill him, and it feels like it comes both with way too short time in-between and too long in the way that it makes him anxious about when it’ll come next. It’s like some sort of perfect, torturous, agonising set-up created for the ultimate feeling of just wanting to beg to the gods to stop this please.
He knows this much. He doesn’t know what it is, where he is or what is happening, but he knows this much. Somehow, he knows this much.
The screen gets a bit brighter and there are the outlines of some form of wall, and arms, and something else. He blinks…
But he doesn’t know where he is, not quite, still. There is the sound of dripping liquid through his breathing and the beating of his heart in his ears, which brings an eerie familiarity and the feeling of his awareness and memories slipping through his fingers and hitting the floor in silent but still all too loud drops. He tries his best to keep his hold on it all, chewing on his lips as he fumbles with his fingers, and his bare arm scrapes against a moist rock wall, leaving blood in its trail but he doesn’t care, doesn’t notice, just looks at the memories slowly dribbling away.
His sanity in there too, maybe.
He stands, and the ground is nearer than he remembers, if he remembers correctly, he doesn’t know anymore. And he turns, fingers reaching out for a tuft of grey hair, arm covered by the light brown fabric of a poncho, his poncho, Junior’s poncho, anyone but Lavi’s poncho because Lavi doesn’t use a poncho.
Normal bullets are small fry when you’re an Exorcist because if you’re lucky enough they won’t kill you while Akuma bullets kill you instantly. But he’s not an Exorcist so all of a sudden he’s not used to pain anymore and when a bullet comes flying out of nowhere and digs into his flesh he screams - raggedly through a throat tired of it because it’s not the first time - because the pain tears through everything and he knows there’s more pain to come. The grey hair is within reach and he grabs it, clinging onto it as tears pool in his eyes and roll down his cheeks until they burn, biting into wounds that weren’t there before and he grits his teeth as he tries to make sense of it and fails.
He doesn’t understand why humans do this, why they use these things that hurt so much, these bullets, and he keeps clinging to that hair, to the small but still bigger than him (at least he thinks so?) old body that he knows he can rely on for support, and he chews on the sleeve of a coat and a loud sob escapes through his mouth.
And blood is running down his skin, from his chin, arm, and somewhere he doesn’t know, and hands? The liquid that he tries to hold that slips through and drips down onto the water below them that came from nowhere, all the blood pools there, colours the blackness bright red. Bright red in a way that isn’t blood red but he knows it’s his blood. So much blood. It makes him sick, even if he always sees so much of it, or maybe that’s why.
The screen goes black again, but comes back to life not long afterwards.
Everything is much clearer than before, and Lavi’s hunched over on the ground, surrounded by corpses that he doesn’t seem to see. Who knows if they’re real or not. He keeps his arms wrapped tightly around himself as he wags back and forth, his mouth still tasting like blood and every breath feeling like knives cutting through his throat, shaving off flesh, and he can swear he’s feeling blood running down those walls. Something tries to tell him that it’s just imagination, but he doesn’t listen, and he keeps gasping as if life was leaving him and blood runs down his chin from his lips that he can’t stop biting, and his hands are filled with bleeding bite marks.
Something is still slipping through his fingers, even as he begins clutching his arms tightly, trying to feel. Maybe it really is blood this time, that keeps running and doesn’t stop running. He’s not sure if it’s the blood that’s doing it or not. Or if there is blood?
No, there is. He’s sure of that. Somehow. If he can trust himself right now can he?
If there’s anyone he can trust it’s him. It has to be. Here… there’s no one else but him. Even the grey left. The grey was nice, a nice anchor. Familiar and trustworthy. Trust…worthy... Something he could understand. Something that could understand him.
The only thing that is allowed to understand him. The only one.
He should understand people but people shouldn’t understand him. Why can they understand him and why can’t he understand them? Because he can’t, right? Because things he doesn’t expect to happen happen and that’s… wrong. Why can’t he understand? He has to understand.
…doesn’t have to, not really, but he wants to.
This is a test. This thing. Isn’t it? This darkness and this pain and this scary… It’s scary. But he’s strong, isn’t he? Everything he’s seen… He’s as strong as he needs to be, isn’t he? He’s just not used to all this, it’s that simple. But if it’s a test, then he needs to figure out what to do about it. It feels like it would be a test, something like… just something to explain why. There has to be a why.]
You died for the sake of someone else.
[No, no, well, yes, but.]
For the sake of ink on paper.
[But it’s not that simple. They’re… they’re not ink on paper, they’re his friends, they’re important, he can die for them, it’s easy. They deserve that-- and yet not because they don’t deserve that pain but they are people worth dying for.]
And you can’t even understand them?
[Be quiet, Bookman, be quiet. Though that’s not something you would say what are you saying?
He… he doesn’t understand them but that doesn’t mean--
Still chewing, chewing, chewing on his lips and he raises his head, and there they are, those people that he tries to read but can’t. Those weird people that he can’t read and it scares him. Yu, Allen, Lenalee, Doug… Krory, Miranda, Komui… They’re open books sometimes but yet he can’t read them.
He needs to open them more. He needs to understand them because if that’s such a big problem then he will.]
I can… understand them.
[That’s a lie.
Has to understand them.
There’s Bookman too, next to him, with a hand on his shoulder as determination hits , and his hand closes around a familiar knife that Bookman held towards him. It’s automatic, he doesn’t really think about it, and it doesn’t matter.
It’s weird that there are dead people in front of him but he doesn’t think about that either.
And he stands, slowly.]
Mow them down, Lavi.
[The feeling of déjà vu is ignored, though familiar images do show, of darkness and the sound of familiar voices begging him, of his own thoughts telling him to not open his eyes and to ignore the sounds, to just focus on survival and not losing himself. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t linger on those memories, because only one thing matters now.
He is going to open them up. He will understand.
Leaping forward, voices screaming, blade cutting into skin. It’s easy, it’s kind of like jelly, skin peeling off and knife getting twisted in wounds and his breath increases, eyes widen, teeth grit, nose smells the… the…
It’s not blood.
Black drops from the wounds, ink that pools in the shallow water below and forms words Saviour Destroyer Selfish Artificial Inhuman Monster Uncaring Untrustworthy Liar Weak Killer Mad. It’s sticky and messy and he can smell it, and he reads it.
It’s not enough.
Hands clutch at him, choked voices slip from lips blackened by spitting up ink, tells him to stop but no, he won’t stop, must open them, must understand. Must… Must… Read them. Spill the ink, read it, understand it. What is he doing wrong?
Cut deeper, mind the bones Insane Losing Suicidal must understand, not enough Crazy Homicidal Murderer Cursed Blind.
Crush the bones tear the limbs where’s the truth?
The blood dripping from his lips form a long string of the same word.
Liar Liar Liar Liar Liar Liar Liar Liar…]
((OOC: Lavi's dead, so he won't be able to answer~))
[When the screen flares to life it’s all black for a moment, but then there appears to be… well, something, though it’s impossible to tell.
It’s all a bit of a blur. Lavi’s not entirely sure just what is happening, but he doesn’t like it. It hurts, it’s painful as hell, and it makes his mouth taste like blood and makes his throat burn and maybe he’s even coughing blood every now and then, he’s not sure. There is something rippling through him continuously , like something cutting straight through him but yet it doesn’t kill him, and it feels like it comes both with way too short time in-between and too long in the way that it makes him anxious about when it’ll come next. It’s like some sort of perfect, torturous, agonising set-up created for the ultimate feeling of just wanting to beg to the gods to stop this please.
He knows this much. He doesn’t know what it is, where he is or what is happening, but he knows this much. Somehow, he knows this much.
The screen gets a bit brighter and there are the outlines of some form of wall, and arms, and something else. He blinks…
But he doesn’t know where he is, not quite, still. There is the sound of dripping liquid through his breathing and the beating of his heart in his ears, which brings an eerie familiarity and the feeling of his awareness and memories slipping through his fingers and hitting the floor in silent but still all too loud drops. He tries his best to keep his hold on it all, chewing on his lips as he fumbles with his fingers, and his bare arm scrapes against a moist rock wall, leaving blood in its trail but he doesn’t care, doesn’t notice, just looks at the memories slowly dribbling away.
His sanity in there too, maybe.
He stands, and the ground is nearer than he remembers, if he remembers correctly, he doesn’t know anymore. And he turns, fingers reaching out for a tuft of grey hair, arm covered by the light brown fabric of a poncho, his poncho, Junior’s poncho, anyone but Lavi’s poncho because Lavi doesn’t use a poncho.
Normal bullets are small fry when you’re an Exorcist because if you’re lucky enough they won’t kill you while Akuma bullets kill you instantly. But he’s not an Exorcist so all of a sudden he’s not used to pain anymore and when a bullet comes flying out of nowhere and digs into his flesh he screams - raggedly through a throat tired of it because it’s not the first time - because the pain tears through everything and he knows there’s more pain to come. The grey hair is within reach and he grabs it, clinging onto it as tears pool in his eyes and roll down his cheeks until they burn, biting into wounds that weren’t there before and he grits his teeth as he tries to make sense of it and fails.
He doesn’t understand why humans do this, why they use these things that hurt so much, these bullets, and he keeps clinging to that hair, to the small but still bigger than him (at least he thinks so?) old body that he knows he can rely on for support, and he chews on the sleeve of a coat and a loud sob escapes through his mouth.
And blood is running down his skin, from his chin, arm, and somewhere he doesn’t know, and hands? The liquid that he tries to hold that slips through and drips down onto the water below them that came from nowhere, all the blood pools there, colours the blackness bright red. Bright red in a way that isn’t blood red but he knows it’s his blood. So much blood. It makes him sick, even if he always sees so much of it, or maybe that’s why.
The screen goes black again, but comes back to life not long afterwards.
Everything is much clearer than before, and Lavi’s hunched over on the ground, surrounded by corpses that he doesn’t seem to see. Who knows if they’re real or not. He keeps his arms wrapped tightly around himself as he wags back and forth, his mouth still tasting like blood and every breath feeling like knives cutting through his throat, shaving off flesh, and he can swear he’s feeling blood running down those walls. Something tries to tell him that it’s just imagination, but he doesn’t listen, and he keeps gasping as if life was leaving him and blood runs down his chin from his lips that he can’t stop biting, and his hands are filled with bleeding bite marks.
Something is still slipping through his fingers, even as he begins clutching his arms tightly, trying to feel. Maybe it really is blood this time, that keeps running and doesn’t stop running. He’s not sure if it’s the blood that’s doing it or not. Or if there is blood?
No, there is. He’s sure of that. Somehow. If he can trust himself right now can he?
If there’s anyone he can trust it’s him. It has to be. Here… there’s no one else but him. Even the grey left. The grey was nice, a nice anchor. Familiar and trustworthy. Trust…worthy... Something he could understand. Something that could understand him.
The only thing that is allowed to understand him. The only one.
He should understand people but people shouldn’t understand him. Why can they understand him and why can’t he understand them? Because he can’t, right? Because things he doesn’t expect to happen happen and that’s… wrong. Why can’t he understand? He has to understand.
…doesn’t have to, not really, but he wants to.
This is a test. This thing. Isn’t it? This darkness and this pain and this scary… It’s scary. But he’s strong, isn’t he? Everything he’s seen… He’s as strong as he needs to be, isn’t he? He’s just not used to all this, it’s that simple. But if it’s a test, then he needs to figure out what to do about it. It feels like it would be a test, something like… just something to explain why. There has to be a why.]
You died for the sake of someone else.
[No, no, well, yes, but.]
For the sake of ink on paper.
[But it’s not that simple. They’re… they’re not ink on paper, they’re his friends, they’re important, he can die for them, it’s easy. They deserve that-- and yet not because they don’t deserve that pain but they are people worth dying for.]
And you can’t even understand them?
[Be quiet, Bookman, be quiet. Though that’s not something you would say what are you saying?
He… he doesn’t understand them but that doesn’t mean--
Still chewing, chewing, chewing on his lips and he raises his head, and there they are, those people that he tries to read but can’t. Those weird people that he can’t read and it scares him. Yu, Allen, Lenalee, Doug… Krory, Miranda, Komui… They’re open books sometimes but yet he can’t read them.
He needs to open them more. He needs to understand them because if that’s such a big problem then he will.]
I can… understand them.
[That’s a lie.
Has to understand them.
There’s Bookman too, next to him, with a hand on his shoulder as determination hits , and his hand closes around a familiar knife that Bookman held towards him. It’s automatic, he doesn’t really think about it, and it doesn’t matter.
It’s weird that there are dead people in front of him but he doesn’t think about that either.
And he stands, slowly.]
Mow them down, Lavi.
[The feeling of déjà vu is ignored, though familiar images do show, of darkness and the sound of familiar voices begging him, of his own thoughts telling him to not open his eyes and to ignore the sounds, to just focus on survival and not losing himself. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t linger on those memories, because only one thing matters now.
He is going to open them up. He will understand.
Leaping forward, voices screaming, blade cutting into skin. It’s easy, it’s kind of like jelly, skin peeling off and knife getting twisted in wounds and his breath increases, eyes widen, teeth grit, nose smells the… the…
It’s not blood.
Black drops from the wounds, ink that pools in the shallow water below and forms words Saviour Destroyer Selfish Artificial Inhuman Monster Uncaring Untrustworthy Liar Weak Killer Mad. It’s sticky and messy and he can smell it, and he reads it.
It’s not enough.
Hands clutch at him, choked voices slip from lips blackened by spitting up ink, tells him to stop but no, he won’t stop, must open them, must understand. Must… Must… Read them. Spill the ink, read it, understand it. What is he doing wrong?
Cut deeper, mind the bones Insane Losing Suicidal must understand, not enough Crazy Homicidal Murderer Cursed Blind.
Crush the bones tear the limbs where’s the truth?
The blood dripping from his lips form a long string of the same word.
Liar Liar Liar Liar Liar Liar Liar Liar…]
((OOC: Lavi's dead, so he won't be able to answer~))