A room at the Arms, Sunday evening
Priestly woke up gasping so hard he choked, his hands clenching in the sheets. He jerked himself upright, grabbing at his chest, body still in panicked escape mode.
. . . resistancetheMadriKarlaMomokoarrowscan'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathe. . . .
He tried to bolt out of the way of . . . something . . . only to tangle his legs in the sheets and topple out of the bed onto the floor. He let out a strangled, breathy scream.
. . . can'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'twhyaremynailspurple?
He stared down at his fingers, still hyperventilating, while his brain caught up to the fact that he was staring at his slightly chipped purple painted finger nails. And there was the tattoo on the inside of his forearm. He sobbed once, feeling the slight shift of his labret piercing as it shifted in his lip, a movement he normally didn't even notice, any more, then heaved in another breath while he stuck his hands into his long, bleached out, flatted hair.
The last thing he remembered was choking to death on his own blood.
He shoved himself into the corner formed by the nightstand and the bed, curling in on himself while he tried to get his body to catch up with the fact that he wasn't dead, he wasn't dying, he was safe, and no one was going to try to kill him just for drawing attention to himself. So if no one minded, he was just going to curl up here for awhile and cry, okay?
[ooc: open to any out to find my kilted wonder. He's gonna be a little wrecked for awhile.]
. . . resistancetheMadriKarlaMomokoarrowscan'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathe. . . .
He tried to bolt out of the way of . . . something . . . only to tangle his legs in the sheets and topple out of the bed onto the floor. He let out a strangled, breathy scream.
. . . can'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'twhyaremynailspurple?
He stared down at his fingers, still hyperventilating, while his brain caught up to the fact that he was staring at his slightly chipped purple painted finger nails. And there was the tattoo on the inside of his forearm. He sobbed once, feeling the slight shift of his labret piercing as it shifted in his lip, a movement he normally didn't even notice, any more, then heaved in another breath while he stuck his hands into his long, bleached out, flatted hair.
The last thing he remembered was choking to death on his own blood.
He shoved himself into the corner formed by the nightstand and the bed, curling in on himself while he tried to get his body to catch up with the fact that he wasn't dead, he wasn't dying, he was safe, and no one was going to try to kill him just for drawing attention to himself. So if no one minded, he was just going to curl up here for awhile and cry, okay?
[ooc: open to any out to find my kilted wonder. He's gonna be a little wrecked for awhile.]