OOC: Saving Some Posts I've Liked Before They Skip-A Billion
Everybody goes to Mexico. It's a thing. It's a stupid thing, because it seems to me that's the first place anyone would look.
I went to Canada. Or I tried to. Walked to the nearest town; blew the last of my cash on a ticket; got on the first available bus. About twenty minutes away from the border I lost an eye. I wasn't expecting that. I turned my head and it just fell out. Rolled down the aisle. There were sparks. The other passengers didn't seem to appreciate it. I wonder if screaming was that loud before. Afterward I sat on the abandoned bus with my eye in my hand because it was something to do and someplace to be.
I think I was dead. I'm pretty sure I know who did it. It's funny, but I don't feel angry. It's not funny that I don't feel much. I feel like me...
They say you can't go home again, and I guess that's true when it's a big hole in the ground. But it was such a long walk. On the way I swiped a box of adhesive bandages from a gas station mini-mart because I got tired of holding the eye in my head. Although tired isn't the right word. Word does, it seems, travel in the underworld, but only specific words. Words like: Buffy. And Summers. And several hours outside of San Francisco. It's interesting, the faces a vampire makes when he tries to take a bite out of your neck and chips a fang on titanium alloy. Almost makes you wish you had a camera.
Parts of me, technically, are a camera.
I try to think of anywhere I could go; anyone else I could turn to. Anyone but them. Anyone but her. Andrew. Jonathan? But if I didn't make it there's no way they did. And I only built myself.
I follow the directions of various untrustworthy things that can smell I'm not human and can hear I don't have a heart beat. I lose track of time, although I never do. I need maintenance. If I freeze up here, no matter how loud I croak, 'Oil can', Dorothy will never hear me. ...That was the gayest reference I've ever thought of, and I'm sure I've never programmed it into anything. I feel like me.
I look like hell. It's probably appropriate. I may be about to die again.
I knock anyway. There's nothing else to do.