RP: With Hannibal
Morning.
It seems all too familiar, like deja vu, finding himself a mess.
A different sort, this time. Seed, saliva, and blood mat his hair, dried in streaks along his body, and there's the peculiar sensation of scabbed cuts at his back. His sheets, a mess of blood.
It looks like someone died here. Someone small, at least. Maybe an animal.
But, it's all him, he thinks, trailing a finger along one particularly vivid streak.
And all the while, Villiers feels strangely satisfied with his life.
It's a scary feeling. But he also remembers warmth and comfort, soft kisses and careful hands tending to the wounds they dealt earlier.
Right. Time to get up, face another day.
Time passes. Enough for Villiers to shower, reopening some of the cuts, and then an awkward while spent with two mirrors and a cloth to dab antiseptic solution. More time. His sheets get changed, and the bloodied ones incinerated, beyond hope of cleaning.
He even spends some time, holding his gun, feeling the weight of it. If anyone asks, it was a brief thought on suicide -- after what had happened, who could blame him? But really, it's reliving a memory. Thinking back as he disassembles, assembles, cocks, loads, breaks down his gun, repeatedly.
Breaks the number one rule of handling a loaded firearm, clicking the safety off and holding the muzzle to his skin, just to feel his pulse race.
He's an addict, now. And it only took days of buildup, and two nights of agonizing bliss.
The Villiers that comes down to the bar is a quiet one, moving a bit stiffly, perhaps a little twitchy, but otherwise fine.
Damaged, but not broken. Not yet.
It seems all too familiar, like deja vu, finding himself a mess.
A different sort, this time. Seed, saliva, and blood mat his hair, dried in streaks along his body, and there's the peculiar sensation of scabbed cuts at his back. His sheets, a mess of blood.
It looks like someone died here. Someone small, at least. Maybe an animal.
But, it's all him, he thinks, trailing a finger along one particularly vivid streak.
And all the while, Villiers feels strangely satisfied with his life.
It's a scary feeling. But he also remembers warmth and comfort, soft kisses and careful hands tending to the wounds they dealt earlier.
Right. Time to get up, face another day.
Time passes. Enough for Villiers to shower, reopening some of the cuts, and then an awkward while spent with two mirrors and a cloth to dab antiseptic solution. More time. His sheets get changed, and the bloodied ones incinerated, beyond hope of cleaning.
He even spends some time, holding his gun, feeling the weight of it. If anyone asks, it was a brief thought on suicide -- after what had happened, who could blame him? But really, it's reliving a memory. Thinking back as he disassembles, assembles, cocks, loads, breaks down his gun, repeatedly.
Breaks the number one rule of handling a loaded firearm, clicking the safety off and holding the muzzle to his skin, just to feel his pulse race.
He's an addict, now. And it only took days of buildup, and two nights of agonizing bliss.
The Villiers that comes down to the bar is a quiet one, moving a bit stiffly, perhaps a little twitchy, but otherwise fine.
Damaged, but not broken. Not yet.