[narrative/open] Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide
Characters: Thomas, and whoever happens to be in his hospital room/visiting
Time: Evening, Sunday
Location: Hospital
Content: Thomas takes talking to himself to a whole new level. And gets told by everyone that he's an idiot.
Warnings: Nothing besides some angst?
Format: TL;DR. Multiple threads welcome for telling the idiot that he's an idiot.
The first thing Thomas noticed was the noise. Or lack thereof. As quiet as the family home was most days, there was usually sound. The muffled footsteps of housekeepers, the dull roar of the furnace and quiet whistle of air circulating. But today there was... nothing. Absolute silence. He frowned, the silence making him uneasy, and began walking. There was something here he needed, something here he needed to find, but how he knew, Thomas wasn't certain.
His bare feet made no noise on the carpet as he passed the wing of the house that contained offices and the staff's space. The same intangible knowledge guided him back down another hall, to where the family kept their suites, and with each step, Thomas grew certain of where he was headed. Grew certain and tried to avoid. He tried to turn around, to change direction, but his feet continued carrying him forward until he stood in front of a door. It looked like all the other doors in the hallway, but Thomas knew what was behind this one with an unshakeable surety.
This had been his suite. This had been the room where he'd been taken the night he'd almost died. The night he'd almost killed Justine.
He stood in front of it, still and unmoving, and breathed a sigh of relief when his hand didn't rise up of its own volition to turn the doorknob. Unfortunately, something on the other side of the door did, and the door swung silently open, bringing Thomas face to face with... himself.
It was himself, but somehow different. A little less stark around the cheekbones, a little less effortless definition to his musculature. A little plainer with visible stubble on his cheeks and eyes that looked like they were more used to glasses than not. Thomas stared, his mouth working but no sound escaped.
“It's about time you showed up,” the other him said, stepping back from the door and gesturing him in. It was only then that Thomas noticed that the other version of himself moved with a limp, leaning heavily on a worn, wooden cane as he moved. “I'd hoped it wouldn't take a coma to bring you though.”
“What are you even talking about?” Thomas asked, his confusion and curiosity for the moment overcoming the guilt that kept him outside the door. He followed behind his other self, trying not to look at the sunken pit in the far side of the room, the place where Justine had come to him, had walked willingly into death.
“You know what I'm talking about. I know what I'm talking about, which means you do. You can't lie to yourself, Thomas.” His subtly different twin shot him a knowing look and a smile that turned quickly to a grimace as he eased himself into a chair in obvious pain. “No matter how often we try.”
“So, we're inside my head. And I'm talking to myself.” Thomas shook his head and risked looking around the room. It was blissfully empty, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. He wouldn't have put it past himself to have imagined the place the last time he'd seen it, with Justine still in the room. “So what are you, my subconscious?”
The other him shook his head patiently and waved his cane to a chair. “No, I'm your humanity.”
Thomas ignored the chair. There was probably some symbolism there about rejecting himself, but he refused to think on it. “Let me guess, you're here to tell me I can't live this way, that something's going to give and I should go back to being a half-starved exile just to make my little brother feel better.”
Now that it was out, Thomas could recognize it, that the person sitting in front of him, his subtly different twin, was what was left without his demon's influence and inhuman appeal, this was what he would have been if his Hunger hadn't awoken. “No. You tell yourself that often enough. I wanted you to see this.” And with difficulty, the other version of him stood back up, leaning heavily on the cane. Instinctively, he wanted to move to help, to tell himself to stop when it was obvious how much pain he was in. But he didn't, because... he knew. They both knew, and he owed it to himself to see what this was about.
And the human part of him raised his shirt, showing him a thick swath of bandages that covered three, four ribs. The wound beneath still seeped dark blood that slowly stained the bandage, and beneath the bandages he could see tendrils of black curling beneath the skin, like veins of poison. Thomas swallowed hard. The predator part of him knew death, knew its signs and its smell, and that wound with its spreading poison stank of death. A cold chill ran down Thomas' spine. “The Skinwalker did that.”
His human self lowered the shirt and eased himself back into the chair, his expression pained but resigned. “Partial credit. The Skinwalker left the poison. You let it fester.”
“So what, we're dying?” Thomas wavered and grudgingly took the seat his other self had gestured to. That had to be another metaphor.
“Not yet. And not us. Just me.” His human half leaned forward in his chair, clutching the wooden cane it held with a white knuckled grip. His eyes were dark and bore into Thomas' own with a fervent, fevered intensity. “I'm the part of you that loves her. The part of you that pulled away when we nearly killed her. Without me...” He shuddered. “She'll be just another doe to you. You'll be able to have her again, you'll be able to touch her. But you won't care. It won't hurt if she dies. And she'll know. She'll see that you're different, but she'll still hope that you're still the man she loves. But you won't be, and she will die unmourned and unloved.”
The chill was now a full on lump of icy lead in the pit of Thomas' stomach, sitting with the cold weight of certain truth. He knew it was true, knew it and had been too afraid to face it. The Skinwalker had hurt him, Harry had been able to see it when Thomas had pushed it away. But it was as his other self had said. He'd hidden the wound, let it fester and rot while he embraced the darkness, the Hunger that dogged his footsteps. And now... “You said not yet. How much time?”
“I don't know. All I know is it isn't too late.” His human self winced in pain, and pressed a hand to his side.
Thomas couldn't be certain, but he thought he might have seen a faint trace of blood seep through his other self's shirt, and he shook his head. “I can't do this. I can't go back to starving.”
His human half chuckled wryly. “You know that's not what I mean. You have to care about them again. About Harry, about our grandfather. About your friends. You can't pretend they're just food, like it doesn't matter that you're killing them.”
The moment the words left his other half's mouth, Thomas knew he'd known them all along, had buried them far deeper than he'd thought possible, and the prospect of recognizing it, of letting that wash over him again, that pain and guilt and fear, terrified him. But his other self's words about Justine, about what would happen if he kept running, that was an even worse spectre on the horizon. She had always been his strength and his weakness, and he owed her his life. But more than that, he loved her. And as much as he hated being called a romantic... he was. And maybe it would be enough.
Thomas took a deep, shuddering breath, for the first time in a long time letting himself remember all of it. Remember the beauty and the life that had been feeding, that had been the glory and light that had permeated him killing those women. Remember the guilt and the nausea, the horror of what he'd done. And as that flooded through him, the memories of how badly he'd wanted it to end, how the Skinwalker had kept him alive, ripped through him like physical pain, spreading through him like the very poison that had crippled his other self. He convulsed, hands gripping his sides, fingernails digging in deep enough to draw blood, and screamed for an eternity.
Thomas looked up when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder and saw that his other self had gotten up, his cane left abandoned on the floor. He still held himself like a man in considerable pain, but it had clearly eased some. “You can find some new balance. We did once, we can do it again. And you've never had to do it alone. Justine wants to help. And so does Harry. You know that. Just like you know that Mom would have never let you face this if she didn't think you were strong enough to handle it.”
It might have been his imagination, but the thought, the knowledge, made the pain ebb, just a little. “Why am I here anyway?”
His other self shrugged. “You did something stupid. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad because it dropped your defenses enough for you to talk to me, but it was beyond Harry levels of stupid. And you should probably wake up soon. Before Harry burns down half of Chicago on your behalf. Skysong would probably help.”
*****
The first thing Thomas noticed was the noise. The noise of air conditioners and whirling, beeping machinery, noise that was part and parcel of everyday life. The second thing he noticed was that he ached, a bone-deep soul weary ache that permeated every part of him, but it was a good ache in its own way, a sign of healing rather than hurt. And the third thing he noticed was the taste of bitter poison in the back of his throat, rising quickly.
Out of sheer instinct, Thomas sat up and turned to the side, body convulsing as it tried to expel the poison. He wasn't sure how long it took, but he shook and he wretched and he gagged until it was gone, until all that was left was a small puddle of black, tar-like substance on the floor next to his bed. Only then did he open his eyes and take a raw, shuddering breath.
Time: Evening, Sunday
Location: Hospital
Content: Thomas takes talking to himself to a whole new level. And gets told by everyone that he's an idiot.
Warnings: Nothing besides some angst?
Format: TL;DR. Multiple threads welcome for telling the idiot that he's an idiot.
The first thing Thomas noticed was the noise. Or lack thereof. As quiet as the family home was most days, there was usually sound. The muffled footsteps of housekeepers, the dull roar of the furnace and quiet whistle of air circulating. But today there was... nothing. Absolute silence. He frowned, the silence making him uneasy, and began walking. There was something here he needed, something here he needed to find, but how he knew, Thomas wasn't certain.
His bare feet made no noise on the carpet as he passed the wing of the house that contained offices and the staff's space. The same intangible knowledge guided him back down another hall, to where the family kept their suites, and with each step, Thomas grew certain of where he was headed. Grew certain and tried to avoid. He tried to turn around, to change direction, but his feet continued carrying him forward until he stood in front of a door. It looked like all the other doors in the hallway, but Thomas knew what was behind this one with an unshakeable surety.
This had been his suite. This had been the room where he'd been taken the night he'd almost died. The night he'd almost killed Justine.
He stood in front of it, still and unmoving, and breathed a sigh of relief when his hand didn't rise up of its own volition to turn the doorknob. Unfortunately, something on the other side of the door did, and the door swung silently open, bringing Thomas face to face with... himself.
It was himself, but somehow different. A little less stark around the cheekbones, a little less effortless definition to his musculature. A little plainer with visible stubble on his cheeks and eyes that looked like they were more used to glasses than not. Thomas stared, his mouth working but no sound escaped.
“It's about time you showed up,” the other him said, stepping back from the door and gesturing him in. It was only then that Thomas noticed that the other version of himself moved with a limp, leaning heavily on a worn, wooden cane as he moved. “I'd hoped it wouldn't take a coma to bring you though.”
“What are you even talking about?” Thomas asked, his confusion and curiosity for the moment overcoming the guilt that kept him outside the door. He followed behind his other self, trying not to look at the sunken pit in the far side of the room, the place where Justine had come to him, had walked willingly into death.
“You know what I'm talking about. I know what I'm talking about, which means you do. You can't lie to yourself, Thomas.” His subtly different twin shot him a knowing look and a smile that turned quickly to a grimace as he eased himself into a chair in obvious pain. “No matter how often we try.”
“So, we're inside my head. And I'm talking to myself.” Thomas shook his head and risked looking around the room. It was blissfully empty, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. He wouldn't have put it past himself to have imagined the place the last time he'd seen it, with Justine still in the room. “So what are you, my subconscious?”
The other him shook his head patiently and waved his cane to a chair. “No, I'm your humanity.”
Thomas ignored the chair. There was probably some symbolism there about rejecting himself, but he refused to think on it. “Let me guess, you're here to tell me I can't live this way, that something's going to give and I should go back to being a half-starved exile just to make my little brother feel better.”
Now that it was out, Thomas could recognize it, that the person sitting in front of him, his subtly different twin, was what was left without his demon's influence and inhuman appeal, this was what he would have been if his Hunger hadn't awoken. “No. You tell yourself that often enough. I wanted you to see this.” And with difficulty, the other version of him stood back up, leaning heavily on the cane. Instinctively, he wanted to move to help, to tell himself to stop when it was obvious how much pain he was in. But he didn't, because... he knew. They both knew, and he owed it to himself to see what this was about.
And the human part of him raised his shirt, showing him a thick swath of bandages that covered three, four ribs. The wound beneath still seeped dark blood that slowly stained the bandage, and beneath the bandages he could see tendrils of black curling beneath the skin, like veins of poison. Thomas swallowed hard. The predator part of him knew death, knew its signs and its smell, and that wound with its spreading poison stank of death. A cold chill ran down Thomas' spine. “The Skinwalker did that.”
His human self lowered the shirt and eased himself back into the chair, his expression pained but resigned. “Partial credit. The Skinwalker left the poison. You let it fester.”
“So what, we're dying?” Thomas wavered and grudgingly took the seat his other self had gestured to. That had to be another metaphor.
“Not yet. And not us. Just me.” His human half leaned forward in his chair, clutching the wooden cane it held with a white knuckled grip. His eyes were dark and bore into Thomas' own with a fervent, fevered intensity. “I'm the part of you that loves her. The part of you that pulled away when we nearly killed her. Without me...” He shuddered. “She'll be just another doe to you. You'll be able to have her again, you'll be able to touch her. But you won't care. It won't hurt if she dies. And she'll know. She'll see that you're different, but she'll still hope that you're still the man she loves. But you won't be, and she will die unmourned and unloved.”
The chill was now a full on lump of icy lead in the pit of Thomas' stomach, sitting with the cold weight of certain truth. He knew it was true, knew it and had been too afraid to face it. The Skinwalker had hurt him, Harry had been able to see it when Thomas had pushed it away. But it was as his other self had said. He'd hidden the wound, let it fester and rot while he embraced the darkness, the Hunger that dogged his footsteps. And now... “You said not yet. How much time?”
“I don't know. All I know is it isn't too late.” His human self winced in pain, and pressed a hand to his side.
Thomas couldn't be certain, but he thought he might have seen a faint trace of blood seep through his other self's shirt, and he shook his head. “I can't do this. I can't go back to starving.”
His human half chuckled wryly. “You know that's not what I mean. You have to care about them again. About Harry, about our grandfather. About your friends. You can't pretend they're just food, like it doesn't matter that you're killing them.”
The moment the words left his other half's mouth, Thomas knew he'd known them all along, had buried them far deeper than he'd thought possible, and the prospect of recognizing it, of letting that wash over him again, that pain and guilt and fear, terrified him. But his other self's words about Justine, about what would happen if he kept running, that was an even worse spectre on the horizon. She had always been his strength and his weakness, and he owed her his life. But more than that, he loved her. And as much as he hated being called a romantic... he was. And maybe it would be enough.
Thomas took a deep, shuddering breath, for the first time in a long time letting himself remember all of it. Remember the beauty and the life that had been feeding, that had been the glory and light that had permeated him killing those women. Remember the guilt and the nausea, the horror of what he'd done. And as that flooded through him, the memories of how badly he'd wanted it to end, how the Skinwalker had kept him alive, ripped through him like physical pain, spreading through him like the very poison that had crippled his other self. He convulsed, hands gripping his sides, fingernails digging in deep enough to draw blood, and screamed for an eternity.
Thomas looked up when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder and saw that his other self had gotten up, his cane left abandoned on the floor. He still held himself like a man in considerable pain, but it had clearly eased some. “You can find some new balance. We did once, we can do it again. And you've never had to do it alone. Justine wants to help. And so does Harry. You know that. Just like you know that Mom would have never let you face this if she didn't think you were strong enough to handle it.”
It might have been his imagination, but the thought, the knowledge, made the pain ebb, just a little. “Why am I here anyway?”
His other self shrugged. “You did something stupid. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad because it dropped your defenses enough for you to talk to me, but it was beyond Harry levels of stupid. And you should probably wake up soon. Before Harry burns down half of Chicago on your behalf. Skysong would probably help.”
*****
The first thing Thomas noticed was the noise. The noise of air conditioners and whirling, beeping machinery, noise that was part and parcel of everyday life. The second thing he noticed was that he ached, a bone-deep soul weary ache that permeated every part of him, but it was a good ache in its own way, a sign of healing rather than hurt. And the third thing he noticed was the taste of bitter poison in the back of his throat, rising quickly.
Out of sheer instinct, Thomas sat up and turned to the side, body convulsing as it tried to expel the poison. He wasn't sure how long it took, but he shook and he wretched and he gagged until it was gone, until all that was left was a small puddle of black, tar-like substance on the floor next to his bed. Only then did he open his eyes and take a raw, shuddering breath.