Help, I have done it again.
Two days ago I had been entirely ready to die. Less than forty-eight hours later and that hasn't changed. Even after having gone so long without it, sleep didn't come easily. Nightmares chased away any chance of oblivion I might’ve had. I'm not exactly what you could call surprised. My one easy fix was tabled by Rogue for the time being and the road to absolution is long and winding. Let it be said: the scenic route is tedious. I woke up more exhausted than when I went to sleep. I can only assume this will become a recurring theme. 'Madrox doth murder sleep.' I may be the Hamlet of the mutant world, but I've spent more time in Scotland than Denmark, and the thane of Cawdor and I share in a few uncomfortable traits, insomnia chief among them.
Nearly two days after he'd been admitted, Madrox slipped out of the clinic sometime in the ungodly hours of the morning, intent on finding a shower. Though personal hygiene had never ranked particularly high for him, even he was beginning to recognize himself as a public health hazard. A bathroom had been located easily enough, mercifully empty save for a few others he hadn't recognized. More importantly, though, they hadn't recognized him. It was early yet, and he was in no frame of mind to be dealing with the friends of a long lost dupe. He had enough messes he needed to clean up.
At the top of that list were his clothes. Lacking the foresight to secure something clean before showering, he'd ended up putting back on the clothes he'd arrived in -- ones that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine for over a month. A blonde woman had pointed him in the direction of the laundry room and advised him he might want to select the 'extra rinse' option as her nose crinkled in disgust. She reminded him of Pietro. It wasn't a kind comparison. Still, her intel had been accurate, and Madrox was soon pulling on his freshly laundered trench.
Some may argue the coat's unnecessary given where I've landed myself, but that's never stopped me before. Keep in mind that I've essentially worn a variation of the same outfit my entire life. I'll leave it to the shrinks to decipher what that means in the greater scheme of things.
Clean -- or cleaner, rather -- he headed outside, his bandaged hand shoved in his pocket. He saw no need to advertise his injury. Wandering aimlessly, he carefully observed his new surroundings, taking note of anything curious that warranted further investigation. There'd obviously been some sort of party the day before, though the idea of a celebration of any kind struck him as particularly absurd. Though he could appreciate the need to blow off steam, it wasn’t an option he foresaw himself indulging in anytime soon.
His impromptu exploration eventually led him to a church, though he couldn't bring himself to enter. He merely stood outside, head tilted sideways as he considered both it and what it meant that he'd been ripped from his timeline and dumped on an ostensible blank slate that offered no more hope than he'd had back home.
"Hello, God," he muttered, staring at the building all the while. "It's me, Madrox."
Nearly two days after he'd been admitted, Madrox slipped out of the clinic sometime in the ungodly hours of the morning, intent on finding a shower. Though personal hygiene had never ranked particularly high for him, even he was beginning to recognize himself as a public health hazard. A bathroom had been located easily enough, mercifully empty save for a few others he hadn't recognized. More importantly, though, they hadn't recognized him. It was early yet, and he was in no frame of mind to be dealing with the friends of a long lost dupe. He had enough messes he needed to clean up.
At the top of that list were his clothes. Lacking the foresight to secure something clean before showering, he'd ended up putting back on the clothes he'd arrived in -- ones that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine for over a month. A blonde woman had pointed him in the direction of the laundry room and advised him he might want to select the 'extra rinse' option as her nose crinkled in disgust. She reminded him of Pietro. It wasn't a kind comparison. Still, her intel had been accurate, and Madrox was soon pulling on his freshly laundered trench.
Some may argue the coat's unnecessary given where I've landed myself, but that's never stopped me before. Keep in mind that I've essentially worn a variation of the same outfit my entire life. I'll leave it to the shrinks to decipher what that means in the greater scheme of things.
Clean -- or cleaner, rather -- he headed outside, his bandaged hand shoved in his pocket. He saw no need to advertise his injury. Wandering aimlessly, he carefully observed his new surroundings, taking note of anything curious that warranted further investigation. There'd obviously been some sort of party the day before, though the idea of a celebration of any kind struck him as particularly absurd. Though he could appreciate the need to blow off steam, it wasn’t an option he foresaw himself indulging in anytime soon.
His impromptu exploration eventually led him to a church, though he couldn't bring himself to enter. He merely stood outside, head tilted sideways as he considered both it and what it meant that he'd been ripped from his timeline and dumped on an ostensible blank slate that offered no more hope than he'd had back home.
"Hello, God," he muttered, staring at the building all the while. "It's me, Madrox."