ignore it and it goes away [complete]
Characters: Adachi, open.
Setting: Small Library.
Time: Night 009
Summary: Adachi is tired, pissed, and pretty much hysterical. The last thing he needs is to see the ceiling.
Warnings: cussing, p4 spoilers.
Fuck the heat. Fuck the ghosts. Fuck this godfucking house all together.
It had been days already (--no, weeks, it had to be weeks but the clocks in the goddamn place just always told him otherwise--) and Adachi was already sick to his stomach thinking about it. The sound of construction following him everywhere he went, seeing the ghosts screaming and cry out every other hour--it was enough to drive anyone up the wall--not just some already mentally unstable freak of nature like Adachi.
The gun in his hand was already empty (always, always empty--ran out after the first, second night--it didn't even matter anymore, he needed to hold it, he needed the substance, something to assure him that he was still here and wasn't dead yet--but then again, being dead wouldn't be so bad, would it); his temples were throbbing as if something just as disgusting as these drowned, strangled, beat and cut up ghosts was about to burst out from his head. And eventually, he just ran straight into some room--who knows what it was--and shut the door behind him.
Like closing doors would stop them. He thought. He could only hope.
Adachi was sweating like a pig. He loosened his tie and adjusted his collar, clearing the lump out of his throat. Making his way deeper into the room, he didn't care about the maze of... shelves or the tomes. Adachi wasn't a man for literature. He was a man of reality (no matter how fucked up or downright idiotic he wanted to make it).
He moved all the way to the end of the room and threw himself onto an armchair. He was shaking--visibly. His hand was still tight around his gun, his knuckles as white as--as white the friendly kind of ghost. (Not like these.)
He was tired. And as he rolled his head back and looked up at the ceiling--well.
Leave it to life to throw him enough lemons to cure a worldwide plague of scurvy.
(What kind of a bastard would plan this. What kind of a sick bastard would make this house. What kind of a sick, hating, unforgiving, God. Would make him see this.) (And it was hard, to tell the truth, to phrase just about how badly the jealousy burned within him. A jealousy of himself--a jealousy of a man who was safe. Jealousy of a man whose life wasn't just left to rot like shit.)
And silently, to himself, he thought: Fuck God.
Setting: Small Library.
Time: Night 009
Summary: Adachi is tired, pissed, and pretty much hysterical. The last thing he needs is to see the ceiling.
Warnings: cussing, p4 spoilers.
Fuck the heat. Fuck the ghosts. Fuck this godfucking house all together.
It had been days already (--no, weeks, it had to be weeks but the clocks in the goddamn place just always told him otherwise--) and Adachi was already sick to his stomach thinking about it. The sound of construction following him everywhere he went, seeing the ghosts screaming and cry out every other hour--it was enough to drive anyone up the wall--not just some already mentally unstable freak of nature like Adachi.
The gun in his hand was already empty (always, always empty--ran out after the first, second night--it didn't even matter anymore, he needed to hold it, he needed the substance, something to assure him that he was still here and wasn't dead yet--but then again, being dead wouldn't be so bad, would it); his temples were throbbing as if something just as disgusting as these drowned, strangled, beat and cut up ghosts was about to burst out from his head. And eventually, he just ran straight into some room--who knows what it was--and shut the door behind him.
Like closing doors would stop them. He thought. He could only hope.
Adachi was sweating like a pig. He loosened his tie and adjusted his collar, clearing the lump out of his throat. Making his way deeper into the room, he didn't care about the maze of... shelves or the tomes. Adachi wasn't a man for literature. He was a man of reality (no matter how fucked up or downright idiotic he wanted to make it).
He moved all the way to the end of the room and threw himself onto an armchair. He was shaking--visibly. His hand was still tight around his gun, his knuckles as white as--as white the friendly kind of ghost. (Not like these.)
He was tired. And as he rolled his head back and looked up at the ceiling--well.
Leave it to life to throw him enough lemons to cure a worldwide plague of scurvy.
(What kind of a bastard would plan this. What kind of a sick bastard would make this house. What kind of a sick, hating, unforgiving, God. Would make him see this.) (And it was hard, to tell the truth, to phrase just about how badly the jealousy burned within him. A jealousy of himself--a jealousy of a man who was safe. Jealousy of a man whose life wasn't just left to rot like shit.)
And silently, to himself, he thought: Fuck God.