Dreams I've Seen Enough Of [Closed, Complete]
Characters: Machi Tobaye, Anna Marshall
Setting: That big span of space between the nursery and the floating hallway. East wing of first floor, generally speaking.
Time: Late Day 006, no known specifics
Summary: Machi discovers the ceiling and flees from the person he trusts and fears most.
Warnings: None
Machi woke up in pain. This was not unusual, but it didn't make it any less agonising--pain seemed to be a part of his general, normative state of being, an inescapable fact of his existence. Or at least it was now. He'd become half-numb to it by now, the general pain of just living with his limbs what they were, the constant sharp, grating pains that plagued his skull, the unsteady feeling, like it would fall off any moment, the pulling of his sutures, the itch of bandages long befouled by rot or blood. He had to twist his long limbs inhumanly to extricate himself from under the nursery crib where he'd captured his fevered sleep, face paling as he moved, as he bent his knee back from the wrong direction and pulled his rotting elbow back over his head in a way that would have shattered the joint in any normal person. The pianist slept in contorted positions now, which he did purely to avoid contact with the monstrous limbs, and he fell asleep in different places each time, out of the way, favouring hidden or less-frequented locations, invisible from doorways. He did not want to be found by accident, stumbled upon or seen by anyone, anyone at all--especially the people he knew. He could do nothing about the evidence he left behind, though, the pus and blood marks he made simply by touching the ground and walls with his hands and feet and legs and arms, but for now he kept moving, evading. He didn't trust anyone.
He'd... become something else. Something wrong.
Even Lamiroir wouldn't want him.
Lamiroir had been the only one who had ever wanted him, the only one he could be around, approach without asking for money, or paying something, the only one who'd really wanted him, and he'd betrayed her...
...her trust...
He'd betrayed her.
And this was what he got for it.
Just the thought of Lamiroir was painful, unreasoningly so, a blind, terrible pain that came from nowhere, making him curl up, ball up awkwardly, simultaneously trying to cover himself, to wrap his limbs around himself for comfort and not touch himself with them, to keep the horrible things as far away from himself as possible. The tears cut trails through the grime on his face as his head throbbed, wracked with pain, and his throat burned, breath coming in harsh streams.
He cried by himself under the crib for a long time, surrounded by the pastel walls and frolicking animals, the silence of the room broken only by the sounds of his muffled whimpering sobs.
Machi crawled across the floor, his arms out at his shoulders, crablike, forearms swinging back and forth, back and forth, rapidly, bent at the elbow, the entire limb moving with it and covering ground at a constantly improving rate. It was less painful that way and much faster than trying to do it in a less monstrous fashion, but it made it no less horrible for Machi to do, no less horrifying, no less miserable. He didn't know where he was going, he just needed to move. The nursery had been a bad idea. A stupid, terrible, mistake. He'd just been so tired... and now...
Setting: That big span of space between the nursery and the floating hallway. East wing of first floor, generally speaking.
Time: Late Day 006, no known specifics
Summary: Machi discovers the ceiling and flees from the person he trusts and fears most.
Warnings: None
Machi woke up in pain. This was not unusual, but it didn't make it any less agonising--pain seemed to be a part of his general, normative state of being, an inescapable fact of his existence. Or at least it was now. He'd become half-numb to it by now, the general pain of just living with his limbs what they were, the constant sharp, grating pains that plagued his skull, the unsteady feeling, like it would fall off any moment, the pulling of his sutures, the itch of bandages long befouled by rot or blood. He had to twist his long limbs inhumanly to extricate himself from under the nursery crib where he'd captured his fevered sleep, face paling as he moved, as he bent his knee back from the wrong direction and pulled his rotting elbow back over his head in a way that would have shattered the joint in any normal person. The pianist slept in contorted positions now, which he did purely to avoid contact with the monstrous limbs, and he fell asleep in different places each time, out of the way, favouring hidden or less-frequented locations, invisible from doorways. He did not want to be found by accident, stumbled upon or seen by anyone, anyone at all--especially the people he knew. He could do nothing about the evidence he left behind, though, the pus and blood marks he made simply by touching the ground and walls with his hands and feet and legs and arms, but for now he kept moving, evading. He didn't trust anyone.
He'd... become something else. Something wrong.
Even Lamiroir wouldn't want him.
Lamiroir had been the only one who had ever wanted him, the only one he could be around, approach without asking for money, or paying something, the only one who'd really wanted him, and he'd betrayed her...
...her trust...
He'd betrayed her.
And this was what he got for it.
Just the thought of Lamiroir was painful, unreasoningly so, a blind, terrible pain that came from nowhere, making him curl up, ball up awkwardly, simultaneously trying to cover himself, to wrap his limbs around himself for comfort and not touch himself with them, to keep the horrible things as far away from himself as possible. The tears cut trails through the grime on his face as his head throbbed, wracked with pain, and his throat burned, breath coming in harsh streams.
He cried by himself under the crib for a long time, surrounded by the pastel walls and frolicking animals, the silence of the room broken only by the sounds of his muffled whimpering sobs.
Machi crawled across the floor, his arms out at his shoulders, crablike, forearms swinging back and forth, back and forth, rapidly, bent at the elbow, the entire limb moving with it and covering ground at a constantly improving rate. It was less painful that way and much faster than trying to do it in a less monstrous fashion, but it made it no less horrible for Machi to do, no less horrifying, no less miserable. He didn't know where he was going, he just needed to move. The nursery had been a bad idea. A stupid, terrible, mistake. He'd just been so tired... and now...