Slowly Twisting [Closed, Complete]
Characters: Machi Tobaye
Setting: Sitting Room
Time: Day 006, otherwise ????
Summary: Suicide circle and some laughing. Second to last vignette!
Warnings: Gore.
Machi approached the sitting room from the ground. He walked--struggled, really--his shoulder pressed up against the wall, leaning heavily, trying to be more human. At first he'd been moving along the walls and ceilings, crawling with his limbs at odd angles, avoiding the floor, but he couldn't stomach it, couldn't make himself keep going. Physically, he couldn't do it for very long, mostly because it hurt and taxed his sensitive, aching limb-junctures and his unstable, sore head, but it was the mental aspect that brought him down. It was a new ability, a new thing, but abhorrent, alien, monstrous, wrong. And yet it was potentially useful, very useful, just to be able to avoid people or keep the mess from his foul appendages away from where other people might path, a way to keep people from seeing him... it had other uses, too. If he could keep it up. But he couldn't. Not right now. Not ever. Internally it was unpleasant, an anathema, and it made him sick, both in his stomach and in his heart--part of him didn't want to give in, to do use it, be that, a freak, inhuman.
He didn't smell the corpses until he saw them. The smell of blood and dead bodies was, essentially, the same as the smell of rotting ones, and he was becoming numb to that--had already become numb to that--so when Machi entered the sitting room and found the circle of corpses, a suicide circle, their brains blown out upon the walls, he didn't have very much warning at all. His first reaction was one of sudden shock and, briefly, violent nausea. For a second he thought he was going to throw up--and indeed, something foul came up in his throat, making him choke, forcing it up into his mouth--but he couldn't spit it out, vile as it was, and he doubled over, forcing himself to swallow it again, eyes narrowed. Finally he straightened, a kind of... not quite hysteria, more like a weird high, covering for the physical anguish before he got back up. And he was calm, weirdly--by the time he was upright again his features had smoothed out completely, though the horrible taste was still there. His stomach, still churned upside-down, did not give him more than a brief pause and he dropped back to all fours, unable to walk without the wall, crawling closer, a weird feeling creeping up in him. It wasn't the bodies themselves--it was the suddenness of it, the unexpectedness, the sight, that had caught him. He was numb to corpses themselves now, just like he was numb to the smell of rot.
The suicide was obvious. Each corpse had a gun, turned just so--it was a mass suicide, a dozen or so people all joining together for one last meeting before blowing their brains out... the hilarity, the irony of it struck Machi without warning as he recognised the ridiculousness, the futility, and he felt a hysteria bubbling up--not the kind that made you want to scream, but the kind that came with a laugh--a dark, twisted kind of laughter--and he fought the urge to give into it, trying to keep the madness he was suddenly feeling like under control. It wasn't just hilarity, it was giddiness, a kind of fast, weird fall--they were dead, they were dead and he wasn't. He was fine. 'Fine.' Alive. What for? He had no idea. But he'd survived, somehow. And these... each corpse had just one gun, one each and Machi's pale blue eyes were drawn to these, his heart suddenly hollowed out from the inside--it was easier to focus on them than to look at the spattered blood, the cerebral matter that ran down the walls, easier without laughing--he pushed himself up, unsteadily, almost teetering on too-jointed legs. Then he reached down, catching himself with one hand, needing it for balance, his right hand planted on the ground to stabilise himself as he pulled the gun from the dead man's grip with his left. He straightened, stood unsteadily and leaned back too far before righting himself, listing, and turning the weapon over in his hands, opening it, removing the clip--there were no bullets. Had he expected any? But the added humour, the irony, the black humour, that this person had saved the last one, the last bullet for himself--it made him laugh.
And so did the next thing he realised.
He could hold the gun. In his hand, right now, he could hold the gun just fine. His fingers, grotesque and monstrous, still fit around the trigger, still wrapped around the grip, now too large instead of too small, but--
He couldn't play the piano, but he could hold a gun.
Setting: Sitting Room
Time: Day 006, otherwise ????
Summary: Suicide circle and some laughing. Second to last vignette!
Warnings: Gore.
Machi approached the sitting room from the ground. He walked--struggled, really--his shoulder pressed up against the wall, leaning heavily, trying to be more human. At first he'd been moving along the walls and ceilings, crawling with his limbs at odd angles, avoiding the floor, but he couldn't stomach it, couldn't make himself keep going. Physically, he couldn't do it for very long, mostly because it hurt and taxed his sensitive, aching limb-junctures and his unstable, sore head, but it was the mental aspect that brought him down. It was a new ability, a new thing, but abhorrent, alien, monstrous, wrong. And yet it was potentially useful, very useful, just to be able to avoid people or keep the mess from his foul appendages away from where other people might path, a way to keep people from seeing him... it had other uses, too. If he could keep it up. But he couldn't. Not right now. Not ever. Internally it was unpleasant, an anathema, and it made him sick, both in his stomach and in his heart--part of him didn't want to give in, to do use it, be that, a freak, inhuman.
He didn't smell the corpses until he saw them. The smell of blood and dead bodies was, essentially, the same as the smell of rotting ones, and he was becoming numb to that--had already become numb to that--so when Machi entered the sitting room and found the circle of corpses, a suicide circle, their brains blown out upon the walls, he didn't have very much warning at all. His first reaction was one of sudden shock and, briefly, violent nausea. For a second he thought he was going to throw up--and indeed, something foul came up in his throat, making him choke, forcing it up into his mouth--but he couldn't spit it out, vile as it was, and he doubled over, forcing himself to swallow it again, eyes narrowed. Finally he straightened, a kind of... not quite hysteria, more like a weird high, covering for the physical anguish before he got back up. And he was calm, weirdly--by the time he was upright again his features had smoothed out completely, though the horrible taste was still there. His stomach, still churned upside-down, did not give him more than a brief pause and he dropped back to all fours, unable to walk without the wall, crawling closer, a weird feeling creeping up in him. It wasn't the bodies themselves--it was the suddenness of it, the unexpectedness, the sight, that had caught him. He was numb to corpses themselves now, just like he was numb to the smell of rot.
The suicide was obvious. Each corpse had a gun, turned just so--it was a mass suicide, a dozen or so people all joining together for one last meeting before blowing their brains out... the hilarity, the irony of it struck Machi without warning as he recognised the ridiculousness, the futility, and he felt a hysteria bubbling up--not the kind that made you want to scream, but the kind that came with a laugh--a dark, twisted kind of laughter--and he fought the urge to give into it, trying to keep the madness he was suddenly feeling like under control. It wasn't just hilarity, it was giddiness, a kind of fast, weird fall--they were dead, they were dead and he wasn't. He was fine. 'Fine.' Alive. What for? He had no idea. But he'd survived, somehow. And these... each corpse had just one gun, one each and Machi's pale blue eyes were drawn to these, his heart suddenly hollowed out from the inside--it was easier to focus on them than to look at the spattered blood, the cerebral matter that ran down the walls, easier without laughing--he pushed himself up, unsteadily, almost teetering on too-jointed legs. Then he reached down, catching himself with one hand, needing it for balance, his right hand planted on the ground to stabilise himself as he pulled the gun from the dead man's grip with his left. He straightened, stood unsteadily and leaned back too far before righting himself, listing, and turning the weapon over in his hands, opening it, removing the clip--there were no bullets. Had he expected any? But the added humour, the irony, the black humour, that this person had saved the last one, the last bullet for himself--it made him laugh.
And so did the next thing he realised.
He could hold the gun. In his hand, right now, he could hold the gun just fine. His fingers, grotesque and monstrous, still fit around the trigger, still wrapped around the grip, now too large instead of too small, but--
He couldn't play the piano, but he could hold a gun.