...well. (open)
Well. Locke is in his room again, the door closed and staring at the wall, sitting up on his bed. He has not had a good afternoon. He doesn't really look like he has for the past few months. It's amazing how fast all the masks break away. He doesn't look quite human, not with the wild look in his eyes and the way he's hardly moving at all. There's a bitter taste of bad wine in his mouth, but he's ignoring it, in favor of slugging back more. Being drunk would be nice. It'd mean he wouldn't have to think.
And there he goes again! With that stupid thinking business. It's like having an anchor tied around one's neck, Locke reflects, briefly. Going in circles about all the stupid mistakes he's made. It's a wonderful feeling, really. Like rubbing vinegar on an open wound. And he can't decide what he should feel about that bloody woman. But he'll be damned if he's going to feel guilty. No, really.
He curls up into himself a bit and tosses back more wine. Always the solution, wine.
"Godsdammit. I miss Bug," he says, out of nowhere, and a bit blearily.
And there he goes again! With that stupid thinking business. It's like having an anchor tied around one's neck, Locke reflects, briefly. Going in circles about all the stupid mistakes he's made. It's a wonderful feeling, really. Like rubbing vinegar on an open wound. And he can't decide what he should feel about that bloody woman. But he'll be damned if he's going to feel guilty. No, really.
He curls up into himself a bit and tosses back more wine. Always the solution, wine.
"Godsdammit. I miss Bug," he says, out of nowhere, and a bit blearily.