(no subject)
[ooc: Immediately following this]
Ben don't bother looking back when he stumbles out of the bar, up the stairs to his room, 'cause he don't goddamn wanna see that girl again, th'one who fuckin' pistol-whipped him with a good-goddamn-shotgun then acted like he'd somehow done her wrong. He feels angry, fuckin' furious, feels like he shouldn't'a gone down, feels like that sorta thing shouldn't happen here and when he finally slams his way into his room, he's worked up a right head of steam.
He goes to the bathroom first, flicks the light on and holds onto the sink, staring at himself at the mirror. It's not as bad as it felt, he thinks, touches the red mark on his jaw, his cheekbone, it don't even hurt that bad under his fingers. And the blood's gone from his mouth, and that's okay, and now the anger's being replaced by somethin' like shame 'cause it's startin' t'look like she didn't even hit him that hard.
Hard enough to lose a couple teeth, though, and he braces himself, runs his tongue 'round the inside of his mouth, probing for the empty spaces he knows are there 'cause he felt at least one shatter, spat one onto the bar-floor so there's gotta be a hole, somewhere, and his tongue moves faster and then he gapes his jaw and goes in with his fingers, frantic as he counts and checks and doublechecks but in the end it don't come to nothin', 'cause.
'cause he's not missing a goddamn thing. Not a single fuckin' tooth out of place, no fragments washin' around his gums. No blood, neither, and nothin' to even bleed, no cuts, no nothin'. And then he passes his hands over his cheek again, up the jawbone, 'roud where the cold metal of the barrel slammed in and it should hurt like fuck, it should be bruising, it should be swelling but there's just plain pale skin, little dirty from the gun, stubbly 'round his jaw.
Not a goddamn thing to show what happened.
He barely has to think before he goes sprintin' down the stairs, stops just before the bar so he can scan the area, hopesprays he ain't gonna see what he thinks he's gonna see and for once somethin' answers him 'cause there ain't a single dead thing, ain't a one person screamin' bloody murder, nothin' like that. He goes back to his room, quieter, and when he does he sits by the window and runs fingers over the place where there should be a mark and isn't.
No one dead, no one hurt. Didn't have to take no life to fix this.
He hardly notices his fingers on the windowsill, tracin' letters, over and over and over.
taravataravataravataravataravatara...
Ben don't bother looking back when he stumbles out of the bar, up the stairs to his room, 'cause he don't goddamn wanna see that girl again, th'one who fuckin' pistol-whipped him with a good-goddamn-shotgun then acted like he'd somehow done her wrong. He feels angry, fuckin' furious, feels like he shouldn't'a gone down, feels like that sorta thing shouldn't happen here and when he finally slams his way into his room, he's worked up a right head of steam.
He goes to the bathroom first, flicks the light on and holds onto the sink, staring at himself at the mirror. It's not as bad as it felt, he thinks, touches the red mark on his jaw, his cheekbone, it don't even hurt that bad under his fingers. And the blood's gone from his mouth, and that's okay, and now the anger's being replaced by somethin' like shame 'cause it's startin' t'look like she didn't even hit him that hard.
Hard enough to lose a couple teeth, though, and he braces himself, runs his tongue 'round the inside of his mouth, probing for the empty spaces he knows are there 'cause he felt at least one shatter, spat one onto the bar-floor so there's gotta be a hole, somewhere, and his tongue moves faster and then he gapes his jaw and goes in with his fingers, frantic as he counts and checks and doublechecks but in the end it don't come to nothin', 'cause.
'cause he's not missing a goddamn thing. Not a single fuckin' tooth out of place, no fragments washin' around his gums. No blood, neither, and nothin' to even bleed, no cuts, no nothin'. And then he passes his hands over his cheek again, up the jawbone, 'roud where the cold metal of the barrel slammed in and it should hurt like fuck, it should be bruising, it should be swelling but there's just plain pale skin, little dirty from the gun, stubbly 'round his jaw.
Not a goddamn thing to show what happened.
He barely has to think before he goes sprintin' down the stairs, stops just before the bar so he can scan the area, hopesprays he ain't gonna see what he thinks he's gonna see and for once somethin' answers him 'cause there ain't a single dead thing, ain't a one person screamin' bloody murder, nothin' like that. He goes back to his room, quieter, and when he does he sits by the window and runs fingers over the place where there should be a mark and isn't.
No one dead, no one hurt. Didn't have to take no life to fix this.
He hardly notices his fingers on the windowsill, tracin' letters, over and over and over.
taravataravataravataravataravatara...