As a messenger you must be known - with messages you must return [Log 1 of 2]
Character: B [born_crooked]
Time: Several days after disappearing in response to this fight with Mello [fortheoldworld]
Where: The roof of Becker Heights
Rating: PG-ish?
Summary: B goes a bit more off the rails. Setting the scene for a future log.
What do you do, when you're frustrated?
B can still hear Mello's voice, those words and others, sharp in his memory, replaying like an endlessly looped bit of tape. It's been days since they spoke, and B hasn't returned to the apartment he shares with Eve except once, when she'd gone out on the second day, to procure a tablet of paper and a pen.
I always made a plan.
When B left Mello's apartment, his half-drunk, clumsily racing brain decided to plot an escape, up to the roof of Becker Heights. The conversation that night, the new sensation of alcohol in his painfully thin body, the sudden onset of overwhelming panic - it all left B feeling like he couldn’t breathe. Picking the lock on the access door hadn’t been difficult at all.
You used to be so big.
No, Mello. It just seemed that way because you were smaller then.
Emotional distress doesn’t suit B at all. He hasn't done much to take care of himself in the days since the fight with Mello; he hasn't changed clothes, hasn't eaten, hasn't slept more than an hour or two here and there when his body finally gives out from sheer exhaustion. If B were to bother finding a mirror, he’d see that his appearance is exponentially more disheveled than usual - ghastly, one might say - and the spot on his jaw where Mello’s fist made contact is faded to a sickly, pale purplish yellow by now.
... I always made a plan.
B spends most of the time since he disappeared hunched over the tablet of paper in varying spots on the surface of the roof, scribbling down crossword puzzles of his own design - dozens of these puzzles, possibly even as many as a hundred. He doesn’t keep count. Each one is very difficult, each one is different, but each one solves for the same final answer, a question - WHO IS LIKE GOD?
You had a future.
No, Mello. I didn't have a future. I just didn't know it, then.
Occasionally, once the stack grows large enough, B gathers a handful of the papers, shuffles to the edge of the roof, and releases the puzzles to the wind, to be found [or not, he supposes] by people on the street below. Then he turns back to his work, scribbling furiously, mumbling and humming to himself under his breath.
Time: Several days after disappearing in response to this fight with Mello [fortheoldworld]
Where: The roof of Becker Heights
Rating: PG-ish?
Summary: B goes a bit more off the rails. Setting the scene for a future log.
What do you do, when you're frustrated?
B can still hear Mello's voice, those words and others, sharp in his memory, replaying like an endlessly looped bit of tape. It's been days since they spoke, and B hasn't returned to the apartment he shares with Eve except once, when she'd gone out on the second day, to procure a tablet of paper and a pen.
I always made a plan.
When B left Mello's apartment, his half-drunk, clumsily racing brain decided to plot an escape, up to the roof of Becker Heights. The conversation that night, the new sensation of alcohol in his painfully thin body, the sudden onset of overwhelming panic - it all left B feeling like he couldn’t breathe. Picking the lock on the access door hadn’t been difficult at all.
You used to be so big.
No, Mello. It just seemed that way because you were smaller then.
Emotional distress doesn’t suit B at all. He hasn't done much to take care of himself in the days since the fight with Mello; he hasn't changed clothes, hasn't eaten, hasn't slept more than an hour or two here and there when his body finally gives out from sheer exhaustion. If B were to bother finding a mirror, he’d see that his appearance is exponentially more disheveled than usual - ghastly, one might say - and the spot on his jaw where Mello’s fist made contact is faded to a sickly, pale purplish yellow by now.
... I always made a plan.
B spends most of the time since he disappeared hunched over the tablet of paper in varying spots on the surface of the roof, scribbling down crossword puzzles of his own design - dozens of these puzzles, possibly even as many as a hundred. He doesn’t keep count. Each one is very difficult, each one is different, but each one solves for the same final answer, a question - WHO IS LIKE GOD?
You had a future.
No, Mello. I didn't have a future. I just didn't know it, then.
Occasionally, once the stack grows large enough, B gathers a handful of the papers, shuffles to the edge of the roof, and releases the puzzles to the wind, to be found [or not, he supposes] by people on the street below. Then he turns back to his work, scribbling furiously, mumbling and humming to himself under his breath.