(no subject)
When he wakes up, his head is hurting. That isn't entirely new--he's been waking up with headaches more often lately, and this one isn't even the worst one he's had. But the room is unusually dark, smelling strangely musty, and he groans and rolls over, his hand going instinctively to his face.
And then two things happen. He realizes that he's alone in bed, completely alone, with no warmth of any other body, no familiar scent.
And he feels his own skin.
He sits up so sharp and so hard that his head gives a splitting lurch. He cries out softly, eye squeezed shut--eye. His right one is frozen half open, twisted and stiff with scar issue. He's back in his own apartment, in Trenton, New Jersey, and he's alone, and he's crippled, and he's lost everything.
The bandages are still on his wrists. He can feel them pulling at his skin. He remembers that clearly--it had been rage more than anything else. More than anything else, he had just wanted to hurt something. It had been convenient.
"What the fuck," he whispers. For a horrible minute or so, he considers that maybe it had all been a dream, all of it: Florence, Eostre, Neil, Tom, the girls, the Island, the Realm, everyone he's known and loved anywhere other than here. Wishful thinking, grasping at increasingly ridiculous straws as whatever's left of his real life slips further and further away.
He never would have thought that he would want the Realm to be anything more than a bad dream.
He opens his eye and looks around. The room is dimly lit and gray, colorless, strewn with books and laundry that he hasn't bothered to pick up, because what would the point be? What day is this? How long has he been asleep? His gaze settles on the digital clock by the bed: 4:30. It has to be afternoon. Toward the end he had been sleeping most of the time. He drags himself closer to the clock and the window over it, spreading the shades apart. Just as gray outside, and raining in a sullen, noncommittal way.
He hasn't looked at his leg. He can't. There's a prosthetic on the floor, looking strange and broken and sad. He can look at that, barely. He almost laughs. I buried you.
For a long time he just sits there. What else to do? He's never experienced a loss like this. Not the leg, not Eostre, not Chris, not Florence. He's never lost years of his own life. Never...
There's a scrap of paper on the table. The white of it catches his attention all at once and he leans over, squinting. A phone number. Not his handwriting. Far too steady.
He recognizes this. He knows what this is. And then he knows a lot more--or he wants to know it, wants to believe it, because it would mean that he doesn't have to let go.
A loop, like Neil's. Something he has to do. He holds the paper in his hand, shaking slightly. So what? What the fuck is he supposed to do to get around this, if he can?
Not that many options. Being in this body hurts him. He had forgotten how much it hurt, how much he had wanted to be out of it. Who remembers pain once it's gone? But now he remembers all of it, and the Island and all those beloved faces are slipping through his mind like sand on the beach.
Finally, because he's not sure what else to do, he manages to get hold of one of his crutches--he'd been using them for therapy, he remembers, and to get around when he didn't want to bother with the prosthetic. he manages to get to his feet and hobbles, naked, down the short dark hallway and into the kitchen. Dishes are piled high in the sink, and the whole place smells faintly of food going bad. He fumbles with the phone, almost drops it, fumbles with the paper and almost drops it as well. But he gets the number dialed, and it's ringing, and it's answered after two rings.
He doesn't wait to hear what the voice says. "My answer is yes," he breathes. "I'm in."
And everything goes white.
And then two things happen. He realizes that he's alone in bed, completely alone, with no warmth of any other body, no familiar scent.
And he feels his own skin.
He sits up so sharp and so hard that his head gives a splitting lurch. He cries out softly, eye squeezed shut--eye. His right one is frozen half open, twisted and stiff with scar issue. He's back in his own apartment, in Trenton, New Jersey, and he's alone, and he's crippled, and he's lost everything.
The bandages are still on his wrists. He can feel them pulling at his skin. He remembers that clearly--it had been rage more than anything else. More than anything else, he had just wanted to hurt something. It had been convenient.
"What the fuck," he whispers. For a horrible minute or so, he considers that maybe it had all been a dream, all of it: Florence, Eostre, Neil, Tom, the girls, the Island, the Realm, everyone he's known and loved anywhere other than here. Wishful thinking, grasping at increasingly ridiculous straws as whatever's left of his real life slips further and further away.
He never would have thought that he would want the Realm to be anything more than a bad dream.
He opens his eye and looks around. The room is dimly lit and gray, colorless, strewn with books and laundry that he hasn't bothered to pick up, because what would the point be? What day is this? How long has he been asleep? His gaze settles on the digital clock by the bed: 4:30. It has to be afternoon. Toward the end he had been sleeping most of the time. He drags himself closer to the clock and the window over it, spreading the shades apart. Just as gray outside, and raining in a sullen, noncommittal way.
He hasn't looked at his leg. He can't. There's a prosthetic on the floor, looking strange and broken and sad. He can look at that, barely. He almost laughs. I buried you.
For a long time he just sits there. What else to do? He's never experienced a loss like this. Not the leg, not Eostre, not Chris, not Florence. He's never lost years of his own life. Never...
There's a scrap of paper on the table. The white of it catches his attention all at once and he leans over, squinting. A phone number. Not his handwriting. Far too steady.
He recognizes this. He knows what this is. And then he knows a lot more--or he wants to know it, wants to believe it, because it would mean that he doesn't have to let go.
A loop, like Neil's. Something he has to do. He holds the paper in his hand, shaking slightly. So what? What the fuck is he supposed to do to get around this, if he can?
Not that many options. Being in this body hurts him. He had forgotten how much it hurt, how much he had wanted to be out of it. Who remembers pain once it's gone? But now he remembers all of it, and the Island and all those beloved faces are slipping through his mind like sand on the beach.
Finally, because he's not sure what else to do, he manages to get hold of one of his crutches--he'd been using them for therapy, he remembers, and to get around when he didn't want to bother with the prosthetic. he manages to get to his feet and hobbles, naked, down the short dark hallway and into the kitchen. Dishes are piled high in the sink, and the whole place smells faintly of food going bad. He fumbles with the phone, almost drops it, fumbles with the paper and almost drops it as well. But he gets the number dialed, and it's ringing, and it's answered after two rings.
He doesn't wait to hear what the voice says. "My answer is yes," he breathes. "I'm in."
And everything goes white.