Jul. 27th, 2015

postictal: (rethink that move son | smoking)
[personal profile] postictal
It's Rosswood. It's always Rosswood.

The trees yawn ever skyward, jagged, sharp-toothed things with branches unguiculate, reaching toward him, past him, into him. The irregular chiaroscuro of the stretching branches turns them into knobbed, spiny things, like the bones of a joint laid bare, stripped of flesh, muscle and viscera peeled away. He can see his breath, frosted puffs of it leaching the warmth from his bones every time he exhales. The trees blot out the sky. The forest is black. Everything is black, cast in cold grayscale, with trunks painted ashen and leaves soaked in pitch.

This is where he belongs.

He can always feel it pressing over the posterior parts of his skull, clawing to be let out like the caged thing it is. He grits his teeth, as if that will hold it in while it tries to wrench its way out of an opened maw, scuttling free on spidery legs.


Hey, that's a thought.

He's in a web. That makes sense. His life has been nothing but webs, puppet strings tangling him, tying him to the spindled thing that lurks in his head, in him. And that thing, always like a spider the way it reeled them all in, well, it just makes sense, doesn't it. He strains against the threads of the sprawling filigree, not silvery and dew-crested but inky, gelatinous and ectoplasmic, clinging to him, miring him, tethering him, holding him down. He tugs against the constraints, but it's nothing more than a cursory struggle. He's too goddamn tired for anything else.

He let Jay die. Let him slip away. Of course Tim's trapped. It makes perfect sense.

But then, Jay looked at him. He looked at him, not full of wild despair but dull acceptance and that, that, that had been the worst thing.

Tim clenches his jaw and pulls again. He pulls.

The webbing holding him down snaps free with the rending sound of tearing elastic. He's falling. He falls forever, until he hits the ground in a tumbling skid and lies there, panting, sucking in greedy gulps of breath despite the chill in his lungs and in his bones and worming into his heart, heartless little beast, little creature, little thing you are, he has to pick himself up and run because that's what he does, that's all he ever does is fucking run and never face anything.

Little. Fucking. Monster.


applesaucedream: (Default)
The Big Applesauce Dreaming


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