Rashad does not like this place, but Rashad has disliked nearly everything he's encountered over the past few days. He dislikes that he dislikes things, that everything around him provokes some sort of reaction, as though the world has any right to intrude on his mind and alter his formerly pristine, unbiased perceptions. He is not sure whether he is more afraid or more angry at what has been done to him, and the lack of clarity and lack of control only serves to make him more afraid and more angry at every turn, and it was not meant to be this way. Not for him.
But it is this way. He cannot escape the cloying reality of his own broken mind, cannot hold to the shreds of rationality left to him in the face of the feelings that will not stop occurring apropos of anything, apropos of nothing. He is unable to function and it is killing him and he's dimly aware that he's being dramatic when he says that to himself, which is all the worse. He is not a dramatic being, or at least he should not be. Drama is the refuge of creatures unable to cope with their lives in a measured, reasonable fashion, and he has never been such a thing, not until he quite suddenly was.
His body has healed in the wake of the attack, but the deeper damage remains. His corporeal form is huddled in some hidden corner or another, wherever he last left it in his futile efforts to isolate himself in the vain hope that being away from the feelings of others would help him stop having feelings of his own. His mind, however, is elsewhere --
Salty, wet air presses in on him, but things are not as terrible as they might be. He huddles in tropical greenery, vaguely attempting to remain hidden from the view of unknown people, and while he is not alone the presence on his shoulder is not an unwelcome one. The little reptile is scarcely longer than his hand if one doesn't count the equally long tail, but her slight weight against his neck grounds him in a way he has not felt grounded in several days.
"You must try to be less agitated," she is saying softly (impassively) into his ear even as her eyes swivel seemingly aimlessly about. Is this how he sounds when he speaks? He wishes it were still so. "Gain control of yourself."
"I cannot control it," he protests, hearing his own voice tremble. "I cannot do this. I do not want this!"
"You should not want at all," the chameleon reminds him, and Rashad lets out a soft, keening sound.
no subject
But it is this way. He cannot escape the cloying reality of his own broken mind, cannot hold to the shreds of rationality left to him in the face of the feelings that will not stop occurring apropos of anything, apropos of nothing. He is unable to function and it is killing him and he's dimly aware that he's being dramatic when he says that to himself, which is all the worse. He is not a dramatic being, or at least he should not be. Drama is the refuge of creatures unable to cope with their lives in a measured, reasonable fashion, and he has never been such a thing, not until he quite suddenly was.
His body has healed in the wake of the attack, but the deeper damage remains. His corporeal form is huddled in some hidden corner or another, wherever he last left it in his futile efforts to isolate himself in the vain hope that being away from the feelings of others would help him stop having feelings of his own. His mind, however, is elsewhere --
Salty, wet air presses in on him, but things are not as terrible as they might be. He huddles in tropical greenery, vaguely attempting to remain hidden from the view of unknown people, and while he is not alone the presence on his shoulder is not an unwelcome one. The little reptile is scarcely longer than his hand if one doesn't count the equally long tail, but her slight weight against his neck grounds him in a way he has not felt grounded in several days.
"You must try to be less agitated," she is saying softly (impassively) into his ear even as her eyes swivel seemingly aimlessly about. Is this how he sounds when he speaks? He wishes it were still so. "Gain control of yourself."
"I cannot control it," he protests, hearing his own voice tremble. "I cannot do this. I do not want this!"
"You should not want at all," the chameleon reminds him, and Rashad lets out a soft, keening sound.