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johnny_truant[[ooc: This post is Jazzy Approved for Zagreus visitations: we have a standing agreement that Johnny has a little hallucinatory Zagreus running around in his subconscious, just giving a face and a voice to Johnny's preexisting issues.]]
It's hard to say Johnny's dreams are getting worse when they've always been terrible. Sleep has been an enemy for a long time, and it's no different now. What's changed are the circumstances. More and more he dreams communally, or finds himself an active participant in someone else's nightshow. More and more, the poison left in his head manifests into the predator that put it there, sneering at him from the dark, whispering lessons into his ear.
Tonight Johnny sits in a circle of blood, at the center of an endless room, its walls too distant to be perceived; infinity frightens him, dizzies him, and he curls over himself, wanting to be found.
Zagreus stalks around him outside the lines, as if unable to cross. "You can't hide there forever," he says.
"You're not welcome here," Johnny retorts, a tired refrain.
"That old chestnut." Zagreus chuckles and stops, his feet coming as close as they can to the bloody threshold. He leans over, precariously balanced, until he's close enough to curl his fingers into Johnny’s hair. "It's always you who welcomes me, Truant."
Johnny holds himself stiffly, corpselike, incapable of movement, positioned like a stone. Not tonight. Not tonight.
His fingers sink into the hard wood, crack it apart beneath his enemy's feet. Zagreus staggers back, forced to release him. Johnny experiments, twisting the floor harder, pushing the invader away. Wishful thinking though it may be, this action is not insignifcant: a symbolic resistance against a symbolic entity, and Johnny knows, somewhere, that his power is about establishing domain.
Zagreus waits and watches him hungrily on the outskirts and Johnny turns his attention away. To break the floor is not enough. He wants to be elsewhere.
He slips aside, trading the blood circle for one made of stones, piled neatly, only ankle high. He steps out of it gingerly. The walls are no longer distant, but invisible: made from glass. Sunlight pours through it. This is better. His muscles relax. His guard lets down, just enough.
"Should have stayed put," whispers the voice, so close behind him now. Johnny wants to run, or better, to shatter the whole enclosure, but Zagreus' hands are in his hair and on his throat, holding him back. Johnny struggles with an adrenaline burst of violence, but he's always been shit at defending himself from his own demons. "Should have stayed there in the dark, Johnny dear."
It's hard to say Johnny's dreams are getting worse when they've always been terrible. Sleep has been an enemy for a long time, and it's no different now. What's changed are the circumstances. More and more he dreams communally, or finds himself an active participant in someone else's nightshow. More and more, the poison left in his head manifests into the predator that put it there, sneering at him from the dark, whispering lessons into his ear.
Tonight Johnny sits in a circle of blood, at the center of an endless room, its walls too distant to be perceived; infinity frightens him, dizzies him, and he curls over himself, wanting to be found.
Zagreus stalks around him outside the lines, as if unable to cross. "You can't hide there forever," he says.
"You're not welcome here," Johnny retorts, a tired refrain.
"That old chestnut." Zagreus chuckles and stops, his feet coming as close as they can to the bloody threshold. He leans over, precariously balanced, until he's close enough to curl his fingers into Johnny’s hair. "It's always you who welcomes me, Truant."
Johnny holds himself stiffly, corpselike, incapable of movement, positioned like a stone. Not tonight. Not tonight.
His fingers sink into the hard wood, crack it apart beneath his enemy's feet. Zagreus staggers back, forced to release him. Johnny experiments, twisting the floor harder, pushing the invader away. Wishful thinking though it may be, this action is not insignifcant: a symbolic resistance against a symbolic entity, and Johnny knows, somewhere, that his power is about establishing domain.
Zagreus waits and watches him hungrily on the outskirts and Johnny turns his attention away. To break the floor is not enough. He wants to be elsewhere.
He slips aside, trading the blood circle for one made of stones, piled neatly, only ankle high. He steps out of it gingerly. The walls are no longer distant, but invisible: made from glass. Sunlight pours through it. This is better. His muscles relax. His guard lets down, just enough.
"Should have stayed put," whispers the voice, so close behind him now. Johnny wants to run, or better, to shatter the whole enclosure, but Zagreus' hands are in his hair and on his throat, holding him back. Johnny struggles with an adrenaline burst of violence, but he's always been shit at defending himself from his own demons. "Should have stayed there in the dark, Johnny dear."
