John Mitchell (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
humanistic) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxionlogs2015-06-30 03:02 pm
humanistic) wrote in ataraxionlogs2015-06-30 03:02 pm
Entry tags:
hello darkness my old frienddddddd
CHARACTERS: J. Mitchell & K. Bishop
LOCATION: outside Kate's room
WARNINGS: sweat and tears + discussions of violence + sad vampires + poor hassled Kate
SUMMARY: Mitchell goes to talk to Kate again, because the best person to ask to kill you is the person you almost killed.
Is the quiet because she's gone, or because he's conscious of what he isn't hearing? In tune with the steady drum of heartbeats, all around him; in tune with the swoosh of blood through veins--with the smell of humanity, too, not just the sounds, but the smell, of life--Mitchell hasn't felt deaf like this in a long time. Is it a blessing or a burden? He has too much to carry around with him already. He doesn't need more. He doesn't deserve less.
The illusion of control, of being safe, and contained: it's more difficult. Isolation has been safest, but not the soundest. It isn't a detox that he needs. It's more violent, an intervention more like the closing of a book. The End.
When he leaves his room--empty even when he's in it--when he steps into the corridor with his jacket pulled on, he knows that he's going to go find Kate. The hour is late, probably. Who knows what the fuck time it is. If he got out his device, he could check, but the shaking of his hands bothers him enough that Mitchell keeps his hands in his pockets. All around him, people are sleeping, breathing, living. Connected. This, it's just one more exclusion. That's what this is, right?
Outside of Kate's door, he stands, and the coil of tension in his chest leaves him feeling dizzy. Deep in him, that old familiar ache of hunger feels worse than ever, a pang that's more like a gnawing bite, more like movement under his skin, a parasite burrowing out. She will keep the door closed. He should leave. She will keep the door closed, he tells himself, again, and still presses his hand flat against it, a gesture that does nothing to steady him.
Christ, he thinks. Fuck.
He doesn't knock, in the end. He calls her name:
"Kate."
She'll hear. She'll know. She will not open the door.
LOCATION: outside Kate's room
WARNINGS: sweat and tears + discussions of violence + sad vampires + poor hassled Kate
SUMMARY: Mitchell goes to talk to Kate again, because the best person to ask to kill you is the person you almost killed.
Is the quiet because she's gone, or because he's conscious of what he isn't hearing? In tune with the steady drum of heartbeats, all around him; in tune with the swoosh of blood through veins--with the smell of humanity, too, not just the sounds, but the smell, of life--Mitchell hasn't felt deaf like this in a long time. Is it a blessing or a burden? He has too much to carry around with him already. He doesn't need more. He doesn't deserve less.
The illusion of control, of being safe, and contained: it's more difficult. Isolation has been safest, but not the soundest. It isn't a detox that he needs. It's more violent, an intervention more like the closing of a book. The End.
When he leaves his room--empty even when he's in it--when he steps into the corridor with his jacket pulled on, he knows that he's going to go find Kate. The hour is late, probably. Who knows what the fuck time it is. If he got out his device, he could check, but the shaking of his hands bothers him enough that Mitchell keeps his hands in his pockets. All around him, people are sleeping, breathing, living. Connected. This, it's just one more exclusion. That's what this is, right?
Outside of Kate's door, he stands, and the coil of tension in his chest leaves him feeling dizzy. Deep in him, that old familiar ache of hunger feels worse than ever, a pang that's more like a gnawing bite, more like movement under his skin, a parasite burrowing out. She will keep the door closed. He should leave. She will keep the door closed, he tells himself, again, and still presses his hand flat against it, a gesture that does nothing to steady him.
Christ, he thinks. Fuck.
He doesn't knock, in the end. He calls her name:
"Kate."
She'll hear. She'll know. She will not open the door.