Alex Shepherd | SEC » 008 » 040 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unsoldiered) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxionlogs2012-07-21 03:11 am
unsoldiered) wrote in ataraxionlogs2012-07-21 03:11 am
Entry tags:
Open Log // Power surge, Sensory overload
CHARACTERS: Alex (unsoldiered); OPEN
LOCATION: Everywhere and anywhere on the 19th of July and beyond to the 22nd
WARNINGS: Adult themes; mentions of mental instutitions and malpractice, mentions of drug use, etc. Also maybe some #emotionalalex. Maybe even lots, depending on the thread. Silent Hill, u scary.
SUMMARY: Alex remembers everything in a snap.
NOTES: Action brackets and prose are both great! Find him aaany time during this block o' text.
[THURSDAY NIGHT // JULY 19TH 2012]
He was doing alright. It'd been about two weeks since he first appeared, and he was... okay. Things were much better than the first week; he was getting out a little more, talking with people over the network--talking casually, smiling even--and while he was still suffering from nightmares, he was eating better. Sleeping more, too. The pale sheen in his face was darkening, and his hair wasn't as scrambled, combed out neater. He was attempting to shave more often, because frankly, he needed it; he didn't want to end up the guy from Castaway. No way.
After he'd done a network post on the 19th, he hit a wall.
Specifically, a wall of memories. He'd read that ECT can cause memory black-outs, especially for the months or years prior to the sessions. He spent some time in the library, looking into it when time seemed to stand still for him and he had nothing to do. He read that sometimes those memories'll never return. Expecting them to come back isn't high on his list, and wanting them is disputable. Still, there's something so unsettling about not knowing what part of your own life was like.
He's sitting on his bed combing through his journal (he doesn't know why, but he does, he just does) and when he puts it down and moves for his device a string of images assaults him. It's like a lightswitch being turned on. Before it was just bits and pieces, little clips that were, if anything, detached. Now, his fingers go numb and he almost feels it physically: the straps around his wrists and legs, the feeling of electricity surging through his body as he screams against a muffling plastic mouth piece. He remembers a doctor's chin, upside down, watching him--and hands writing something down. Voices.
'Dr. Copen?'
'He's unresponsive... Up his pill dosage. Just pureed foods for now.'
--the snap of gloves, so many pills, and he didn't care; they had to force medication down his throat, put it into his food. Trapped in illogical delusions, he kept screaming about the enemy, how they were closing in. Someone's legs were blown off, but it was all in his head, and he can't ever remember what military life was like, because it never happened. All that happened were therapies that never, never worked.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, every fucking day, they signed off on his paper.
NO PROGRESS, NO DESIRED RESULTS.
He remembers everything, all in one nonsensical moment. He was only reaching for something. That's all. And then it was just there.
There's never one predetermined reaction to suddenly remembering a chunk of one's life. He stands up from his bed, silent as death, and walks out of his room. He doesn't bother closing his door all the way. He just leaves, wanders the hall with his arms folded, blindly walking and looking like he's just had a fight with a ghost. He didn't care where he ended up--he just couldn't stay in that room right now. He wouldn't. The idea of being in there only reminded him of the room in the hospital he was forced to remain in day after day.
No.
He wishes he never remembered. It only added to a pile of shit things. A very big, consuming pile.
[FRIDAY - SUNDAY // JULY 20th - 22nd, 2012]
He's still shaken from the prior night.
Alex isn't answering or looking at his device, not at all. He's not answering his door either, because he just needs a break from reality for a moment--but at the same time, isn't that what got him sent to a mental institution to begin with? While he doesn't touch the network, his inbox, anyone's posts, he's not locked up in his room all day. He escapes from it to walk around the hallways aimlessly as he'd done Friday night, letting himself get lost. He'd rather do that than linger in the room, not particularly looking for people to talk to but rather something to eat up the time. He'll do this for a few hours a day, each time veering for the oxygen garden, so that he could lay there in the greener world and mull over his life and everything that happened in it.
Like he hasn't been doing that already.
For a few hours, he lays in there. The hours lengthen progressively from two hours to four. By the 22nd, he stays in there for six hours and doesn't bother budging, laying on his arm. There's a lot of thinking to be done... like thinking about how his family doesn't have any headstones or burials. Maybe he should set up something small for them in his room. He doesn't like the idea that they're lost to Silent Hill forever, in the belly of some fucked-up church, or something.
Yeah. It'll a small space on his table he can set up. He's not sure what to use... He's got nothing but those photos. And they're... They're not photos one should use for a shrine to the dead. Not ever.
During these few days, he'll have his axe with him like its a lifeline.
unsoldiered); OPENLOCATION: Everywhere and anywhere on the 19th of July and beyond to the 22nd
WARNINGS: Adult themes; mentions of mental instutitions and malpractice, mentions of drug use, etc. Also maybe some #emotionalalex. Maybe even lots, depending on the thread. Silent Hill, u scary.
SUMMARY: Alex remembers everything in a snap.
NOTES: Action brackets and prose are both great! Find him aaany time during this block o' text.
[THURSDAY NIGHT // JULY 19TH 2012]
He was doing alright. It'd been about two weeks since he first appeared, and he was... okay. Things were much better than the first week; he was getting out a little more, talking with people over the network--talking casually, smiling even--and while he was still suffering from nightmares, he was eating better. Sleeping more, too. The pale sheen in his face was darkening, and his hair wasn't as scrambled, combed out neater. He was attempting to shave more often, because frankly, he needed it; he didn't want to end up the guy from Castaway. No way.
After he'd done a network post on the 19th, he hit a wall.
Specifically, a wall of memories. He'd read that ECT can cause memory black-outs, especially for the months or years prior to the sessions. He spent some time in the library, looking into it when time seemed to stand still for him and he had nothing to do. He read that sometimes those memories'll never return. Expecting them to come back isn't high on his list, and wanting them is disputable. Still, there's something so unsettling about not knowing what part of your own life was like.
He's sitting on his bed combing through his journal (he doesn't know why, but he does, he just does) and when he puts it down and moves for his device a string of images assaults him. It's like a lightswitch being turned on. Before it was just bits and pieces, little clips that were, if anything, detached. Now, his fingers go numb and he almost feels it physically: the straps around his wrists and legs, the feeling of electricity surging through his body as he screams against a muffling plastic mouth piece. He remembers a doctor's chin, upside down, watching him--and hands writing something down. Voices.
'Dr. Copen?'
'He's unresponsive... Up his pill dosage. Just pureed foods for now.'
--the snap of gloves, so many pills, and he didn't care; they had to force medication down his throat, put it into his food. Trapped in illogical delusions, he kept screaming about the enemy, how they were closing in. Someone's legs were blown off, but it was all in his head, and he can't ever remember what military life was like, because it never happened. All that happened were therapies that never, never worked.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, every fucking day, they signed off on his paper.
NO PROGRESS, NO DESIRED RESULTS.
He remembers everything, all in one nonsensical moment. He was only reaching for something. That's all. And then it was just there.
There's never one predetermined reaction to suddenly remembering a chunk of one's life. He stands up from his bed, silent as death, and walks out of his room. He doesn't bother closing his door all the way. He just leaves, wanders the hall with his arms folded, blindly walking and looking like he's just had a fight with a ghost. He didn't care where he ended up--he just couldn't stay in that room right now. He wouldn't. The idea of being in there only reminded him of the room in the hospital he was forced to remain in day after day.
No.
He wishes he never remembered. It only added to a pile of shit things. A very big, consuming pile.
[FRIDAY - SUNDAY // JULY 20th - 22nd, 2012]
He's still shaken from the prior night.
Alex isn't answering or looking at his device, not at all. He's not answering his door either, because he just needs a break from reality for a moment--but at the same time, isn't that what got him sent to a mental institution to begin with? While he doesn't touch the network, his inbox, anyone's posts, he's not locked up in his room all day. He escapes from it to walk around the hallways aimlessly as he'd done Friday night, letting himself get lost. He'd rather do that than linger in the room, not particularly looking for people to talk to but rather something to eat up the time. He'll do this for a few hours a day, each time veering for the oxygen garden, so that he could lay there in the greener world and mull over his life and everything that happened in it.
Like he hasn't been doing that already.
For a few hours, he lays in there. The hours lengthen progressively from two hours to four. By the 22nd, he stays in there for six hours and doesn't bother budging, laying on his arm. There's a lot of thinking to be done... like thinking about how his family doesn't have any headstones or burials. Maybe he should set up something small for them in his room. He doesn't like the idea that they're lost to Silent Hill forever, in the belly of some fucked-up church, or something.
Yeah. It'll a small space on his table he can set up. He's not sure what to use... He's got nothing but those photos. And they're... They're not photos one should use for a shrine to the dead. Not ever.
During these few days, he'll have his axe with him like its a lifeline.
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Food. Everyone else seems to take it for granted. But to Annie this is a miracle.
She hums as she walks, hips swaying, and she walks a long time until she sees the man on the floor. This seems to happen to her a lot, she thinks. She takes her net from her side and sets it down, crouching a fait distance away. (An axe, an axe an axe an axe--she has her knives, no one is better at knives, calm down.)
"What's wrong?" She asks softly, because that something is wrong is obvious. Only what isn't.
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But maybe some things just aren't easy to mask.
"Wrong...--ah. Yeah."
He rubs his eye with the ball of his palm, wincing.
"I just... I remembered some important things. Kinda wish I didn't."
A pause.
"... I was that obvious, huh?"
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"Call it intuition. And the fact you were curled up with a weapon." Even Annie only...occasionally does that. "Do you want a tomato? They're good."
Since she wasn't going to make him talk about it. Just be there. She wonders what it is about the gardens that attracts the lonely and afraid; it might be the flowers, or just the relief of a change of scenery. A different place to be, where the weight of nightmares might lift slightly.
Or that was nonsense and it was just that it wasn't so hard to hide in here while it was also hard to get lost.
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"Sure. Thanks..."
For him, the garden is a reminder of better times. Before, in the summer or spring, when he would watch Josh and Joey play at the park, or when he'd sneak out in early hours when being upstanding wouldn't work. The entire last summer he hung out with Elle was one of the best times he's had in his life.
"Sorry if I'm messing up the scenery. It's some of the only scenery we got around here, anyway."
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(She doesn't really believe that.)
"You're not that ugly." A tiny, teasing smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "Besides. It's a free ship. I just--wish there was somewhere to swim. Really swim."
This is the longest she has ever gone without swimming she can remember. Even at the Training Centre there were opportunities to get in the water, and Annie aches at the dryness of this place. She thinks t doesn't even bother Finnick as much as her, but Annie thinks she will go even crazier stuck like this. Considering why she's crazy in the first place it's almost a little funny.
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Water. Swimming. Boats. Lakes. He hates even thinking about them. But once he forces himself to not think about it, just push it out of memory, he's okay again. "Maybe somehow we could get a pool put in... who knows. We have so much room on this damn ship, there's gotta be something someone can do..."
As long as there are lifeguards.
"I guess I, uh... miss the nature and stuff the most."
No, that's wrong. There's so much more he misses that overpowers that.
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"I miss my family," she confides; a sharp spike in her heart because--oh, Gwen, she hoped you could shut up for once, that Blue and Angel would give you enough reason to be quiet. In District 13 she had heard they were safe, but of course she would have made that up in her delirium. They could all be dead and she might never know.
She traces meaningless shapes on the bare ground with the trailing fingertips of one hand, like it's water.
"But then that. And I miss--this is silly." Since Annie feels that, perhaps, lingering on the real losses is the worst thing to do right now when neither of them are in any state to do that. "I miss my bedroom. I have a whole room to myself at home and it's slanted--just right, so the sun wakes me up, and I've got the first net I ever made in the window. Not like this one."
She reaches up and tangles her fingers in the net in question: "I kept trying to catch minnows in it and--I remember the first time I thought I got something, but it was just kelp, and I cried all day because I thought I was going to starve when I grew up because I couldn't fish. So I miss that. And my bed is enormous. It's a water bed."
As if this is just luxury inconceivable by humankind.
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He admits he's only barely hearing what she'd said, words and phrases triggering deep pangs in his chest as he stares across the garden. It's all green and 'alive' and fresh, and for some reason, that makes him so fucking sad. Sad enough that he leans on his knees chin lowered, almost fetal in position. His eyes go half-lidded when he thinks of that very first line.
I miss my family
He's quiet for a moment.
"... I miss my family, too." It's the first time he's said that, he thinks. First time aloud or even in his head. He's not even entirely sure, with how his mind has been throwing around so many thoughts. Shock was supposed to wear off a lot faster than this, right? He shouldn't be so surprised at the sudden heartache. "It wasn't the best family, but it was all I knew, and I loved them..."
Fuck, he loved them. That's messed up to him, knowing he loves people who treated the dog better than him, but he just keeps rewinding back to his mother's last words to him and all logic shattered into a thousand little pieces.
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"Don't feel guilty," Annie says, and she has no idea. But if she did she'd say the same thing. "You don't have to--you don't have to justify loving your family. No matter what. It's your feelings. No one gets to tell you that they're wrong."
She really thinks she may need to just stop talking to people, if she keeps making them this sad. But then again, maybe they're just sad, and Annie is a good listener. No judgment. She never judges, really, except for cruelty, and Alex was kind to her. Is kind. He wants to help, the same as her, and so she nudges him with her shoulder: stay floating, stay here.
"If you want to talk about it..." she trails off and looks away, at all the light and breathing, living things. This is the best place for talking, on this ship, and impulsively she leans up to pick a flower she doesn't recognize, something white and tiny, and offers it to him. "I'm a good listener."
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A breath, low and uneven.
"The doctor I had wasn't exactly the best I could've gotten. It's just a lot of bad memories I'm trying to figure out right now."
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Yes. That's why. Annie leans against Alex a little heavier, in an effort to be comforting.
"I'm sorry they didn't help you. When I first got sick...they didn't help me either. I don't remember very much. Everyone says that's probably better." Annie doesn't know one way or the other, obviously. She just knows that there are things they don't talk about and sedatives stocked heavily for her in her home, on the train, in her rooms at the Capitol, but she can never get into them on her own because--she doesn't remember this, but she was told--she tried to swallow a bottle of them once.
"At least you're not there anymore."
Which Annie is perfectly aware doesn't matter at all, because it's still bad, but. She doesn't know what she needs either.
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"But sometimes, I feel like maybe I am. I know it doesn't make any sense, but... this place isn't good for people. The things I've heard, it's like-" No, Alex. No. Don't fall into the blabberings of a town in mist. You can't do that. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "The sessions must've--scrambled my memories. Blanked them. That's why it took so long to remember..."
Dammit.
"Sorry, I don't know what's with me today. I mean, I know, but..."
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Annie gently does put a hand on Alex now, squeezing his shoulder and leaning forward to try to catch his eye. Everything he says sounds absolutely familiar, as clear and close as a mirror.
"No sorries. I know what it feels like." And in a way--Annie has been alone with her sickness as long as she's had it, no matter how much people have tried to help. She's never spent time with someone like her, lost and mad, and she thinks it might be better if they stick together. They might help each other.
"I still wake up and think I'm in the Capitol again sometimes. Or the--or where I got hurt like this. Or I'll walk around and think--I'm making this up too, I can't believe anything I see, I'm making it up to hurt myself or protect myself or both but when I wake up I'll be back in that room strapped to a chair again." She ruffles Alex's hair at his temple with the lightest pass of her fingertips. "I can't tell you if this is real or not."
That's honest. Heartbreaking but honest. "But I can say if we live like nothing is real, then--then that is really mad. Even if you can't trust your memories. You have to believe in them. They're real to you, right now. I'm real to you right now. If you didn't believe that you could do anything you thought of to anyone."
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Maybe it was like any other poor asshole who was in denial to say that alcohol was the one thing that helped him during times like these. That it made the transition easier. He told himself this because it was easier to justify than to actually stay sober around here. But he was a wreck, and Murphy acknowledged this. All that crap that he spilled out to people that he barely knew -- it could've been worse, but they weren't his proudest moments, either.
Of course, his recent state of trying to go to bed sober only made his sleep schedule even worse. Murphy would get a few hours in at best, before jolting awake with all the grace of a falling dream, only after experiencing nightmares of complete isolation and then some...
Waking up in solitude grated on his nerves even more. Made him sweat and shake; the walls so closed in that he couldn't breathe.
Had to get out.
His more recent pastimes on the Tranquility now included exploring, marking the walls with a short pipe that he'd snagged from one of the rec rooms in order to find his way back easier. One could easily get lost in here, and he didn't lay much faith in the good captain of this ship to guide him out of the wilderness. Sometimes, he practically prayed for the company of someone to bump into while he was out here. The metal halls that seemed to go on and on didn't do much for his nerves, but rather, served to worsen them. It also gave him time. Too much of it to think.
He then thought about the silence and unanswered messages. Murphy rarely utilized his comm device much, and oftentimes forgot about the damned thing while he was out casually like this. Every so often, he figured to check Alex's room to see if he was alright. Their last encounter wasn't exactly the happiest, to say the least.
No answer.
Maybe he just needed time.
...if I'd just died like I should've, none of it would have happened.
Maybe not.
To say that Murphy was concerned was nothing short of an understatement. At the risk of breaking the door down (and seriously, he's tried), there was nothing he could do on the other side of a locked room. So he waited -- and fuck if he hated waiting.
...the first 48 hours are crucial...
No. Not like that.
Murphy jumped when his hand cramped up. His fingers released the pipe that he'd been holding, forcing too much pressure into the wall. That had been his first mistake. The second, was fucking using the pipe in the first place. Christ.
"Rgh... Dammit!" His short fuse spark; he kicked the wall. Which obviously did nothing but earn him a stubbed toe and increased frustration.
He didn't know what made him so goddamned angry all of a sudden, but he also didn't know how else to handle it but to be angry. Right now, it was no different than when someone went missing -- whether you wonder if they're avoiding you, or something seriously did happen. For what it was worth, he learned a lot about that Alex kid during their drunken stupor to have cause for concern the moment he disappeared. In the silence, he had nothing else but the frustration of not knowing whether he was okay, or if he really was dead somewhere.
All he had now was a lonely hallway, and a scratched wall with a half-drawn figure marked with a lead pipe. He also had a cramped up hand and a head full of paranoia and fresh nightmares.
Murphy sighed, dropping to his knee and ran his finger over the shape he'd made in the wall. If nothing else, what he was doing right now distracted him. It was good -- the least he could do was mark things so that he and nobody else would get lost.
After a moment, he decided to try something else. He dug into his back pocket, pulling out a sharp blade, attached to a makeshift handle. He'd sharpened the shiv to the point where it could cut metal; it would no doubt be able to cut into this wall.
He didn't realize that, as that time dragged on, he was no longer carving landmarks on the solid surface with a shiv on this fine Sunday... whatever...
Morning, noon, evening? Who seriously cared anymore?
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And really, he feels bad about ignoring Murphy, for whatever that amounts to. At the same time, years of maltreatment has made him so bitter and nervous, he wonders if maybe the dream he had in Murphy's place would come true. Maybe the man would snap and hold him under the water until he drowned... and at the same time, he worried he'd hurt Murphy. He didn't know how far his mind had lasted, even if he thought 'never, I'd never hurt anyone like that, no way'.
These thoughts are stupid, he thinks. He couldn't believe he was thinking them. Ridiculous.
Really, Alex? Years of brain abuse and you think it could be far-fetched? He's walking around clutching an axe like it's a loved one's hand in a place full of people who might look twice, but he needs this. He needs some semblance of safety while he's coming to terms with his new-found memories.
He turns the corner of a hall he's mindlessly exploring and stops at the sight of the other man. Maybe it's the wrong response, but he doesn't alert the other man of his presence. He just... stands there, axe hanging limply, thinking maybe he should escape, pretend he never saw him and just keep himself in the dark. And then he realizes like a punch to the nose: he'll see this other guy eventually. He'll have to talk to people eventually. No matter how messed up he feels, he can't deny that solitude is more impossible than it sounds.
Will he yell at him in that wrecking, familiar tone again for being so stupid? He'll be ready this time. He won't be caught off guard, he decides, as he takes a few echoing steps. Stop feeling like a child about to admit he stole out of a fucking cookie jar.
"... Hey. Sorry."
Preemptive. It's all his got, okay?
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A jagged line crossed through the shaken letters suddenly. His mind pushed out his thoughts in order to process the sound of another voice, echoing in the hallway and the depths of his head. On the surface, he felt conscious. Deeper than that, he felt far away. Be it a coping mechanism or a survival tactic when suffering long periods of loneliness was anyone's guess. He practically had this mental escapism thing down to an art. He just needed a distraction.
I KEEP DREAMING ABOUT BIRDSIt actually wound up making the sound of familiarity all the more startling.
Murphy froze, his knuckles white after gripping the shiv so tight for God-knows-how-long. He lowered the blade, despite that familiar voice belonging to Alex, who was currently sporting an axe. His eyes darted from the sharp edge to the owner who held onto it like a lifeline.
His mood was already shot. He blinked slowly, taking deep breaths in between before he could even utter a syllable: "You had me worried for awhile there."
Guy talks to you about how he should've died, how it's his fault -- this and that... then disappears for a few days? Yeah, some might say Murphy's concerns were justified.
Still, it was good to see that Alex hadn't wound up in a ditch somewhere. Or whatever kind of back room place that people would store bodies on a spaceship at, assuming that he wasn't just splattered in his room, as well--
No. Alex was alive. There was no need to think shit like that anymore.
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There's a thudding ache in his head and leg and he rubs one eye, sighing.
"Nothing to worry about. But still--sorry for wasting any of your time."
Because that's the most important thing, ain't it? What's Murphy doing out here, anyway? Must be pretty desperate for something to do, if carving up the walls is something of interest.
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He tucked the shiv away into his back pocket again. It wasn't much in the ways of protection, especially if anyone ever came at him with a gun or a much larger weapon. Actually, he was so used to being surrounded by guards who were armed and willing to put a bullet in his face that he just got numbed to the vulnerability.
"You think, or you are?" Because there was a huge difference. Murphy snorted at Alex's apology, which might not have been very appropriate. Well, whatever. "I've got nothin' but time. Wouldn't consider any of it wasted."
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"Four years of life. It just... came back. No trigger, no reason, it just did. I'd felt the sensation before, but never so much at once. I don't know... I just froze up, I guess."
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His shoulder slumped, and he turned around. He pressed his back to the wall, possibly to cover up the graffiti he'd made, but also because he was tired and needed to sit properly as well. Murphy didn't know how long he'd been there, digging into the wall like it would actually get him anywhere. Perhaps he was waiting for something like an epiphany, or inspiration. Direction.
What to do.
"So, what? You lost four years of your life, and it just came flooding back to ya? That's why you decided to go AWOL all of a sudden?" He shook his head, though not in disbelief. "I know I tend to remember some things at bad times, but that... sounds a little extreme."
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Murphy was okay to talk to. He wasn't from The Order, and he understood some things. Probably... not this so much, but Silent Hill had people with shitty situations come along.
Whatever, he didn't care. Dirty secrets? A small, sad payment for looking out for him, or at least trying to. Some idiot kid he barely knows.
He's gotten to a point this week where he really doesn't give a shit.
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No matter what the truth was, how grim or insane it might be, at least Alex wasn't jerking him around. For what it was worth, the kid had every right to keep that kind of thing to himself. It wasn't exactly the best material for breaking the ice with most people.
In spite of the subject matter, Murphy relaxed. His legs bent, so he had a place to rest his arms over his knees. "After the kinda crap you've went through -- before and after that... Well, I think I'd be pretty messed up in the head, too. Can't think of a normal person who wouldn't be..."
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Murphy, you're the worst therapist ever. Even if you're not supposed to even be one.
"But I think I know what you meant when you said it's not good to stay locked up. After I remembered all that time forced in a room like that--well, I didn't exactly stay locked up this whole time. Couldn't handle it." He stops, shakes his head. Thoughtful. Quiet. "... Look, you don't have to check up on me or anything. You'll give yourself ulcers if you keep it up."
Even if technically, you're the closest person to him right now.
How fucked is that? He'd hardly believe it if he wasn't used to such a small group of people mattering in his life before all this. That part of him desperately wants people around, but the other half--it knows no good will come of it.
He's bad luck. Nothing good can come from being around him.
So.
He should just cut off anyone from knowing him, pull the problem by the roots.
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It wasn't like his other options were that more effective, though. Murphy himself wasn't that great the best example of someone who's made great choices in his life. He did have his "model prisoner" status going for him at one point, and even that he didn't flaunt around for all of the obvious reasons.
While Alex talked, Murphy was still getting his bearings together. His hand came up over his face, fingers gripping his bangs as he listened. What he said, that last part, was the biggest crock of bullshit that Murphy had ever been subjected to.
"Knock it off." He muttered, not out of anger or anything -- he didn't even snap. He just sounded tired. Murphy knew what Alex was doing, saw them like needles jammed into his eyes. "I mean, you can't be serious, tellin' me shit like that, then just write it off like it doesn't matter to me. How many people are you really gonna go sharin' that with, anyway?" He dropped his hand, folding his arms back over each other again. "Hell, and if I give myself ulcers just 'cause I care, then that's my own damn fault. Not like I don't deserve it, anyway."
Actually, he deserved worse, as far as he was concerned.
Sure was great having two self-deprecating guys being all self-deprecating.
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"Jesus, Murphy, I don't know. It's serious enough. Maybe I thought you wouldn't give a shit. Maybe I'm used to most people not giving a shit. Maybe I just assumed you were being nice out of pity. Maybe I have a stupid fear that you're going to be like the rest of them and either die because of me or try to drill a hole through my face when I trust you most, so I tell you not to bother. You can pick one. Like I have a method to this."
A pause at the end of that short, charged little rant. He finally looks up at him, frowning, furrowing his brow, pointing an accusing finger.
"And fuck off, man. You do the same thing."
You did it just now.
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