Open Log // Power surge, Sensory overload

[unsoldiered]

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.

Comments

[yardbird]

Murphy fell silent for the initial seconds. After spending more time inside his head than the real world, trying to manage a conversation with someone at the moment was like waking up from a nasty dream.

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."

[unsoldiered]

"I don't know. It'd be nice to know. How do you tell when you're sane?" He leans against the wall, realizes how tired his feet are, and sags down until he's sitting. He gives one look at the axe clutched tight and throws it weakly without his wrist even leaving his knee. It clatters down toward the middle of the hall. If it helps, his tone is casual but a little awed of the circumstances, spoken like someone who's just developed an invention they need to patent.

"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."

[yardbird]

"Well, I'm no head doctor, and I'm, uh... I'm probably one of the last people you wanna talk to for advice, but... They usually say crazy people don't admit they're crazy. If that helps." How true that is, Murphy had no idea. He never thought of himself as being that way, though he wouldn't deny suffering temporary insanity when he set out on his Roaring Rampage of Revenge.

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."

[unsoldiered]

"I was in a mental institution for years thinking I was a wounded soldier." A little extreme covers this situation pretty well. He's ashamed by the admittance though, because... well, it's not everyday you admit that kind of thing. He rubs his face, sighing through his fingers. "Hell yeah I went AWOL. Of course I did. The reason why I couldn't even remember that shit was because of the stuff they did to my head."

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.

[yardbird]

There was something to be said about the honesty. For anyone who had to live anywhere near that God-forsaken place, Murphy was under the impression that what locals were left knew only how to speak in cryptics and mindscrews.

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..."

[unsoldiered]

His turn to scoff, leaning his head back. He's almost delirious, he's so tired. Not just physically, of course. "Great, it's good to know if I'm crazy, it'll at least be warranted."

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.

[yardbird]

Hey, Murphy had been to therapy before, but he wasn't running off of good examples at the moment. It all sucked. There, he dealt with hollowed words and forced sympathy coming from assholes who had no idea what he was going through. His grief went to their paycheck, and that was all that mattered to them.

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.

[unsoldiered]

Suuure is. Two guys sitting in an empty hall, both suffering from just about anything and everything. He stares at the wall, unable to look the other in the face.

"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.

[yardbird]

"Hate to be the one to tell you this, but you're gonna find yourself very disappointed on all of those counts. Guess you're gonna have to learn to deal with that, kid." He shook his head; he then spoke through his teeth. "When you spend so many years surrounded by America's worst -- murderers and rapists... and even worse are the guys with power, who get off on abusin' it just to watch you suffer. Real monsters who know what they are, and they aren't afraid to show it. Then you start to see people on the outside differently. It doesn't matter how messed up they are, because you know what they aren't. Maybe they're even worth givin' a shit about. At least, that's how I wanna see it."

That was definitely way more information than Murphy was usually willing to hand out to people. As far as where he came from went, he preferred to keep the past several years of his life on the down low. Much as Murphy wanted to believe that this place came with a clean slate, most people wouldn't know what to think when they're dealing with a guy who's practically got a life sentence on their record.

Unfortunately for Alex, he just happened to be dealing with a convict who actually took the time to help a homeless dude living in the subway, free abandoned birds from their cages, and chase after missing (dead) children in Silent Hill. He had nothing but the effort to care when no one else did.

After all that, Murphy could only respond to Alex's gesture with silence. He huffed through his nose as he looked down suddenly. No, he wasn't going to deny it, and his lack of words may have only added validity to the accusation.

Of course, you win that one, Shepherd.

[unsoldiered]

... So Murphy's a convict.

Alright. Well. That actually... makes sense. Even matches a little. Murphy's not exactly the most homely lookin' guy in the entire universe; he's got the same frowny-face problem Alex tries to combat, but he's also got a terminal thug face. So. Convict isn't even far-fetched... yeah he's using 'book cover' ideology, leave him alone. He talks like he's been singing jail blues for a while though, if the other conversations are anything to go by.

"Okay then. I guess damning you with a Sherpherd curse wouldn't be that easy." He looks over, rubbing his thumb knuckle over his eyebrow with the usual surly frown. Murphy knows enough to understand the situation, and he has the feeling shaking off the other wouldn't exactly work out as well as he thought. What with the poking and prodding from just two or three days of radio silence.

Hmm.

"Then in theory you wouldn't care if people worried about you, right?"

[yardbird]

"Tch, who knows? Maybe the Shepherd and Pendleton curses will wind up canceling each other out someday. Wouldn't place any bets on it, though." It was just an amusing thought in the middle of all the grim ones. Ha ha, good joke, Murphy.

Thinking about Alex's question, Murphy felt his posture sink a little between the floor and the wall. The thought of someone worrying for his sake was terrifying sometimes. When he remembered what happened to Officer Coleridge, who'd gone out of his way for Murphy's sake. In the end, how was all that effort repaid?

Yeah... he cared.

Murphy just shrugged. "In theory, sure. Doesn't matter, either way... I sure as hell can't control what people do."

Couldn't control much of anything.

[unsoldiered]

"Guess so..." He's quiet again, and it remains this way for a little while as he considers his choices. Limited, concerning choices. Maybe it was a good thing he ran into Murphy in the halls, because otherwise, Murphy probably wouldn't have seen him for a lot longer.

"Alright... If you're gonna play the worrywart card and hang around, at least follow two rules for me, old man. First rule: If I do something crazy and dangerous to others because I lose it or something, kick my ass." Seriously, his biggest fear right now is snapping; if Murphy can at least tell him he'd punch him and keep him from doing that, should he be around? He'd really appreciate it... And really, it'd make him far more willing to keep the guy close.

[yardbird]

For a guy who just confessed to being a patient at a nuthouse once, Alex's request didn't seem too out there for Murphy. He nodded silently, realizing that he could easily accept those terms. It wouldn't have been the first time he had to use physical force in order to get through to someone, and Murphy doubted that he wouldn't be seeing more opportunities in the future.

That actually made him feel a little sickened with himself. More so than usual, in any case. It reminded him of the kind of creature that he had to become one time.

"...You said two rules. What's the second?"

[unsoldiered]

He holds up two lazy fingers on a hand draped over his knee still.

"Don't die."

They're not complicated requests. Perhaps this one is hard to follow if it's out of Murphy's hands, but he says it anyway. Because it has to be something he can rely on, the man's word. It's a little embarrassing to admit, but Alex's will to live was balanced on a very fine thread. If everyone here started dying like they did at home...

Well. Murphy's concerns from earlier would be more justified, anyway.

"Don't get your ass killed, because I'm sick and tired of people doing that around me the moment I actually start knowing them."

[yardbird]

...And again.

Murphy sort of laughed. Not because Alex's "rules" were in any way funny, or that he didn't take it seriously, or anything like that. But he also wasn't the first to make that sort of request.

No, it was also funny to Murphy, not only because other people had said it, but because he thought it himself. Too many people had died already, most of which Murphy had seen himself.

At least Alex wasn't making the threat to haunt him in the afterlife if he ever did die.

"Wow, I dunno... you pitch some pretty high demands here." Have an awkward grin. "Alright. But it's gotta work both ways, y'know. I'll be pretty pissed off if you kick it."

[unsoldiered]

"Are you serious? I've got a natural immunity to dying, at this point. Any less abnormal person would've bitten the dust by now." He doesn't even care that saying things like that is jinxing. Whatever. He smiles and adds, "Then we agree."

... Once again, one must take sad note: two dumb depressing people, sitting in a hallway armed with sharp weapons, finding humor in totally unfunny things. "Actually... I should probably add some rule about you spamming my phone, too... Like I said. Ulcers. Maybe even a few gray hairs."

[yardbird]

"Don't say shit like that, man. Not unless you got any wood nearby... and there's a depressing lack of it on this ship." He might have actually glanced around for any, just to be sure.

No one is immune, is what Murphy would have liked to say. But then, him and Cunningham both seemed to dodge a few bullets in that regard. Literally, in Murphy's case.

"But yeah, we agree. Good." He then ducked his head slightly when Alex brought up the text spams. "Actually, I wasn't sure if you got all of 'em. I've, uh... I've never even owned a cell before, to be honest."

[unsoldiered]

He goes ahead and leans forward, sliding forward the axe into better view and rapping his knuckle against the handle. Good enough, you superstitious worrier? Even worse, whatever shred of goodwill he had in him after these last few weeks bubbles up at the almost sad admittance--and he laughs quietly. Time for some good ol' fashioned teasing. Also, because it's nice not to talk about being crazy, almost dying, or being miserable. Really nice.

"Yeah, well. I got every one, so don't worry if you think you're not doing it right. You do chicken peck typing, too? Because you'll get over that in no time."

[yardbird]

Thank you, Alex. Murphy is now totally at ease.

Actually, it was better -- he would rather see Alex teasing him than having him wallow deeper at the bottom of that trauma-induced pit.

"...Oh. Erm. Good to know." Murphy's brows then furrowed together. As if that wasn't bad enough, he was about to show just how old (and ignorant) he kind of was: "What's... chicken peck typing?"

Oh God.

[unsoldiered]

Murphy...

He holds up his index fingers, typing on an imaginary laptop. "The same way you probably type on a keyboard. One pointer finger at a time, man. You're pretty awful at technology, aren't you?"

At least Alex knows how to type like a normal person. Backwards as his town is, you gotta give him that much, Mr. Chicken Peckleton.

[yardbird]

"Ah."

I see, I see...

"That's somethin' else that I might've, uh... skipped out on, yeah." Technology obviously was never this man's strongest feat. "But if you've got a thing that's broken, I could probably fix it. So there's that."

See? He's not entirely useless.

[unsoldiered]

"Repairman, are ya'?" Last 'repairman' he saw smashed him on the back of the head with a... wrench? Something? He couldn't remember. But hey, the more decent ones around, the better. "Maybe you'll get a challenge if the ship ever starts losing a few gears or wires around here. This place is so huge, I can't imagine it stays running perfect 24/7..."

[yardbird]

"Car mechanic, actually. But it paid to be versatile. Well, it paid the bills." He shrugged, then made a distasteful face. "Yeah, and with my luck, I end up screwin' with the wires and doom us all 'cause I haven't a damn idea with how spaceships work."

Because Murphy just breaks everything he touches. This is truth. This is law.

...Though he had thought about ways to make himself useful. That's what he signed up for, anyway.

[unsoldiered]

"When I see a car around here, I'll let you know. But hey--maybe the ship needs some handymen. I'm sure they have doors and lights and shit that malfunction and need some looking after." He glances over as he leans, clearly trying to take a better look at whatever the hell Murphy was scraping into the wall a while ago. Humored at the thought, he adds, "It's a good alternative to graffiti."

[yardbird]

"Tch, right. Maybe I'll figure out what the hell has been lockin' people in rooms before the jumps happen." Fun fact, Alex. Did you know about that, yet?

Murphy's mouth straightened, casually attempting to shift and block Alex's view when the kid leaned to try and get a peek at the scrawl.

"...I do my part around the place. Built a chapel. Marked safe routes -- and it's not graffiti."

Well, most of it wasn't, anyway. Murphy didn't know what he was doing a few moments ago, with the shiv. That happened sometimes.