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.
no subject
...
Dammit, he really wants to know what you're hiding. Maybe he'll come back covertly, after all's said and done.
"After a full day, I'd hope so. Unless you're a camel."
no subject
"Heh, hardly." He could barely keep himself standing at the moment, but he wasn't in any immediate danger of passing out before they make it to the kitchens.
That was something, at least.
no subject
He's so coming back to look at your creepy word vomit later, so help him.
For now, there's much needed food.