This Isn't Me

         PERTURBATION BLOOMS ON HIS FACE; PRESENTS EVIDENCE—WRINKLED BROWS, A SUREFIRE, DEEPENING FROWN—OF THAT ELEVATING DISTRESS. Harrowing, if he’s to find only sore constraint and bitter captivity; his blood turning thin as water and him developing scrofulous gripes for his shortcomings. “I—I wouldn’t. That’d—that’d be horrid of me. I was startled; I assumed you were affiliated with a genuine fear back home. A fear that I was certain I felled; but, here you are—and you’re not trying to kill me, so, again, I am sorry. I… seem to presuppose a lot here.”

         Jon wavers—and his teeth indent his bottom lip for the briefest moment as he contemplates; he has a mighty tendency to earn an eyeful. Solemnity would only bring out any bad blood, even he knew; bad blood that wouldn’t dry itself out. Bad blood that’d require a fresh start to patch up.

         He’s unsure how to start. His cutting rejoinders sting like tangible wounds; far worse than the occasional scrape of a knee or the formation of a black-and-blue contusion. Mercy is in pursuit of her, for he doesn’t want to mar her with ill-intended revelations.

         “I see. Well, I haven’t seen them, but I can certainly look,” Jon tries, rigidly kneeling down to begin examining the ground; his bones pop from the exertion, and he hisses softly, “And, ah—did you? Did you need tissues for, uh—?”

“I have some, it’s cool.” She cries a lot, and as embarrassing as it is, Chuck’s managed to prepare herself for such things. It’s a few quick motions, as she pulls tissues from her purse and dabs at her eyes and nose. Using eye drops is second nature, and clears some of that redness up that she seems to carry between strong scents and bouts out emotion. 

She’s very good at recovering from her fits of upset, though pushing past from embarrassment takes another sort of fortitude that Chuck has not quite mastered on her own. Hopefully in time, but not today, and probably not tomorrow, either. 

Nodding comes instinctively, bright eyes glued to the other’s face.

@imprecationed​

–– It’s been a while since you saw Chuck, but you come across her waiting outside the movie theater. It’s a little crowded, so you’re hanging back a bit. From your perspective, your first interaction really didn’t go so well with her. You felt as if you made her feel uncomfortable, and assumed she was much closer with your brother than she actually was. However, when you make eye contact you wave. 

And, oh. The people in front of you decide to leave because the line is so long. Now you’re standing next to her. 

“Hello, Chuck. It’s been a while,” you say, smiling pleasantly. “How have you been? It sure is getting cold fast, isn’t it?” 

You default to polite conversation, but you are curious to know which movie she’s planning on seeing. Maybe you’ll ask, if the conversation goes that way. 

Before it can get much farther though, you’re knocked in the back by the young man behind you who was horsing around with his friend. You stumble forward, and try to catch yourself on a doorway. However, you still make the barest amount of contact with Chuck, and really that’s all it takes. 

You explode, absolutely startling the living hell out of everyone nearby. The two kids who were rough housing bolt halfway down the street. 

Meanwhile, you scurry as fast as you can towards the safest place you can think of: onto Chuck’s pant-leg.

“Down here!” you call, as loudly as possible. She’s quite tall after all. “I’m sorry to ask this of you, but can you help me?”

Admittedly, Chuck can dwell on things a bit longer than necessary. The entire affair with Yuki had been strange and a little weird, something she couldn’t help but feel partially to blame for. Nervous souls only get so far without running into something new, it seems, and Chuck is struck somewhat dumb when she spots the other in line. But he speaks, and it’s much easier to say something after that. 

“Hey, it’s nice to see you.” Offering a toothy grin, it disappears soon enough, the curse a heavy weight still when it came to interacting with most people. “I’m good, getting forward to the wintertime, actually. I can stop sleeping upright after my antlers come off.” Reaching up, she gives them a tap tap with a long claw, wrinkling her nose at the sound. 

She’s about to comment on your plans to make some sort of art out of them, when someone smacks into Yuki, and sends him right into her. Throwing out an arm to try and catch him, she’s startled to find nothing where there should very much be something. 

“What?” Voice tiny, she looks left and right before she manages to respond to the request to look down, hands over her mouth and eyes terribly wise. “Oh, oh no. I-I, you’re so cute but what was that? You, that, I-- rat.” 

         SHE’S CRYING—SUCH A FLAGRANT SPECIMEN OF DISTRESS SHE IS, AND IT ALL CONTINUES TO WRING HIS HEART. She isn’t covered in ocher-colored plastic whose texture parodies skin—she isn’t what he’s been expecting in the sparsest. Through her, he’s meant to enforce the power to call up the past, but when he’s tried the great wound at his throat has been near-deleted.

         “No, I get it,” ‘more than you care to know,’ “It’s, uh—isn’t it under your palm there? Part of your earring, I mean.”

         He dreams of the not-her, of Nikola. He twitches in his sleep, chasing flickering things through the other forests of his dreams. Those uncanny woods whisper his name, but it isn’t ‘Jon’ who is summoned; rather, that of the riotous blood within him. He doesn’t say that deep down there is an ache; his heart aches—from flesh and marrow and the friable-yet-formidable entirety of a monster.

         —that he evaluates himself with the severest rancidity that his newly-growing eyes cannot resist, and he begins to peel away. He stares and stares and stares; he’s unraveled; sclera, iris, cornea, pupil, optic nerve.

         “I’m—I’m sorry.”

The red face she sports is this odd, ugly thing, more pathetic than the horror that comes from being a monster. Chuck is an odd girl, after all, and through her tears and sniffles, seems painfully human despite her odd self. Perhaps it’s something about emotion, and the shame that seems to have climbed all over her like a weighted cloak. 

“Th-That’s the back of it.” Chuck isn’t stuttering as badly, but it’s still there, her wide eyes fixed on Jon. “I found that piece, but well uh, it’s not the important part. But uh, they were my mom’s, and uh, she’s, y’know.” She’s hoping the other fills it in, adds in the ‘dead’ or ‘gone’ to the end so she doesn’t have to explain in detail. It still aches, after all. “These aren’t something I can really replace. So if you’ve seen them, I’d appreciate it.” 

{ルカ}❧

      ❝You’re not the tallest I’ve met in Spirale.❞

Brows are furrowed, albeit minimally, as thoughts perhaps inevitably turn to Priscilla’s staggering form — a whopping fourteen feet in height. Even at Chuck’s prodigious size, the woman would still tower above her, antlers and all.

“I mean, I get that, yeah- it’s still inconvenient though.” 

“You’d know better than I do.”

 He shrugs back. Getting the hand of computer games, something he previously invested no interest it, was still a work in progress. With an nod affirming he agreed to the plan, Waver exits the room in search of some beverages for the both of them. People better not have pillaged his English tea collection or there’ll be Hell to pay.

“Yeah, not by much, though. Not like I’m some sort of genius with this type of thing.” 

Chuck pulls a face, but manages to get the game loaded up, putting around the initial starting area. It’s quiet, but neatly constructed, something she has made effort upon effort to do, despite her and Waver’s messing about. Today seems to be no other exception, so she settles for just organizing things while Waver goes into the kitchen. 

         “How are you a ‘goddamn person’ when—” when your teeth are like that? “—and if I’m being rude for self-preservation, perhaps you should have a clear re-evaluation of yourself. You don’t exactly exude anything other than—” monstrous; pot calling the kettle black, “—non-human.”

         He snarls, in a voice so leaden each declaration seems like it’ll tale a year off her life. Jon typically lays on eternal things the blame of his mind’s internal mess, and realizes that he’s too much of an accomplished scold—her tears prove that plenty and, suddenly, he feels a surge of inward guilt. There’s no capitulating to death’s chilly embrace, presently; she doesn’t mean harm, as she expresses.

         “Are—are you really looking for an earring?”

         There’s a softness he tries to convoke in exchange for his default gruffness, but stress is marrow-deep; and he notices that, instead, his speech is rake-like; grating. Haggard.

         He feels excruciatingly lonely suddenly: it is a bit like being delicately, sinuously lowered into an endless grave and watching a dome of light through rich earth shrink until it is nothing but a memory.

The gasp she attempts to give in reply to such a statement comes out as an embarrassing sob, instead. She hates it, she hates it so much, and the fact that she’s sitting here bawling in front of a stranger makes her want to combust. Forcing herself to take a few deep breaths, Chuck ends up tugging at the ends of her hair, muttering low and frantic to herself.

It’s consistent repetition of ‘calm down, please calm down’ has a way of seeming maybe, just a little bit eerie. 

“I’m a person, I just, it’s a curse. It’s a bad curse. I don’t really want to talk about it with anyone.” Chuck is tripping over her own words, but manages to spit this much out in her attempt to make things feel a little bit normal. It doesn’t work well, but nobody could tell her she didn’t try. 

         IT’S SOUL-LACERATING, THIS: ‘BREATHE,’ HIS PULSE PLEADS; ‘BREATHE, BREATHE, BREATHE!’—and when he does, it’s careworn; lured on by an inner reverberation. Jon noticeably winces, bracing for stygian squeals and something insidious slipping between him and the crowd of mannequins; something that would gnaw at him without ceasing until all that remained was the husk of his body. Something that would keep its shadows from losing shape; something with a longing for any semblance of flesh.

         —he thinks of Nikola Orsinov, and The Stranger; and how she may have fomented old grudges. It is a syndrome of undreamed of deprivation, of the initial signs of penury: their blackened lungs inhaling word of mouth with sickened fascination, if they even had verified lungs; or attached them to their fiberglass sides, dangling each by intestinal ropes for all to see.

         “S-Stay back! Or, or, or I’ll… I’ll…” He cries out, hoping that his voice of conscience grips him, and that, for this brief interval, he yields to it—and that he isn’t torn, as by a whirlwind, away—borne along on the stream of stale fear. He wants to move, but his legs betray him; are dream-thick, fleeing-wise. Terror nails him to the floor as though a thick spike of ice has been driven right through him.

         “A-Are you here for retribution—are you after my skin now?”

Okay! So this is going to be one of those kinds of days. Admittedly, she’s grown a thicker skin than she previously had against this sort of thing, but it still digs at her. Much like a trail of pinpricks on her skin, it stings and Chuck sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth, her hiss an attempt not to let out a more embarrassing sob. After all, crying has gotten her nowhere fast in many a situation, and as much as she’d like to, she’s desperate to not be made fun of.

“I, I, I’m a god damn person!” She stumbles on the first part of the sentence, eyes reflecting in the light that hits then, and teeth showing despite her wild attempt to defend herself.  “I’m a person, and I’m, I’m looking for something I’ve lost, you don’t have to be so rude.” 

As much as she doesn’t want to, her eyes are in fact watering, fist closed around the back of her earring while she stares down this stranger who’s apparently so petrified of her that he’s screaming nonsense that’s getting too close to a threat for comfort. 

The fact that it’s a threat starts to set in, and fear hangs on her like a syrup poured over her bones. It hurts, and she’s frightened, trembling wildly and looking her eyes upon the other. 

“Hey, it’s a living.”

Teasing the hell out of her is one of his favorite things, hands down. Badou is even proud of it, look at that smug look on his face! The little bastard. 

“It hurts? Hmm, guess we’ll have to getcha a fidget spinner or something in the mean time. No grass, either.”

“Well, I’m not paying you for it.” Chuck snarks right back, obviously feeling a bit bolder than she had previously. It’s growth, at least, given that she used to just stutter incoherently at the other. 

Kicking out a long leg, she gives the other a tap on the shin. A warning kick, if anything. There’s little to suggest that Chuck is truly capable of hurting anyone when she has her control together. 

55 Random Sentence Starters

“Yeah? It’s, it’s pretty good, at least it looks like it.” She’s nervous, but that’s no surprise. After all, Chuck is always kind of nervous, always fidgeting and looking around like something’s about to sneak up on her. Granted, by the way her nose flares and ears twitch, it seems like a near impossible thing to occur. 

Was she expecting him to argue? The only reason he’d even suggested an alternative companion for the evening was because he assumed it didn’t matter who went as long as it was someone. Now he knows Chuck wanted him specifically for whatever unfathomable reason, he’s clued up enough about friendship to know it’d be a dick move on his part to say no.

“Sure, sounds fine.” He utters kind of quietly, dodging eye contact. 

“I’m not wearing a bloody costume though, so you can forget about that! But a cab works for me.”

If she’d been expecting one, she doesn’t say so, and instead, keeps her grin and goes back to leaning into the couch, combing her fingers through her hair in that constant nervous gesture that she seems to be so good at doing. She can tell that he’s not looking at her though, and briefly leans her head over to take a look at whatever he’s doing. Nothing too interesting, but she likes to watch nevertheless. 

“I’m not expecting you to. I’m going to get my own, but I haven’t totally decided yet. Too many options now that I can actually, y’know, go out without people looking at me funny.” Ever since the antlers had come in, there had been issues with such things. 

Badou offers his own laugh, cackling at her embarrassment and frustration. It’s just tough love, pal! That’s what it means to be his friend. 

“You love it! It lightens the mood, don’t it? Makes ya feel a little better.” 

Can’t take things too seriously. Not even youthful drama. 

“Not a meat squeak toy? How bout one of those take out box squeakers?”

“Ughhh.” Chuck lets out a whine, peeking through her fingers like it might make him go away. It doesn’t, and Chuck resumes their conversation with a relative state of peace. “You’re the worst sometimes, you know that?” 

Badou knows she’s…sensitive about what’s going on with her. So while he snorts at the silly moment, he offers,

“Didja know Dentists got the worst rate of dyin’? They’re more scared of themselves than they could ever be of you. Anyhow, maybe we’ll getcha a squeak toy shaped like meat instead.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” Chuck lets out a whine, and plants her face into her hands, lthe next noise something akin to a muffled scream. “Why do I tell you anything, you just make weird jokes.”