We're All Mad Here

She had taken refuge beneath the branches of that tree, that large expression of life reaching up into the sky with fingers that seemed to seek out the blackening clouds which hung over head—or so she thought, perhaps a little too wistfully as those warm hues lifted into that small canopy. As those wet lashes blinked away another drop of rain which slid down from her hair line.

Charlie shivered, despite the way her lips turned upwards at her near poetic thought, a soft laugh caught in her throat for when had she ever been poetic. You’re losing it Charlie, her mind warned, that thought only adding to the amusement she felt. The lightness. But the rain had always had that sort of affect on her—that way of cleansing away the hard and the brutal—the heavy.

She’d take a breath at that, eyes shutting for a moment as a hand moved to wipe away the rest of the rain from her face—a grouping of fingers which would soon after find her side as her arms would wrap around her.

Are you real?

Her lashes flew open at the question, smile still in place at the sight of the other, “Oh well I—Oh course I am,” she would say, happy to answer—not knowing that maybe she should hold some wariness. That maybe he shouldn’t be trusted.

“Are you?”

Most people didn’t tend to hold their smile around Charlant. It wasn’t that he believed himself dark, rather he didn’t believe himself to be there. People looked at him in the way that they would look at the peeling paint of a forgotten wall. An emotionless state, unmoved, unseeing. Charlant did tend to feel like the ghost he wished he was. If he were a ghost, that would have to mean he was one step closer to his father, a loss that he would surely never be able to cope with.

“Of course you are.” It wasn’t that he had been entirely convinced, but rather it was more soothing to have someone that hadn’t simply been born out of his own loneliness. There was a soft and regal femininity to her, something that Charlant felt honoured to bear witness to. How lucky he was, though soaked to the bone and shuddering out the last of his anxious energy, at least he was in good company.

“Am I?” Everything is broken up, fragmented shards of a life once whole in its sereneness. Before the outbreak life wasn’t hard for Charlant and it had no indications that it would change. Money wasn’t going to be a struggle and his devastating cheekbones and polite mannerisms would surely mean someone would take an interest in him. His creative outlook had always been the one that he’d struggled with. He could have had a house, a partner and any number of luxurious inessentials without issue, but the want to write something iconic and masterful alluded him. It was lost on him until he’d lost himself and then gained a new form of chaos that meant lyrical words flowed freely and the masterwork he’d envisioned was writing itself. 

“I’m not sure it matters.” It’s was such a horribly sad thing to say with a smile. It didn’t matter whether Charlant was real or not, he was nothing but a medium through which a novel flowed; everything outside himself being vastly more important.  “You’re here, that’s all that matters.” Wet straggling curls of dirty blond hair let droplets of rain run down his cheek, tears that he wasn’t shedding for once. “Charlant Leroux, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” The gaunt young man said, hand extended. 

he was not bothered by whimsical, capricious things. like reassurance and SECURITY. like refuge. alistaire lennard, born in a golden crib, had given up all sense of frivolity the day he signed up to join the british armed forces. his fanciful life back in london became pointless after witnessing other hardships. he stopped wishing for SILLY LITTLE THINGS, things that created flippant dependence, early in the game. he’d watch the ladies and the gentlemen carry their umbrellas to keep their suits from turning into wet rags, all the while he’d sit alone, under the rain, with a watered down coffee turning clearer with each drop of polluted cloud water. he’d drink it anyways. RAIN COFFEE. not delicious, not LUXURIOUS. necessary. inside the shop, a barista would throw away a generous number of day-old croissants while a mother in a forgotten nation watched her babies die of starvation. 

the world was cruel, crueler still to those born without privilege. and alistaire? oh, with his lord’s blue blood and his riches and his private education – alistaire was the epitome of PRIVILEGE and while this little personal rebellion would do nothing in the grand scale of things, he refused to be part of the lie any further. FLASH; a journalist would take a shot and sunday’s paper would read: LENNARD WASHED AWAY. another scandal. the press sure did love picking on him. he blamed his father for that one; him and his goddamned, pointless political career. 

as the rain poured down on him, he walked. the cold it caused reached his skin and more than once he shivered, but there were no complaints from his lips nor none in his thoughts. a little rain never hurt anyone and though he risked a cold or a fever in drenched clothes, he prefered that than staying out in the dark. it was in this strut that he happened upon the blonde: LOST looking and singing like a bird. “ i was last time i checked, “ he replied dryly, eyebrow arching slightly, “ and you seem to be real, too, though you’d be wise not to trust the word of a STRANGER. “

In men’s company, Charlant could only think of his father, the original man in his life, the one who had mattered. No one had believed in him so unwaveringly, no one had been so genuinely excited to see his future play out as his father had been. But with the warmth of memory came the icy chill of his loss, the echoing thunder that had taken his father’s heart and crippled in right in his chest. This was a sensation that Charlant relived most days, his panic acting as a torturous reminder of how as his father fell he do nothing about the impact. 

Did he check often? Was he routine about it? If he didn’t check for himself how would he know? The reality of things grew more and more unclear in the days that passed Charlant by. Sun to moon and moon to stars and then sun again, it’s rising meaning another night survived, but at what cost? Sometimes the pangs of hunger that rattled in his ribs all the way up into his cheeks were exemplified by the dawning of new days, a nighttime eternity without nourishment. Then there were other mornings where Charlant remembered that he was happy to be alive still, that it was an amazing thing that he had to be grateful for. 

“We don’t have to be strangers.” The blonde offered, his pale handing reaching out towards the potential friend in front of him. “My name is Charlant Leroux and I’d love to get to know you.” He was like a chick, perched at the edge of the nest with fluffy wings about him. Ready to jump but conscious that flight might look a lot like falling, failure hanging weightily overhead. Charlant was never quite sure how he might be received by those he met. What if it wasn’t the moment for them to meet? What if by some chance they’d met too soon? What if they were never meant to meet at all?

tight grip on the rifle, the man walked across the dark forest with a grim expression on his face. the weather wasn’t helping his mood at all as the raindrops started to land on him rapidly, making sure that none of his clothes would stay dry. he mumbled under his breath as the raindrops slid across his face & neck. despite the unfortunate circumstances, the man attempted to say as alert as he could, considering the environment he was in currently. woods were full of hidden dangers & dorian knew it perfectly well. 

among the trees, he suddenly started to hear something from the depth of the forest. the man lifted his head slightly as his eyes widened. wary & ready, he started to approach the strange noise that loosely sounded like quiet humming to his ears; halfway through, he wondered if he was just imagining things around him, distracting himself from the real dangers. 

however, as his eyes spotted the young man next to a tree, it was obvious he wasn’t just making this up. the grip on the weapon tightened from before as he carefully approached them, the gun slightly lifted upwards. he didn’t have much time to open his mouth before the other was already stepping closer to him & shooting him with a strange question. 

“ i.. what ? “ he frowned, slowly shaking his head. “ i.. yes, i’m as real as it gets, trust me. “ staying in his place, he gave the other a threatening glare. 

“As real as it gets...” He never wished to be a mimic, but he had a nervous habit of repeating what he’d heard to make sure he understood what was being said. A man with so many thoughts could only truly hear so much. The dialogue, however, was interesting, to feel the need to cap realism, maybe for fear that it might overextend itself. Reality was scary enough as it was, the idea and starkness of death being the main pillar of reality that kept his body forced towards his impending end. 

Charlant looked to the gun in the man’s hands. He would never wrap his head all the way around the use of them. Protection, of course, it would be in the name of protection. But Charlant could not believe that his life was more important than anyone else, murder was indefensible, his hands would not be his own if bloodied. 

This gun toter was handsome and threatening, a combination that forced the blonde into a corner, one that left him feeling more vulnerable than he usually did. He said more than raiders tended to, the blond knowing that if he found himself in front of a raider hew ould not have had the luxury of many more thoughts. “I want to trust, I so desperately do, but I don’t... The gun, it’s distracting.” Charlant loved to look people in the eye, a connection formed from seeing of another, one in the same but entirely different, but with something so menacing pointing his way his stare was drawn to its barrel. 

Half humming and half singing to himself. Music was warm and comforting, even though the sheets of rain that seemed to hit him steadily each time he tried to poke out from underneath the tree cover he’d found. 

“Cryin’s not for me...” 

A little hypocritical but Charlant’s life was part fallacy and part brutal honesty, forever in the strangest order. The reality of things got lost on him and the possibility of the unreal coming to fruition enticed him. His hair turned darker with each little droplet rain that soaked him, his thin frame finding it difficult to carry an even heavier head. Some of the lyrics were muddled in his brain but he felt his soft humming sufficed. 

“Because I’m free... Nothin’s worryin’ me.”

What a wonderful note to end on, his heart feeling warmed and leaving him feeling less alone. Though rather than that feeling just existing in his mind, there was a physicality about it too. Charlant turned and offered a hesitant but joyous grin to his company, taking them in and allowing himself to feel safer just for them existing. “Hello! I suppose I should start by asking...” The blond moved himself a single step closer, as if it would help with his question. “Are you real?”

kicking at the flat wheel of her rental car ophelia let out a puff of angry air as she muttered in annoyance under her breath; it was one thing to be stuck in this small ass town while she was waiting for cherry to be fixed but the fucking tire on the car the repair company gave her just had to ‘ POP ’ didn’t it? letting out another string of curse words in french as she got down on her knees with the jack in hand she slowly propped up the car and started to unscrew the wheel, that was UNTIL she remembered that the spare was back at her hotel room … because she needed room in the truck for something else eariler. ❝ putain d'enfer ❞ she screamed as she slowly crawled back up before looking back at the person behind her. ❝ sorry…that really wasn’t at you, it was more at the week i’ve been having you know? hey do you have a spare tire by any chance? ❞  

Charlant prepared himself, rolling up the sleeves of his tucked in pastel blue dress shirt. It might have looked as if he was readying himself to handle a wrench or pump air into a tire, when really he was just preparing himself to make a good impression, rolled sleeves giving a more casual aesthetic when matched with the capris he’d landed on that morning. His locks were checked in his wing mirror, a deft hand pushed them back and allowing them to fall where they lay best. It was the French that had drawn him in but he knew most of the best tales had come from damsels in distress, and though cliched he knew he couldn’t miss out on his own personal opportunity. “If you’d allow me, I’d like to turn this week around for you.” There is a natural sincerity in his tone, though it’s not coming from the heart. It’s fueled by the fact that she may have been the most stunning woman he’d had a chance to converse with whilst on his road trip. He doesn’t feel as if he’s been deprived, but instead in that moment, he felt reawakened to what beauty meant. Though he had a spare tire he was ready to spare one of the ones in use if she made that special request. It was the romantic in him, or perhaps the writer who wished for stories filled with particular and peculiar embellishments. “Charlant Leroux, et jepensequej'aicedontvousavezbesoin.” The taller of the two said, offering his hand to her, one of a writer and not of a mechanic. 

      Lines of white separated by the razor blade between his fingers, his reflection in the small glass of his cell phone was distorted, though Vasiliy was rarely aware of how he truly looked. Rhiannon was doing something, out there looking at stupid rocks or whatever, and he felt equal parts bored and offended: he came all the way out to fuckin’ Wyoming to spend time with her and she thought her studies more important than HIS presence? He could only find so many ways to entertain himself in such a small little town and his body yearned for the one thing that could take his mind off of his girlfriend’s absence—or maybe make him obsess even more. The fingers of his other hand were twirling a rolled up dollar bill and he was just about to learn down when the bathroom door suddenly opened, briefly startling him,  ❝  Do you know how to fucking knock?  ❞

There is something yearning to recoil in him, his ribcage turning in on itself willing him to pull away. Though he has a tendency to be soft he doesn’t waver so easy, it’s probably one of the only positive traits his mother could have offered him really. Charlant stood in the door frame, needing a beat to remember how resilient he was before stepping in and allowing the door to swing behind him. Not as much of an artist as he’d want to be but the scene painted a picture for him. There was a darkness in that bathroom, it was just a matter of putting his finger to the word. Not seedy, no, a better choice would have been s i n i s t e r. Perhaps it was just the man’s biting tone which never settled with Charlant, that same bark that left him feeling uncomfortable in his posture. He straightened up and moved to the sink, the need to wash his hands in grimy bars was overwhelming each time he mistakenly touched the sticky sap laminated tables. “Do you own this bathroom?” It’s coming from the kiddish place, the simple recess of the mind which desires to offer a rebuttal when affronted. The soap he lathered on his hands while he watched the stranger in the mirror was generic and he could feel it; hideous. 

Basics

Name: Charlant Leroux Age: 22 Occupation: Student - English Major

        ❛       i’m  going  to  pretend  i  know  what  you  just  said,   mr.  modern  day shakespeare.        ❜        it’s  all  good  natured,     though  avery  inwardly  cringes  at  his  own  comment.    surely  he  could  do  better  than  that.  still,   the  thought  of  anyone   —   or  anything,    candy  bar  included  waiting  for  him  couldn’t  help  but  bring  an  amused  smile  to  his  features.    the  only  thing  waiting  for  him  was  a  world  full  of  chaos   &   groveling  corpses.  

        head  tilts,    blue   &   brown  gaze  flickering  from  the  destruction  to  the  man  beside  him.   avery’s  always  been  someone  particularly  social,    a  quip  on  his  tongue   &   laughter  not  far  behind.    years  of  detachment  from  others  have  done  little  to  deter  it,   instead  he  revels  in  it.    any  interaction  to  ground  him  from  his  thoughts   &   the  suffocating  reality  of  things.     ❛       for  the  record,     the  kit   -  kat  bar    &     i  will  be  extremely  happy   together,    sentient  or  not.        ❜  

Modern day Shakespeare, it’s a title that left Charlant breathless. Though the conspiracies were probably true that Shakespeare was nothing but a figure head for the writing prowess of a named and unnamed group the blonde took the compliment and held it in his chest. His heart made room for the idea that he could possibly be going somewhere, doing something positive. Charlant watched his smile, more of a grin really, a moment away from being a Cheshire cat. It was the brand of grin that made the blonde want to be more entertaining. 

Charlant takes every moment with company and treasures it, his mouth moves too fast for his mind “I have no doubt. I have a desperate feeling it won’t last long around you, but some things have but one purpose--- Doesn’t make them any more or less important. I suppose we all have one purpose in the end. To live or to die, half full or half empty, it depends on where you stand.” Charlant said thoughtfully, eyes naturally finding the ground once more; a comfortable stare. It was a moment to allow him to catch his breath, to reign himself in or at the very least formulate a conversation that other ears would care to hear. With a flutter of blinks, he looked back up, holding a hand out to the other man. There was an attempt to avert his eye, wishing for a less instance brand of eye contact but he couldn’t quite pull himself away. “I’m Charlant Leroux. I don’t mean to lose my manners but it’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone easy.” 

The smile remained on Rhiannon’s face as Charlant started to speak in the strange almost ‘self-talk’ that had colored their initial visit. To say he was ECCENTRIC was too apt a description, but he was kind and he was scared. Despite not understanding him, she could at least relate to that. “I think you’re right.” She replied with a brave smile. If nothing else, he would know if he was alone, surely. 

“Not a Hitchcock blonde.” Rhiannon smiled reassuringly. No, Hitchcock blondes faced their own challenges, but they survived. She could relate. Rhiannon had SUFFERED but she persisted despite all odds, despite her inability to fight, she could survive. And Charlant, despite his gentle appearances, seemed to have done the same, so far. Even the bravest men she knew had died, perhaps being a coward was better. Swallowing hard, Rhiannon nodded to herself. “We’ll stick together though; I think it’s a good idea.” Holding the heavy desert eagle in her hands, she hoped that she would not have to use it. “Um, together then?” She gestured towards the source of the sound with her head.

Right? She thought he was right? In that moment he was complimented and concerned. Was this woman as proficient as he believed her to be or was she simply over polite? It happened, it happened all the time. People liked to say what they didn’t mean, it comforted them. Blankets and pillows made of compliments to buffer others, keeping a protective layer between them and being hurt. Charlant wouldn’t hurt anyone but often times was hurt because of his docile nature. Not tough enough, not man enough, reminded constantly that he would die a coward. If Charlant knew how to change he probably would have tried, but he’d become soft and morality weighed heavily on him leaving him at the will of those who weaponized their own brutal natures. 

“Not a Hitchcock blonde.” He could have smiled as wide as a crescent moon in that moment, turned on its side as he had been. Why had he questioned her? Rhiannon was brilliant and he’d forgotten why he’d become unsure of that. A story teller will always mind his characters. He may hurt them, torture and gut who they are but for them to be alive is for him to be alive, vicariously so. He will gift them life and it is a circular gift that Charlant understood in that moment. He shouldn’t have doubted her and he’d learn from the mistake. Charlant is a wonderful companion to have, loyal until his last breath and swayed easier than bending tree branches in fall gales. “Together.” That word is transformative. For Charlant it felt like a definite future and the possibility of a future in the same single word. 

Her gesture is confusing, almost as if he is to take the lead. Charlant does not take the lead. He is not a leading man nor does he have the gravitas to pull off any kind of alpha role. It’s not that he shook his head consciously, rather his nerves shook it for him, gently vibrating through him. Another crash; still not alone. Every follicle on his body was alert and listening. His heartbeat was in his temples and the idea of fainting was embarrassing but ultimately still an option. Whatever it was, whoever it was, there was a door between Rhiannon and himself and it. Charlant couldn’t tell if it was side stage or out into the lobby but in his state, it was a miracle he could tell it was a door. “I’ll...” He wasn’t sure where his initiative came from, but he didn’t have time to pick himself apart. “I’m going to open the door. If it kills me, it kills me, just make sure you shoot it... There are other people in this world that need people like you, Rhiannon.” The blonde said while he shuddered, hands moving to push open the doors to their fate, his eyes closing instantly.

—  &.  OPEN.     

        *    WHISPERS  OF  A  PAST  LIFE  cling  to  his  skin,      the  slightest  curve  settling  atop  his  lips  as  if  something’s  amusing  him.        ❛       ——what  do  you  miss  the  most  ?      for  me  i  think  it’s  the  simple  things,    y’know ?     everything  i  took  for  granted.       ❜       a  pause,      nose  scrunches    &   whatever  air  of  melancholy  had  once  settled  over  him  is  washed  away  by  light  hearted  humor.     ❛       OR  READILY  AVAILABLE  CHOCOLATE …  i  don’t  even remember  the  last  time  i  had  a  kit  -  kat  bar.       ❜       it’s  a  tactic  he’s  grown  accustomed  to,    always  skirting  around  the  holes  in  his  composure.   gaze  flickers,   drawn  to  the  skies  around  him,   almost  peaceful  were  it  not  for  the  remnants  of  a  society  long  gone  protruding  from  the  edge  of  avery’s  vision. 

Charlant opens his mouth to answer, always ready with a list of demands. Because to miss is not to miss, but rather to hope for. The man in front of him did not pause for an answer but rather formulated a monologue for himself which the blond was all too happy to listen to. Charlant liked talking to people, even when he wasn’t talking, in truth being involved was the best part. The idea that another living and breathing person took notice and chose to interact with him was something that warmed him from the inside out. As a writer and a storyteller, he tends to remember the details but the question was lost on him as soon as his eyes met those of his company, laughing gleefully at his comedic change of pace. “I’m sure there’s one out there.” Charlant becomes a mimic and looks out across Cheyenne like he recognises the grey and the brown of a city having lost a war against the roaming and savage undead. “I’d go so far as to say it’s probably just waiting for you--- The kit-kat bar that is. Not that it’s sentient, I feel it’ll work as one of those beautiful moments of star-crossed convergence.”