#encompassingfear

𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐! 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 .  (ACCEPTING)

“hey,” she snakes her hand across the table to lay atop of his. dreadful table manners, but she’ll just have to be forgiven this one time. shelly even repositions her chair to be closer to eric’s side of the table. with her beau’s hand in her grasp she offers him both a smile of reassurance and a squeeze of his palm.

“i’m having a really great time tonight, honey,” spilled drink and all ... oh. even as it’s dripping on to her skirt. that’s alright! it’s not like she’ll never get to a washing machine — shelly flashes a smile to her date again as she dabs her dress.

@encompassingfear​ vowed:     “     you didn’t outgrow your misery,   you grew into it     ”   —   Father Martin

(                                CURSED SUGGESTIONS.                                 )

          HOLY,   HOLY;   THE FATHER SPEAKS,   THE SINNER SEEKS   —   misery is a woman who haunts the darkest of reaches.   there’s nothing there,   she cries,   speaking of loss like the dropping of flies,   vacant,   empty,   a cave that wants but has to live with having much to spare.

he doesn’t have the same woes as the women.   of course he wouldn’t,   a man has nothing to fear but love lost   (   and all he holds dear   ).   the priest tells him of shame,   of misery locked like a cage,   of the key he holds but forgot it was there.   silly.   he breaks the key in a fit of rage,   swallows the pieces like it’s nothing more than air.

“     father,     ”     he laughs but it’s not quite there,   a threat that wants to spill and is only held in by a tight - lipped smile,     “     my life has been—   been nothing but perfect !     ”     it’s not a lie if he believes it to be true   (   the pictures tell otherwise,   young boy spread wide,   it hurts oh god it hurts stop please no no no—   )   and the eyes only see what they can’t look through.

the shaking of hands,   the bounce of a leg,   the chime of cuffs rubbing together and ensuring that he can’t wrap hands around a neck so wide—   the father should be lucky,   so lucky,   that he’s on his best behaviour right now.   see,   see ?   soon he’ll be let out,   they’ll have to realize it’s all a mistake,   he’s not stewing in misery and pretending that everything is okay.

the vocational block is alive with a buzzing.   it’s flies,   he thinks,   flies that eats at their flesh,   drinks at their innards and suckles on the fine mesh.   the fluorescent lights above blink once,   twice;   martin’s painting blends together,   words that only mad men and lunatics understands.  

it’s a gospel.   eddie was once religious.   he fails to believe a god would allow—

he pricks his finger with his given needle,   jittery motions rubbing the blood into off - white fabric.   the stitches are thick,   vague spacings making the cloth bunch up in odd places.   he thinks of the medicine he’s given.   how he keeps it below his tongue when they inspect to see if he has taken it.   how he spits it out when the doctors turn away their sight,   flushing it down the drain until there’s naught left behind.

eddie swallows the urge to laugh in martin’s face,   grimacing instead of smiling,   more teeth than is needed   (   pull them out with pliers lest he’s bound to do bad things   ).   on his best behaviour,   he reminds himself.

the poor,   delusional fool should be on the brink of dying.

        the  tears  are  wet  on  her  cheeks  as  his  voice  crackles  through  the  receiver  pressed  against  her  ear.    a  thread  of  electricity  along  a  wire  connects  them,   two  estranged  souls  miles  apart.   if  dad  were  here,   he  would  brush  them  from  her  cheek  like  pearls.   if  dad  were  here,   he  could  hold  her  tight  to  his  heart  and  she  could  pretend  that  all  the  shadows  in  the  world  weren’t  out  to  get  her  for  a  few  ignorant  moments.   alice  hiccups  as  she  tries  to  stifle  her  tears,   chin  up.   can’t  let  him  know  that  she’s  crying  on  the  other  end  of  the  line.   he  always  lends  her  his  strength  in  her  time  of  need,   so  it’s  time  to  lend  him  her  own.   alice  will  believe  his  promise,   because  now  he  can’t  afford  to  tell  her  a  lie.

     ❝   i  know  you  will.   i  love  y—   ❞    but  before  she  can  get  the  words  out,   the  line  goes  dead.   alice  stays  still  for  a  moment,   hands  limp  around  the  cord,   and  the  receiver  falls  slowly  from  the  crook  of  her  shoulder  as  she  leans  into  her  chair.   time  arrests  her  lungs.   there’s  nothing  more  she  can  say.   these  very  well  may  be  the  last  words  they  share.   she  mouths  the  words  one  more  time,   as  if  she  could  repeat  it  again,   for  him  to  hear  as  clearly  as  if  she  were  right  there  with  him.   

Mid-bite though his breakfast muffin, Sylar stills, mouth open for a second with mild shock. Briefly, he wonders ‘do I look sad?’ Who the hell does this little brat think she is? Entitled, apparently.

“Me? Are you talking to me?” He speaks around his muffin, stifling a cough and swallowing. His thick brows are raised and his hand blindly finds his coffee, raising it to his lips to wash down his breakfast. It burns and his lips pucker unpleasantly.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to talk to strangers?”

                    ❛   i  didn’t  know  strangers  were  supposed  to  be  a  moral  authority.   guess  that’s  what  i’ve  been  missing  out  on;   thanks.    ❜    alice  sips  her  own  iced  coffee  mildly  as  she  watches  him  with  slightly  raised,   pale  eyebrows,   wearing  her  usual  expression  of  observance.   she’s  not  often  one  to  comment  on  the  peculiarities  she  notices  about  people  she’s  never  met  nor  has  reason  to  engage  with;   but  today  isn’t  one  of  those  blithe  days.   he’d  just  seemed  so  lost  in  his  thoughts...   curiouser  and  curiouser.

Eyebrows raise; She’s unimpressed by the man in front of her. He doesn’t know her the way he seems convinced that he does. He thinks his personal experiences are shared by the world. They aren’t. 

She frowns a little. It sure is, prison uniform and bags under her eyes. She thinks she would've preferred that he not draw her attention to the mirror, but at least he seems happy about it.

[continued from here]

Day after dreary day, he sits, back pressed against steel bars of a standard issue chair and a flickering florescent light above, listening to the same story from different patients. ‘It’s getting worse.’

But of course it is. From what he’s been able to dig up and squeeze out of the personnel, that is precisely Murkoff’s goal. These patients aren’t going to get better at all. In fact, by his diagnosis, some of them aren’t sick to begin with. Murkoff is a corporation through and through, and Mount Massive Asylum is its factory. Their product? Insanity. 

Why in Christ’s name is he still here? Morally, it’s sickening to say the very least… but how can one help if they are unaware?

Dr. Oliver Thredson adjusts himself in his seat, leaning forwards so that the light above casts shadows over his already sunken eyes. One might think he was a patient…

“Please be specific… if you can. I know that conditions and treatment aren’t ideal. I trust you know I’m doing all I can.” 

Another moment of silence before he exhales smoothly, chestnut eyes still boring into hers. “You may not be able to trust the physicians here, Val, but you need to open up. I may be the only friend that you have.”

She grins at his claim, raising an eyebrow. He underestimates her. Maybe he thinks that her cult history shows that she's easy to manipulate, that she's looking to follow the first person who offers her reassurances; in reality, it's quite the opposite.  She's learned a lesson about unconditional trust. Falling for a man's bullshit nearly got her killed the last time; it's not a mistake she's looking to repeat.

"We're friends now? You throw that word around like someone who's never actually had a friend."

She was going to answer his question, going to play along even though he knows exactly what she means, but his insistence on trying to make this more than a cold clinical interview forces her to match his energy. He needs the reminder that she isn't afraid, isn't looking for his empty promises of comfort. She leans forward as well, icy blue eyes locked on his.