entrancelogs | you can call me a liar and that would be true [open]

Entry tags:

you can call me a liar and that would be true [open]

Who: Tim, and also you, if you so choose
Where: Around Wonderland
When: 6/19
Rating: PG-13 for suicide ideation, allusions self-harm, recollections of past trauma
Summary: It's June 19th - Tim's birthday. The day before he posted the final entry.
The Story:

gardens; does the blank stare scare you more than the frown?

He wakes with the muted realization as to the day. It's June 19th. He knows full well what the day is, even if the day following this one strikes him as subtly more important, unbeknownst to anyone else here. Jay would have no clue. None whatsoever. Tim's throat contracts in a hard swallow as his eyes drift across the contours of the room. Does Jay remember the significance of the day, back from those pilfered medical records?

He never mentioned the day. Never brought any undue attention to it. What reason would there be for it, and what cause for celebration would there be? It's hard to be grateful for the day of your birth when you've spent every other day bitterly wishing it simply never occurred.

The morning's routine plays out by tired rote. Coffee and a cigarette to rouse himself a little more completely, a weary surveying of the pieces of himself that have made it this far. Considering the merits of shaving before deciding that he doesn't very well trust himself with a razor today. The rough partial beard darkening the lines of his jaw will simply have to persist until he's feeling a little less likely to peel the skin from himself like an orange. Give way to the fleshy insides that were opened crossways, diagonally, a long, carving slash. He can move a little easier now, as the days have crawled by.

By noon, the clamor in his head has refused to cease, clanging sickeningly around his skull in a desperate plea he can no longer ignore. Again the urge bristles at his fingers, a frustrated inability of knowing what to do with his hands. He sinks to the only impulse he can think of to stay his own hand. Concentrating on his closet with a furrowed brow until finally he opens it, and his hand closes around the bridge of a ukulele.

With Tim attachment, drifts a half-remembered voice across the ridges of poorly suppressed memory. There's a scant handful of songs he can still recall, but muscle memory turns out to be far more adept than anything else.

The sun rises high as Tim folds himself onto a bench in the gardens. It's easier than the wooded areas surrounding. His fingers dance across the strings in aimless tones, noodling a tune out idly with as little direction as the man who plays.

It's not much at all. It doesn't count for a celebration. It's just music.

But it's been months, years even, since he's allowed to think about something as mundane as a song.

kitchen; watch my actions, or lack thereof, negate the person i said i was

[There's a candle stuck in a pint of vanilla ice cream. It's unlit, at the moment, largely because the man who put it there is finishing off a pack of cigarettes, hissing smoke out between his teeth, regardless of who might want or not want the smell of nicotine clouding the vicinity. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter much at all, the memory of a hospital in which a nurse would give him ice cream after the third week in a row that his mother said she would be visiting, she promised she would, and then had simply never showed. It was like a consolation present. As if that would make it better, or numb it entirely.

A fitting celebration, then, to acknowledge the turning of an invisible clock that doesn't hold any damn weight here. Can't you try a little harder, Timothy? Try for me, okay? You must not want to get better at all, if this is still weighing you down.

Tim snorts to himself. Watches the ice cream soften in its cheap cardboard cylinder, watching it sweat onto the table. Stares at the candle that perches at the top of that stupid mound of white, quietly mocking him.

His shoulders hunch. What a stupid idea.]

woods; you can call me a coward and you'd be correct

What a stupid idea.

It's late, now. The last of the sunset has died on the horizon, threads of milk-white fading with the last fingertips of sunlight, giving way to the purpling of dusk. The imprint of the trees is still stark and black against the fading blue, and through the woods he stumps, as if that will mean anything.

There's nowhere else for any of it to go, is the thing. It boils out in rising and falling pieces, in the ragged quality of his breath, in the tautness in his lungs. Prickling at his fingertips. Stiffening his shoulders. Clinging to the back of his throat, slick and hot as bile. He shouldn't be out here, particularly after the last conversation he and Jay had, but what, then, is the point? If It's here, then It's here, and It should damn well have Its way with him. Get rid of him for fucking good. Just fucking finish it. It should have been him. It should have been, and it was simply the cruelest fucking twist of fate possible that it wasn't.

His breath rasps out like a snarl as he halts in the middle of the tangle of black trunks, turning on the spot in a slow, continuous revolution. Sweeping frantically about for any sight of the thing, the blot of faceless white that will surely rise, leering at him. There's nothing shielding him now; no synthetic safety in his pocket, no lens of a camera in his hand or strapped to his chest.

Tim's head jerks back as he glowers into the uniform dark.

"Come on!" he bellows. Waits for an answering stab of pain to his temples, but none comes. "What are you waiting for?"

If It wants him so bad, maybe now, at long last, It can fucking well take him.

wildcard; distant but rational, bringer of rage to get to a level where i will engage

[Want a specific starter? PM me or hit me over at arrpee! It's going to be a Day for old Timothy here. I will match prose or brackets!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's probably bordering on rude, at this point, how little he's asked of Jay's personal life. Some of it was an unspoken rule, at least early on when their alliance was terse and fraught with the remaining tension, the phantom imprint of Tim's fist on Jay's jaw. And by the time some nascent form of trust could be formed, it's not as if either of them had the time or energy to simply wile the days away with small talk regarding what they might've done with their lives if they could be doing something, anything else.

For all the times he played a rousing round or twelve of Anywhere But Here in the hospital, he never bothered to posit the same question to anyone else, did he? Some teamwork, huh? Some friend.

"I mean..." Why'd he bother bringing this up? What was the point in this, other than maybe making the pair of them even more uncomfortable with each other than they are already? That's a feat in and of itself, given all Tim's done to Jay by now.

But now that he's opened his mouth, he can't just stop.

"What'd you...major in?"

Jay snorts. It feels like a bad joke. "Film." He pulls the camera away from his face for a second, tilting it as if to say, 'See how it paid off?'

"Alex was...in some of my classes, but he was going the more...theory route, I think." He tried to think back to his electives. "I ended up with more production stuff. Probably because it fit better with my schedule."

He thinks back to being younger, to standing hunched in front of the VCR, fast-forwarding through a movie so he could watch the "making of" clips at the end. Was that why?

"You'd think the practical stuff'd be more likely to get you a job, but..." Jay shrugs, the movement lopsided from holding the camera.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he remembers: this is the part where you're supposed to pass it back to the other person.

"...You?"

He...should've figured, honestly. That's probably how he - yeah, that's how he met Alex. Brian too, maybe. Brian was the sort of person who'd take an introductory class to just about everything, just to get a feel for it, even if he had no intention of majoring or even minoring in the content provided.

It's even worse when Jay hands the question back, and Tim's mouth compresses, one corner angling upward in a self-deprecating slant.

"Music theory." It was the only thing he had any sort of sustained interest in. Not that he was particularly good at it. "Never finished."

No. He was too busy purchasing instruments he didn't have time to learn and working to afford doctor's appointments he couldn't pay for.

"Oh."

Jay can guess why he didn't finish. Tim's been dealing with that thing since he was a kid, and the idea of trying to finish out four years with it looming over your shoulder while you're trying to do homework isn't...one Jay wants to contemplate. He doesn't remember seeing it during his last year--obviously, or else he would've started the investigation much earlier--but whether or not he remembers isn't exactly the most reliable metric, especially after that footage of Alex giving him the tapes.

If he'd known back then, maybe he could've gotten an extension on his thesis.

"Music theory, is that about...chords?" It sounds even worse after he says it than it did in his head, and because he's physically incapable of quitting while he's ahead, he keeps going. "I heard that stuff's a lot of...math. Are you a...math...person?"

"That's...part of it." Oh, lord. It'd be rude to laugh, particularly since he's not sure if the sound would be emerging based on some stunted obligation or simply out of pity. The latter would probably be worse. Jay's trying, he'll give him that. He always does try.

Keep talking. Keep talking, and maybe he can swallow that awful impulse to mock Jay for daring to engage in conversation. The guy finally sticks out his neck; Tim doesn't need to burn it for him.

"I mean, that's part of why I didn't really finish." No need to explain the other part. "I got kinda good at picking stuff up by ear, but a lot of theory got...complicated."

"Yeah, my ear's...not as awesome as it could be, but I'm not any good at reading sheet music either, so I guess I usually end up playing more by ear." When he ever plays, that is, which hasn't been for at least the past five years. Probably more. Probably a lot more, if he's honest. "I guess that's something I can...y'know, try while I'm here. Learning how to read sheet music."

An old thought's still tugging at the back of his mind: the memories of watching and rewatching behind-the-scenes footage, regardless of the movie. He doesn't really remember how it felt, but something about it seems...good, like he used to enjoy it.

"'S there any...movie...stuff going on here? Like, where I could work behind the camera on...something? Or at least learn more about how it's done?"

He knows how it sounds, like he's just trying to relive the summer of 2006, but that's not why. He's not sure how to explain that to Tim, though, or if Tim'd even listen.

Fuck. He'd made a mental note to never facilitate the crossing of his path with Buffy's, but given the way they've been talking, almost like they're fucking - friends or something -

Not Buffy. She'd only serve to exacerbate his paranoia, even though working with George, it's frankly inevitable that he would meet her eventually. But Tim won't be the one to enable that.

"There's this..." He almost says friend, but that's nowhere near correct. "Max. Her name is Max. She's pretty into photography and stuff. I guess you could talk to her."

"Max...Caulfield? I think I've...seen her on the network."

Oh, he's seen her, alright. He's seen her during the long nights of scrolling back, post by post, looking for familiar names.

One name in particular.

"You could introduce us, or--or I could just message her myself if it's easier."

He'd already been planning to make contact eventually, to ask her what she remembered, but it sounds like they might have some interests in common. That might make the whole conversation smoother (for a certain, loose definition of 'smoother').

And hey, maybe they'll actually...be able to talk shop. Or something. She does still photography, it sounds like, so maybe they'll have nothing in common after all, and things will be just as stilted as they are with everyone else.

He's already been cyber-stalking her or whatever, then. Great. Can't exactly say he's surprised, and if Jay bothered to uncover that much, it's likely that whatever Tim offers next isn't about to be a surprise.

But maybe it still bodes mentioning. In the spirit of - cooperation, maybe.

"She knew Alex." The words coil out, sitting heavy in his gut like a leaden ball. "Back when he was...here. She knew him."

She knew him pretty well, too, as far as he can tell. Enough to know that he was in trouble. Enough to know that he wasn't going to make it out, once he went back home.

He knew it already, but the fact that Tim's bothering to tell him--that Tim knows about it at all--throws him off guard.

"She--how well? Like, were they...friends, or...?"

Was this really why Tim suggested he meet her? Is he actually just handing him a lead? That...doesn't seem like Tim at all.

"I guess." How Alex managed to make a friend that much more well-adjusted than him is kind of up in the air, but then, Tim wouldn't really know. The network only archived so much, and he didn't feel comfortable scrolling through a dead man's history. He got all the knowledge he needed from that room, where Max watched him wail on Alex's prone form and made all the judgments she needed to.

"Seemed like she's maybe one of the people who miss him."

The other one being, incredibly, Commander Shepard.

And hell if he knows how he's going to explain that.

"People?" he asks, incredulous, as if he's not one of them. "Like, plural?"

Really, though, he's not sure if he misses Alex, exactly. He disappeared, one of the few people that'd ever given Jay the time of day, and Jay went looking. It wasn't long before his life had basically become Alex Kralie. He knew Alex--at least, the Alex from 2006--better than he'd known anyone in his life. More than parents, siblings, anyone.

When Alex dropped off camera, though, that changed.

He doesn't know the Alex who shot him. He knows why, logically, because Tim told him, but he doesn't know what he was like, what happened to him between spitting out insults that almost sounded rehearsed while the gun shook in his hand and just firing point-blank like it was nothing.

He wants to know.

Maybe that's sort of like missing him.

"Believe it or not, yeah." It feels like some kind of open disrespect, frankly, that they could laugh at Alex, mock him for being a damn near impossible person to work with. Only he hadn't been, really. Not at the start. Fresh-faced, clean-shaven, eager, baseball cap perched atop his head and a stack of untouched scripts, desperate for someone to enter the room and audition.

Pretentious, a little fumbling. Laden with sarcasm and smart remarks for every occasion. Blindingly oblivious to the faults in his own work where he could shamelessly critique every other film and artwork he encountered.

At least, that's the story the tapes told.

He didn't deserve what happened to him.

He didn't deserve to know Tim.

"There's this...Commander Shepard. She's like, kind of this space marine person?" He's not honestly sure he could explain her job in any detail, so he'll leave that to her, provided Jay shows up at her doorstep with a camcorder and a hunger for answers anew. "She knew him pretty well too, I guess."

A photographer he gets, but an actual, honest-to-god space marine? He's picturing Master Chief, but he's probably way off.

"Sounds like he, uh. Made some friends here." He's picturing the hollow-eyed man who raised the gun, trying to reconcile him with grinning, floppy-haired Alex Kralie from his lecture hall. He can imagine the latter having friends. "Do you know...what he was like when he was here? I mean, did anyone say anything to you about...when he was from?"

"I guess he was from...I dunno. Earlier? He didn't seem like he was the same guy as from - when it was near the end."

Before he died, a pointless end to a pointless crusade. Maybe that's what It wanted all along; for Its puppet to perish at the hands of Its favorite little toy. The mere thought clenches his fingers into fists and stiffens the muscles in his jaw, but he bites into the wall of his cheek and breathes.

"I never..." He blows out a slow exhale, shaking his head. "I dunno how much of him was really him, by the end."

That's...reassuring. It might not be true, but it does something to help reconcile the Alex Kralies stored in his head and on the tapes. Maybe the guy who shot him wasn't Alex, not really. Maybe if he'd found the real Alex, the before-Alex, the one from his lectures and a couple nights in the dorms and the first few weeks of summer, then maybe he could have helped. Maybe they could have followed each other in the car, checked into a hotel on their way to anywhere-but-Rosswood. Maybe they could have talked about old movies.

"D'you think there's any chance he'd...show up here again?"

It's a deeply stupid thing to ask, he knows. He shouldn't be hoping to see the guy who gut-shot him and left him for dead.

But maybe that wasn't Alex.

"Maybe. I dunno." It's only ever been him here, and then Jay. And then Jay again, and...fuck, what would Alex appearing here even mean for the pair of them? Alex wouldn't know that she, that Jessica - no. He wouldn't.

Regardless of whether Jay wants to see him or not, is nervous or afraid that Alex will spontaneously manifest in Wonderland or if he's still holding out some absurd hope that maybe Alex won't try to kill him this time around, the likelihood that any of it's about to happen is...

There'd not be much point in hoping.

"If he does, are you...you're gonna be careful. Right?" With Jay, he can never fully be sure.

"Well, yeah, I mean--" He'd be careful, right? Of course he would. "Especially if he's, y'know, like he has been."

Jay would have to watch him for a while. Gauge where and when he's coming from. Try to figure out whether or not he's got a gun (on him, at least). He could manage that.

It's easier to believe Alex is capable of murder now that he's been on the receiving end of it.

Well, an Alex.

Tim grunts, wordless. He's not exactly optimistic that Jay's going to make good on that promise, but they can burn that bridge when they come to it. If they ever come to it.

That means not running over to where he is with nothing but a knife, Jay.

But he doesn't say it.

"Good. 'Cause there's no way to know when he'd be coming from either."

"Great."

His head tilts down, focusing on the ground while he thinks. The camera stays steady.

"People don't remember being here when they leave, right? So even if an Alex from, y'know, before came around, we wouldn't exactly be able to change things."

Jay tries very hard not to think about what this means for himself. He doesn't imagine how it would feel to have his memories roughly excised, nor does he take any time to consider orange skies and twisted trees and trails and familiar rooms that melt into each other until you've forgotten what the original house was supposed to look like.

He probably should get a hobby, shouldn't he?

"Guess not. Well, unless..."

He's probably talking out of his ass here. He doesn't know the extent of how Wonderland works. That dream world in which everyone's minds went dim and cloudy and they had no home to dwell upon other than the mansion in Wonderland - is that a kinder end to the man that Alex Kralie was than the way he would inevitably go?

They could have fought it together. They could have - or he could have tried harder. Not lost it at the last possible second, fighting hard to preserve what was left of Alex Kralie, the first person Jay set out to save.

He left the sentence dangling, and now has no choice but to finish it. And so he does. Reluctantly.

"I mean, unless he just ended up staying here. Forever."

He's not sure if that would be better or much worse. The longer you stay here, the more you forget, after all. It's a choice between letting him go free to kill and die and letting him stay here to have pieces of himself chipped away.

"I'm not saying this is a good idea, but...what would happen if he stayed?"

From where he's standing, it looks like a choice between two deaths. Jay's not sure he's talking about Alex Kralie anymore.

"I dunno. This place kinda..." He trails off with a vague wave of one hand, breathing out a sigh. "I mean, it seems like it's just sort of eating away at us. Our memories, or something."

So would the Alex they know be effectively dead by then? Everyone in those dreams had been...scarily content with their lives, for the most part. Even Georgia, as much as she encouraged him to pursue his paranoia, his fits of nervous uncertainty, had seemed happy. Happier than he'd ever seen her.

"So I guess it's a question of what's worse."

What's worse, dying or forgetting?

Jay kneads at his forehead. This is...their lives now. This is what their lives have been since 2006, what Tim's has been since he was a kid.

How did they get here from trying to play the ukulele?

"D'you think there's a way to...get out without...?" Without going back there, he's thinking, but he's not sure if it's clear enough.

Tim can only shake his head wearily.

"I dunno. If there is, no one's found it yet." And some people have been here for years, so what chance does one painfully average guy from Alabama have? And Tim - well, he never really bothered to start looking in the first place. If this is his hell, his purgatory, whatever, it's about as much as he deserves.

"I don't think we...I mean, it's a pretty big what if."

you can call me a liar and that would be true [open]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

1/2

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

aww, tim