Jay halts, pulls back, knife still held tight as the static hisses and spikes.
What?
Apologies. They don't make sense, they don't register as real the way the knife in his hand and the dirt under his fingernails do, but there's something in the way Tim pauses, the way his throat cuts him off partway that feels
familiar.
It feels like what if this is my fault. It feels like all the stress is probably making you really paranoid BUT WHAT IF I'M RIGHT?
And her, too, the way her words stick in her throat, the way she says she's worried. That she cares. The words don't make sense, not in this context, but there's something behind them.
The way his voice shakes when he says says he should have done more, like there's anything he could have done to fix this. Like telling the truth would've changed anything.
They're scared.
The Lost Soul cocks his head, watching as best it can, squinting through the static.
Why--?
It freezes, locks up, as the realization sets in. It's not like back home, where the terror slips in slowly, filling up the room like fumes from a leaking pipe until you don't realize you've been choking for months. Shame wraps iron bands around his chest and pulls until his ribs crack, until the knife clatters to the ground and the static rushes up around his ears and he's shaking, he thinks he's shaking.
"You're not him," he mimics back, inaudible without any breath behind it.
no subject
Jay halts, pulls back, knife still held tight as the static hisses and spikes.
What?
Apologies. They don't make sense, they don't register as real the way the knife in his hand and the dirt under his fingernails do, but there's something in the way Tim pauses, the way his throat cuts him off partway that feels
familiar.
It feels like what if this is my fault. It feels like all the stress is probably making you really paranoid BUT WHAT IF I'M RIGHT?
And her, too, the way her words stick in her throat, the way she says she's worried. That she cares. The words don't make sense, not in this context, but there's something behind them.
The way his voice shakes when he says says he should have done more, like there's anything he could have done to fix this.
Like telling the truth would've changed anything.They're scared.
The Lost Soul cocks his head, watching as best it can, squinting through the static.
Why--?
It freezes, locks up, as the realization sets in. It's not like back home, where the terror slips in slowly, filling up the room like fumes from a leaking pipe until you don't realize you've been choking for months. Shame wraps iron bands around his chest and pulls until his ribs crack, until the knife clatters to the ground and the static rushes up around his ears and he's shaking, he thinks he's shaking.
"You're not him," he mimics back, inaudible without any breath behind it.
He's fine. He's fine. He's fine.
His lips are moving.
"I am I am I am I am I am I am I am--"