"Mm. Loud ones. Gunfire. Baying hounds. Bombs. We'll smash them." The mirrors, the voices; both. Everything wrong. There are plenty of problems that can't just be smashed, but the ones in one's head can at least be broken up into manageable fragments, for a while.
Still he follows. It's not long now. The look she gives him, the shift in expression registers, but he's not said more than he meant to. On the contrary, he thinks she might be the only person who could understand what he means to say. That he and John are inseparable is not an unknown, though. The way they're tangled up in one another is a matter of public record.
"Here." He pushes open the door, into the little room with its covered mirrors. Scraps of paper are pinned to the walls, each with notes, cryptic and odd, often only a word or two, some underlined repeatedly, some with simple drawings. On one of the bedposts hangs the hat, the ridiculous, despicable hat, some sort of joke -- the rooms tailor themselves to their owners, he suspects, but they don't always do so kindly.
Still, it has come in handy in one sense. He picks the hideous thing up and balls it around his fist, striding to the mirror and giving it a sharp blow. Pain radiates from knuckles to wrist, bones jarred, but the impact is satisfying. The crack all the more so, the clink of broken glass falling from underneath the sheet to the floor. He turns it face-down, unwraps the hat from about his fist, and shakes the throbbing out of his hand. The hat, in a fit of ridiculousness, some attempt at... what? Lightening the mood? He sets it atop her head, the silly thing, and thinks of John. Stick to ice. Maybe for the best, maybe, but sometimes he still feels the pull to try.
no subject
Still he follows. It's not long now. The look she gives him, the shift in expression registers, but he's not said more than he meant to. On the contrary, he thinks she might be the only person who could understand what he means to say. That he and John are inseparable is not an unknown, though. The way they're tangled up in one another is a matter of public record.
"Here." He pushes open the door, into the little room with its covered mirrors. Scraps of paper are pinned to the walls, each with notes, cryptic and odd, often only a word or two, some underlined repeatedly, some with simple drawings. On one of the bedposts hangs the hat, the ridiculous, despicable hat, some sort of joke -- the rooms tailor themselves to their owners, he suspects, but they don't always do so kindly.
Still, it has come in handy in one sense. He picks the hideous thing up and balls it around his fist, striding to the mirror and giving it a sharp blow. Pain radiates from knuckles to wrist, bones jarred, but the impact is satisfying. The crack all the more so, the clink of broken glass falling from underneath the sheet to the floor. He turns it face-down, unwraps the hat from about his fist, and shakes the throbbing out of his hand. The hat, in a fit of ridiculousness, some attempt at... what? Lightening the mood? He sets it atop her head, the silly thing, and thinks of John. Stick to ice. Maybe for the best, maybe, but sometimes he still feels the pull to try.