who have i become? i'm still old enough to die young [open]

[rosswood]

Who: Alex Kralie and you
Where: All over the mansion's interior
When: April 1st and April 2nd
Rating: PG-13 probs. there's some self-harm and thoughts of suicide in here, plus someone is getting murdered
Summary: Alex's inability to cope with his own emotions (or the lack thereof) causes problems
The Story:

kitchen; open; i'm static like a dead tv screen ( emotionless )

He opens the lighter with a quiet click and watches the stilling flame with complete disinterest. He shuts it again.

He has a purpose to fulfill. All's quiet in his head, at long goddamn last. No voice urging him on. No screams, no static, no tearing of stark white claws into the folds of his brain and carving them into jelly. It's quiet now.

It's his turn to burn.

He spends his flat moments gathering the requisite materials: a box of matches and a knife from the kitchen, lighter fluid from one of the closets. Whoever stands in his way will be dealt with accordingly. He has work to do.

[ooc: Evelyn has dibs on Taking Care of Alex but anyone else who wants to encounter him in his emotionless zombie state is welcome to!]

entrance hall; open; let this stranger have their death wish ( hyper-emotional )

He makes it as far as the entrance hall before panic creeps up on his chest and closes a tight fist around his throat, and he drops against the nearest wall and clenches his fists tight, jaw aching as he grits his teeth.

He killed them. He killed them. He killed them. Brian laughed, Sarah sighed, exasperated until he came up behind her with a chunk of rebar, Tim hadn't even wanted to be there, Seth was just trying to help when he left him to that thing underneath, Jay just wanted the goddamn tapes.

It doesn't matter. He did what he had to, like a hero. That's what he is. That's what he has to be, a hero, a hero, that's what he - what he -

A rage-filled sound tears its way out of his throat as he swings around and slams his fist into the wall. Then he does it again. And again. And again, until the skin of his knuckles is cracked and bleeding. Why didn't he end it right then, after? Who was he kidding, thinking he could escape when he should have slit his wrists and been done with it? Those are the rules, Kralie. You don't just get out and escape this shit forever and ever, you don't get to abscond with your sanity after getting touched with that blank-faced horror.

He deserves this.

third floor; closed to evelyn; if i pass on, then it's a mercy kill

He's compiled a list of potential threats, and cuts through the mansion with crisp, cold efficiency. The steps are cleanly outlined in his head, like something he's done a thousand times (has he? Maybe he has) - first step, kill the targets. A quick blade jabbing in and out of their neck should accomplish this nicely. Second step, burn the evidence. The jug of lighter fluid sloshes in one hand, the sharp tang of gasoline stinging his nostrils and causing his eyes to water.

But it doesn't matter. He has a list. He has a target. First, there's the kid that isn't a kid. Second, there's the one who somehow obtained knowledge of who he was and what he did (didn't they know he had to do it?), and third, there's Max. The thought should make him hesitate, but it doesn't. She knows about what hounds him, what haunts him, and there's only one solution to that. Kill her, kill the others, and then himself.

It's what's necessary.

He stops in front of one of the rooms and, without hesitation, uncaps the lighter fluid and begins to pour until it soaks through the carpet.