entrancelogs | one man who thought he knew a way to always get through [open]

Entry tags:

one man who thought he knew a way to always get through [open]

Who: Alex Kralie and you
Where: The gardens, the kitchen, and then the fourth floor
When: July 22nd
Rating: PG-13 (guns, mental health and trauma, panic attacks and dissociation, self-harm, Alex's foulmouth)
Summary: Alex returns from his canon update, four years older and filled with self-righteous frustration. Also he has a gun now. Prose or brackets, I'll match either!
The Story:

gardens; playing tricks on the mind, thought that he'd won this time

The breath is choked in his throat from the arm that looped itself around his neck, squeezing and squeezing even though he clawed at it. He aimed for the eyes, but his fingertips touched only smooth plastic. He managed to utter one final strangled shout, and when he breathes in again, he's somewhere else.

Green grass, a temperature easily more bearable than Alabama's ungodly heat, hills and flowers in full bloom. If this is what dying feels like, consider Alex underwhelmed. One hand automatically reaches for his neck, fingertips scraping about a week's worth of stubble, the bruises clustered around his throat where that masked bastard nearly asphyxiated him by crushing his windpipe. It still throbs, like the rest of him, but he doesn't grimace, or flinch, or groan. His jaw sets. He's stomached worse, far worse, and will likely suffer more for what he's had to do.

And all thanks to Jay goddamn Merrick.

His grip tightens on the gun in his hand. Two bullets went streaking out in his shock at being beset upon from behind, but neither scored hits on their intended targets. At least if anyone was dragged here with him, he'll be prepared. He'll be...

Memories that were formerly prickling behind his eyelids abruptly come spilling back. Wonderland. Of course.

So he's back again.

And he's alone.

The rustle of footsteps through grass sparks a flurry of panic rising in his chest, and he spins around to train the piece on whoever's approaching. Sorry, whoever you are. Instinct's a bitch, and his nerves are shot to hell thanks to almost dying just now.

kitchen; he’s roaming corridors and lies in wait for us all

He's been living on the road for longer than he cares to admit. He's been eating out of gas stations, fast food joints, going long stretches of time without anything but the plasticy water bottles cooking in the trunk of his car for god only knows how long, and he's tired of it. Now that he's starting to remember the way the place is set up, the first place he heads is the kitchen to make himself a goddamn sandwich.

He sets the gun on the counter with a quiet click. Then he thinks better of it, and keeps it tucked in his waistband.

He eats ravenously, with little regard for the mess he's making or who he might be offending with his nonexistent table manners. He hasn't eaten genuine food for weeks and maybe months, shut up. He's had no time for it, between Jay being a total moron and Jessica getting involved and Tim being the way he is and Amy being -

The sandwich abruptly starts to taste like ash in his mouth. He...Amy is...look, okay. Okay. He did what he had to, okay, she was getting into shit and she had no idea and it's not like he wanted to do it, but she's - and he had to - and -

Alex braces both hands across the countertop, eyes screwed shut behind his glasses as he tries to get a fucking grip on himself and not panic because he's not panicking all right, he's not, he's definitely not, he's just - he's fine. He's fine, he's fine, it's all fine, just breathe like a regular human being ~~even if he's not, not anymore~~ and act like you aren't some kind of hollowed-out fucking shell. Act like a person.

Instinctively, he gropes for the soothing side of himself (it's got to be himself, right, that voice that hums that it'll be fine, even if it hurts to hear any of those words slamming into his head, distorted and twisted and humming with a sense of wrongness he can't place), but it's gone. It's gone, and he's alone again. Alone and - fuck. Fucking shit hell goddamnit.

He's ended up on the floor somehow, back pressed against one of the cupboards, the handles digging into his back but that's fine, it's all right, and fingertips sunk into the flesh of his arms and - and that's fine too. They're scoring long red streaks down his forearms and a few of the scratches have drawn blood, but it's cool, it's fine, he's got this under control if he could just think through the grayed-out slowness of his own thoughts and turn back to his lunch, or dinner, or whatever's become of the sandwich lying abandoned on the counter, and stop freaking panicking over nothing.

fourth floor; but now you're just empty

Room forty-four, fourth floor. Bile curdles in his throat. It's like a sick joke, after all that shit that masked freak has pulled. Today is your last birthday.

He stands outside his room, still looking as haggard and exhausted and beaten and worn-out as he feels. He stands there for a really long time, momentarily lost in himself or not-himself or whatever alternatives to himself he can grasp at, really, he'll take anything, anything that means he doesn't have to live in his own insufferable head for five fucking minutes.

When he comes back to himself, his lip curls in a sneer. He flicks his middle finger up at the 44 symbol on his door, slow and deliberate.

Yeah. Fuck you, totheark.

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Are we still friends?

Alex stills, staring at the wall opposite him, blank and blank and blank. Are we still friends. Jay might've asked the same when he rushed him, hands clasped around that fragile birdlike neck and choking and pressing and pressing until he stopped struggling. Only it hadn't been enough. It had never been enough.

Are we still friends?

His mouth opens and closes soundlessly. He should tear that line of thought apart, rip into her, tell her no, they were never friends, and ensure she stays as far away from him as possible. Chloe would hate him, and that would be fine. That would solve several problems in one go.

But he can't. He doesn't say anything. Held back by some kind of useless, worthless sentimentality that he can't eviscerate no matter how he tries, and - and he can't be like this, he can't be fallible. He has to be the weapon, the antibody, the immovable object. He can't let this happen.

"There's nothing you can do," he says, the words clipped. "There's nothing any of us can do here."

He didn't answer her question. Frustration wells up inside her, threatening the steady calm she's been trying to cultivate. Months of progress gone! And not just progress, but actual friendship- they actually get along. Got along. They still do, right?

But he wouldn't answer. A few months ago he died while trying to keep her safe. Now he won't even call her a friend. He was the first friend she made in Wonderland, and she doesn't want to lose that- doesn't want to lose the dumb movies and the geek jokes and the blatant sarcasm.

She grits her teeth. It's so unfair.

"Okay," she responds, her own voice taking a sharper edge. Damned if she's letting this go. "So why the gun? Like you said there's nothing we can do."

He blinks down at it, as though surprised to see the gun there at all. The question she fires at him is laden with a hardened tension, and he strains to remove himself as far away from it as possible. She's probably upset. He didn't answer her question, and didn't say whether or not they were still friends, and he needs to be objective here, he cannot afford distractions or useless attachments since attachments only get cut and burned and killed, he cannot turn around and he cannot face her.

He cannot afford to be anything other than exactly what he is, pure and unrestrained by emotional proclivities or whatever the hell else might hold him back. That is extraneous. He'll cut it out. Carve from him like a tumor.

"That was a precaution," he says evenly. "I was holding it when Wonderland took me back. It doesn't matter."

It does.

He could wheel around and put a bullet through her right now, and it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't change a damn thing. She'd be back, and he'd be just as doomed as he was before.

The more he talks the more annoyed she gets. It's his tone, the fact that he won't look at her, a lot of little things that set her off one by one. She knows he's kind of a jerk, but there are only a handful of times she actually felt it. This is definitely one of them. She glares at his back.

"So give it to me," she dares him, hand outstretched. It's pointless. He can get another one from the closet. But if he wants to claim that it doesn't matter, that the gun isn't anything, then he better damn well hand it over.

Push her away all you want, Alex. It'll take a lot more than that for her to give up on what they've been building.

That certain garners a reaction. Alex spins around, facing her, his eyes hard.

"Why? So you can shoot me? So Chloe can? 'Cause I think she's got that part covered if I fly off the handle again, don't you think? Don't trust me with this, do you?"

He snatches the gun off the desktop, cocking it easily with a loud click of pins locking into place.

"What, you scared I'll go nuts?" He aims the thing at her, just for a moment.

Only a moment.

Then the muzzle drops to the ground.

"You think I might shoot someone?" Alex hisses.

Unhinged. Inefficient. Unguarded. This is unacceptable. He needs to rein this in but he can't, he can't, he can't. His teeth are gritted and there's something burning in his veins and he can't tear it out.

Unthinking, uncaring, he rams the barrel of the gun against his temple, braces his finger against the trigger.

"Is that what you think? Is it?"

What the fuck-! She reels back when he points it at her, incredulous surprise on her face. Her breath and voice catch in her throat. Would anyone hear a gunshot from here? Her hands sweat and itch with the desperate need to grab something for self-defense, to run from the room, to scream.

But that's all shoved roughly aside as he brings up the gun against himself, finger already on the trigger. Then she can hardly think at all. Even if she could talk, even if she had the breath or will to say something, she wouldn't have the right words.

Step away from the ledge, Kate, she thinks wildly, memories rushing back.

Shit. She fucked up, didn't she? It's all happening all over again. First with Sans and his careless words, and now...

This. This has to be about Alex. It's not about Max. She has to help Alex.

"S-" She has to force her voice around the tightness of her throat. It's going to come out sounding stupid and cliche, but that's all she can think of right now. And she means it. She does. "Stop! D- don't do that, Alex, please," she begs. She literally begs, pleading in her voice, an unmistakable desperation in her eyes. Kate wanted to get better, when Max talked her off that ledge- but Alex... she doesn't know what Alex wants.

"I... I trust you, Alex. That's why I'm here." The room is so quiet. She hates guns. The sound would make her jump again. No, no, don't think about that, think about Alex. Oh god, oh god, please don't pull the trigger, please, Alex, don't do it, I can't I can't do this I "Come on, just... just put it down, okay?"

Alex almost smiles. He's engendered exactly the sort of reaction he was hoping for. But instead his lips press tightly together, a hard, firm line. It's the inevitability of the thing that'll get him, one way or another. He feels the temptation to pull the trigger, actually go and make it happen but -

Not yet, right? So why is that itch still in his veins? Why does he still want it? He's supposed to be better than this. This isn't supposed to...

No. No. He's fine. This will be fine.

"But not enough, right?" he says airily. His tone is light, even, almost careless. He adjusts his grip on the gun without any concern for the cold metal pressed to his head. One muscle spasm and he'd cut himself short prematurely.

Pity he can't afford that just yet.

"Just when it conveniences you."

That's so unfair. To accuse Max like that, of being a faker, of of not really trusting people deep down...

The incident back in Arcadia Bay sort of backs it up, right? What did that other Max say? Something about... using her powers to make people like her? Rewinding to turn conversations into scripted performances, where Max always says the right thing...

That's bullshit. Right? Max didn't... use her power just to make friends. She was trying to help people...

Like Alex. Max roughly pushes aside the creeping thoughts again. This has to be about Alex, not some self-pity trip where Max obsesses over her own failures, her own state of mind. Her eyes dart back and forth between his face and the gun.

"I'm sorry, Alex. I- I do trust you." She has to be honest. She can't fake this, for his sake- he has to know that there are people that actually care, because she does. "It's scary sometimes, but... but I know you don't want to hurt me."

She's right. He doesn't want to hurt her but - that inevitability always looms. How much she knows. How much she might learn from going through everything he's made, everything he's done. However much he's told her. It's too much. It's always too goddamn much.

The barrel of the gun points to the floor again. He rolls his shoulders, as if he didn't just casually threaten her with his own imminent suicide. But it got the reaction he needed.

"You don't have to worry about it," he says dully, mechanically. "It's fine. It'll all be fine. One day we'll look back at this and laugh."

Aren't you laughing, Max?

Isn't it funny?

What.

The fuck.

Just happened?

She involuntarily raises a hand and covers her mouth, shock still driving her motions but relief starting to set in. After a quick moment she lowers it again. She doubts she can ever laugh about this. God the two of them are such a mess. God damn it, Alex...

She should leave- before it gets worse, before she sets him off again. But the thought of what he might do, alone, when there's no one there to stop him... She's not prepared for any of this. She doesn't know what to do. Is it right to invite him out for tea and coffee? Would that help, or would it seem intrusive and out of pity? If she offers to just leave, would that seem careless and insensitive?

But there's one thing she really, really wants to ask, though she does it slowly and with a nervous voice. "Are... are you going to keep that?" She points at the gun.

He almost doesn't understand what she's talking about until she points. Right. The gun. He almost says something snide, about how if Chloe has one he might as well tote one around too, right? That way they can match. It'd be funny.

But he bites it back, and he's not entirely sure why. It'd be - incorrect. Inefficient. Yes. That's it, exactly. There's no emotional attachment to that reasoning whatsoever. Not a shred of it.

That would be a problem.

"I might need it." He has something better here, now that he's remembering. The rifle that shoots lasers. But it's more obtrusive, and a gun is more easily tucked away. "You know how it can be here. The closets cough these things up easy as breathing."

"Yeah..." The closes. That's going to be a constant problem. She doesn't want to suffocate him, to bear down on him and watch his every move. That would be... that would drive him nuts. She has to trust him to not hurt himself, and she realizes how much harder that is than trusting him not to hurt her.

She's so scared that the slightest misstep or wrong word might set him off. All she can think to do is to offer to be there for him, when he's ready for it and comfortable. The thought is hard to swallow, because she wants to fix this now, otherwise it will keep her up all night with worry. But she has to be patient, and that's so hard.

"If you ever need someone to talk to... I'm always just a call away. Okay?" She rubs the back of her neck. "Promise me... you'll call if you ever feel like you need to talk to someone. Or even if you just want... I dunno, waffles or something."

Or if he ever feels like putting a gun to his head again. That, too.

He tries to soften his features. Pull them into something halfway warm, or fond. The expression is so unfamiliar that he's certain it just comes out as a grimace.

"I'll give you a ring." Again, he tries to smile, but the corners of his mouth are stiff, like he's forgotten. Muscle memory has run out of the corners of his mind, just like everything else. He's been hollowed-out. Emptied.

Operated upon.

That's a foreign thought. He shakes it aside.

"I'll take it easy. Just need some...time to adjust again."

Yes. That sounds like a convincing lie.

Max nods very slowly, though she keeps a wary stare at his obviously fake expression.

She sort of believes him because she's forcing herself to. Whatever else he says, she does agree that he needs time. "Okay, Alex." She turns to leave but stops at the door, looking back at him with a frown.

"You were pretty happy here, you know. I mean... things were okay." Not always great, and not always safe, but it was okay, really. It was better than what he must be feeling right now. "Things can get better."

Okay. Things were okay. He was broken, and she had her own demons, and he tried to kill her, but things were okay. The thought is so alien that he doesn't know what to say for a good thirty seconds.

Then he nods.

"Yeah," he says, again straining to muster any kind of genuine thought or feeling regarding her words, and again finding nothing but emptiness, emptiness, emptiness. "Yeah. Maybe."

She continues to stare for a moment, and even tries a small, forced smile. Eventually she turns and shuts the door with a quiet click.

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one man who thought he knew a way to always get through [open]

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UH SUICIDE IDEATION CW HOO BOY

WHAT IS THIS L:KASJV:LAK

everything is . f i n e..........

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