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

[rosswood]

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.

Comments

[rosswood]

[That is...suspiciously selfless of him. Alex chooses to distrust that on principle.]

And what's in it for you?

[voiceinthedark]

[He blinks, looks a little puzzled.]

I don't feel like a dick for leaving you to freak out on your own?

[rosswood]

[Ah. Of course. Altruism. That's a good enough reason for normal people to do the things he do. Alex considers this briefly, then nods, apparently satisfied with the answer.]

Fine. Go to town.

[voiceinthedark]

I intend to. I mean, really it just requires sitting here and watching the door. And I could probably do that and make another sandwich.

[rosswood]

[Alex...legitimately has no idea how to interpret that. No one, not one person back home did something for him that was wholly selfless, not in all those four years. And this is...new.

He chooses to accept it at face value. He eats his damn sandwich.]

[voiceinthedark]

[Sam waits for him to start eating again and then heads over to the fridge himself. He is pretty hungry and wants a sandwich. He'll make a few since Alex looks famished too.]