Alex Kralie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rosswood) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2016-07-22 06:26 pm
rosswood) wrote in entrancelogs2016-07-22 06:26 pm
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
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.kitchen; he’s roaming corridors and lies in wait for us all
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.
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.fourth floor; but now you're just empty
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 beingeven if he's not, not anymoreand 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.
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject