Post by Jules on Mar 27, 2008 21:25:58 GMT -5
“Damnit.”
“Not so hot tonight, eh Princey?”
“Shut up.” The sudden snarl in Alexander’s voice and even the sharp glow to his eyes had the men sitting at the card table decide it was wiser to take his advice. Until he started pulling his money out of the jackpot he’d just lost.
“Hey! Whatcha think you’re doing?” The winner asked, partly in surprise, mostly in brutish anger.
“Don’t worry buttercup, I’m only taking what’s mine.”
“It ain’t yours anymore! I won it.”
“So you would think.”
And even though Alexander was very sure in his own abilities he high-tailed it out of there, because he didn’t really feel like putting up a fight tonight. Even gambling tonight hadn’t held the same thrill and pleasure it normally did. Or flirting sharply with the new waitress.
He didn’t like to think about why. There was no reason why. There was nothing wrong with him everyone else had just become more boring. Obviously.
Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to get his usual nightcap, but at least he wasn’t staggering as he walked back to the Castle.
It took a good half hour, but he appreciated the time, the fresh air. It cleared his head, although of what, he couldn’t really say. It didn’t take much to get passed the L.O.S guards---they’d pretty much given up. The ‘curfew’ a long forgotten hour that everyone pretended was heeded to keep the couches from ashes and everyone level headed.
Something about the castle, about walking passed his brother’s room that placed whatever had been lifted during the walk back on his shoulders. It draped, heavy like thick velvet curtains and somehow affected his stomach. Maybe he should stop eating at The Faded—he’d never seen an actual cook.
Back in his own room, he still couldn’t rid himself of the heavy feeling, and it was causing discomfort. He was not appreciating it. Pulling his shirt over his head he didn’t bother with further states of undress before collapsing onto the rumpled bed.
The heavy feeling followed him into his sleep.
The dream was a mesh and he hardly remembered it on waking. All he could recall was the feeling of excitement turning sour and blood not his own, but on his hands.
When he woke the heavy feeling was still on him and he guessed it was the flu or something. Which wasn’t good. Nightmare flu’s were never easy to get over. Sighing in annoyance Alexander slipped out of bed and shuffled into his ensuite which failed several health standards and maybe was the reason he was sick in the first place.
He turned the faucets and rubbed his hands under the water. He didn’t really know why---something to do with his dream. Bleary eyed, his eyes trailed down from the mirror to look at his hands under the water.
And screamed.
The water was washing over his hands and draining red. His hands were covered in blood. Furiously, he rubbed his hands raw under the water. He flipped the faucets under the water poured out scalding hot. His toothpaste caught fire.
He lifted his hands, shaking to his face…the blood was gone. He looked down, frantic. The sink was clean—white. Not soaking in blood.
Breathing hard, his thoughts swirled. Maybe he had a fever (who was he kidding? He was always running a temperature), maybe the flu was to blame. Maybe a symptom was hallucinating.
He sure as hell hoped it was because Armand was sitting on the edge of his large, large tub. This didn’t make sense for several reasons. A. His brother was on his third day of bed rest B. His brother would never ever come into his bathroom.
C. He looked a lot younger. About nine years younger.
An eleven year old version of Armand was perched on the edge of bathtub, swinging his legs childishly.
“Hello Brother.”
Ignoring him didn’t work.
Pretending he couldn’t hear him, didn’t work. And the first few times he’d actually interacted with his own personal ghost, he hadn’t liked the answers.
The heavy feeling was back tenfold. He sat on the edge of his bed, feeling it press him into the ground. It was going to bury him.
“Leave me alone.” He pleaded in a choked gargle.
“Why, brother?”
“You’re not real.”
“Yes, I am.” The little boy knocked a lamp off the dresser. It shattered.
“Stop.”
“Am I real, brother?”
“You're not my brother.”
“Yes, I am.” In response to this, he lifted up his shirt, exposing a gaping wound. Exposing organs that pulsed in tune with a heartbeat, blood, pulsing out in the same rhythm but never seeming to drip.
Alex shuddered.
“You did this.”
“No.” He protested weakly…no.
“Yes brother.”
“NO!” He roared. The boy caught fire, burst into flames. But he seemed oblivious to them. Armand reached out, towards Alex, touched his cheek…crumpled into ash.
He screamed again, anguished and frightened. The scream resounded in his head and he jolted awake, sat up in bed. For the first time cold sweat coated his skin, making his shirt stick to his skin (hadn’t he removed it last night?). He rubbed his eyes---clean of any blood he didn’t fail to notice. A stupid Nightmare, that’s all it had been.
“Morning Brother.”
Alexander froze and looked around his room slowly, as if to aide in absorbing the shock of seeing his eleven year old brother whole and tangible sitting cross legged in front of his door.
“No.”
“Is that all you can say Brother?”
“No.”
Armand grinned and stood up.
“Don’t come close.”
“Why not Brother?”
“What the hell do you want?”
“How’s that heavy feeling, Brother?”
Alexander groaned. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but the feeling had gotten worse. It felt like vice grips had been fitted around his organs, around his heart and stomach. Breath was hard to take in, to let go of, and he felt like those velvet curtains had been turned to iron.
“I’m dying, aren’t I?”
“No, no.”
“Then what?”
“Guilt, brother, guilt.”
He accepted it with turmoil. It was a fight, a struggle to accept it and it sat uneasily on his conscious, ready to be toppled with a good bout of common sense. Of which he could find none. He wasn’t going to worry his mother with this---one kid was grievously injured, she didn’t need to know another had gone batty. Genn, the same reason.
And his father….well his father wouldn’t even look at him anymore.
And his brother, the one who was currently the same age as him, was….asleep, or something. Probably.
He couldn’t loose it either. He’d run through alleys, he’d meandered into the most well hidden clubs he knew of. But it followed him around. That boy, and that heavy feeling. Guilt.
“What do I have to do?”
“See me.”
“I do see you!”
“See me.”
“YOU’RE RIGHT INFRONT OF ME.”
“See me.”
“SHUT UP.”
The boy caught fire again, turned to ash again. He looked away from the neat pile on his floor. Rushing out of his room, slammed the door behind him, hurried down the hallway.
Paused at Armand’s door.
Paused for a long time, finally brought his hand up to knock so softly so that there was a hopeful chance it wouldn’t be heard. But it came, a weak voice. But much more mature then the version he’d been hearing for a while.
“Come in.”
Alex hesitated again, looked back towards his room. He hadn’t heard his own door open or close but Little Armand stood there, arm’s crossed, smiling.
“See me.”
Alexander nodded. “I know.” He slipped into the room, the door closed behind him.
Unseen, unnoticed, Little Armand pressed his ear against the door.
“Armand….I….I….I’m sorry I haven’t…visited. I’m….how’re you feeling?”
“Like crap.”
“Right, stupid question.”
“Coming from you? No surprise.”
Alexander grinned. The vice grips slackened just a bit.
Little Armand disappeared.
“Not so hot tonight, eh Princey?”
“Shut up.” The sudden snarl in Alexander’s voice and even the sharp glow to his eyes had the men sitting at the card table decide it was wiser to take his advice. Until he started pulling his money out of the jackpot he’d just lost.
“Hey! Whatcha think you’re doing?” The winner asked, partly in surprise, mostly in brutish anger.
“Don’t worry buttercup, I’m only taking what’s mine.”
“It ain’t yours anymore! I won it.”
“So you would think.”
And even though Alexander was very sure in his own abilities he high-tailed it out of there, because he didn’t really feel like putting up a fight tonight. Even gambling tonight hadn’t held the same thrill and pleasure it normally did. Or flirting sharply with the new waitress.
He didn’t like to think about why. There was no reason why. There was nothing wrong with him everyone else had just become more boring. Obviously.
Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to get his usual nightcap, but at least he wasn’t staggering as he walked back to the Castle.
It took a good half hour, but he appreciated the time, the fresh air. It cleared his head, although of what, he couldn’t really say. It didn’t take much to get passed the L.O.S guards---they’d pretty much given up. The ‘curfew’ a long forgotten hour that everyone pretended was heeded to keep the couches from ashes and everyone level headed.
Something about the castle, about walking passed his brother’s room that placed whatever had been lifted during the walk back on his shoulders. It draped, heavy like thick velvet curtains and somehow affected his stomach. Maybe he should stop eating at The Faded—he’d never seen an actual cook.
Back in his own room, he still couldn’t rid himself of the heavy feeling, and it was causing discomfort. He was not appreciating it. Pulling his shirt over his head he didn’t bother with further states of undress before collapsing onto the rumpled bed.
The heavy feeling followed him into his sleep.
The dream was a mesh and he hardly remembered it on waking. All he could recall was the feeling of excitement turning sour and blood not his own, but on his hands.
When he woke the heavy feeling was still on him and he guessed it was the flu or something. Which wasn’t good. Nightmare flu’s were never easy to get over. Sighing in annoyance Alexander slipped out of bed and shuffled into his ensuite which failed several health standards and maybe was the reason he was sick in the first place.
He turned the faucets and rubbed his hands under the water. He didn’t really know why---something to do with his dream. Bleary eyed, his eyes trailed down from the mirror to look at his hands under the water.
And screamed.
The water was washing over his hands and draining red. His hands were covered in blood. Furiously, he rubbed his hands raw under the water. He flipped the faucets under the water poured out scalding hot. His toothpaste caught fire.
He lifted his hands, shaking to his face…the blood was gone. He looked down, frantic. The sink was clean—white. Not soaking in blood.
Breathing hard, his thoughts swirled. Maybe he had a fever (who was he kidding? He was always running a temperature), maybe the flu was to blame. Maybe a symptom was hallucinating.
He sure as hell hoped it was because Armand was sitting on the edge of his large, large tub. This didn’t make sense for several reasons. A. His brother was on his third day of bed rest B. His brother would never ever come into his bathroom.
C. He looked a lot younger. About nine years younger.
An eleven year old version of Armand was perched on the edge of bathtub, swinging his legs childishly.
“Hello Brother.”
Ignoring him didn’t work.
Pretending he couldn’t hear him, didn’t work. And the first few times he’d actually interacted with his own personal ghost, he hadn’t liked the answers.
The heavy feeling was back tenfold. He sat on the edge of his bed, feeling it press him into the ground. It was going to bury him.
“Leave me alone.” He pleaded in a choked gargle.
“Why, brother?”
“You’re not real.”
“Yes, I am.” The little boy knocked a lamp off the dresser. It shattered.
“Stop.”
“Am I real, brother?”
“You're not my brother.”
“Yes, I am.” In response to this, he lifted up his shirt, exposing a gaping wound. Exposing organs that pulsed in tune with a heartbeat, blood, pulsing out in the same rhythm but never seeming to drip.
Alex shuddered.
“You did this.”
“No.” He protested weakly…no.
“Yes brother.”
“NO!” He roared. The boy caught fire, burst into flames. But he seemed oblivious to them. Armand reached out, towards Alex, touched his cheek…crumpled into ash.
He screamed again, anguished and frightened. The scream resounded in his head and he jolted awake, sat up in bed. For the first time cold sweat coated his skin, making his shirt stick to his skin (hadn’t he removed it last night?). He rubbed his eyes---clean of any blood he didn’t fail to notice. A stupid Nightmare, that’s all it had been.
“Morning Brother.”
Alexander froze and looked around his room slowly, as if to aide in absorbing the shock of seeing his eleven year old brother whole and tangible sitting cross legged in front of his door.
“No.”
“Is that all you can say Brother?”
“No.”
Armand grinned and stood up.
“Don’t come close.”
“Why not Brother?”
“What the hell do you want?”
“How’s that heavy feeling, Brother?”
Alexander groaned. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but the feeling had gotten worse. It felt like vice grips had been fitted around his organs, around his heart and stomach. Breath was hard to take in, to let go of, and he felt like those velvet curtains had been turned to iron.
“I’m dying, aren’t I?”
“No, no.”
“Then what?”
“Guilt, brother, guilt.”
He accepted it with turmoil. It was a fight, a struggle to accept it and it sat uneasily on his conscious, ready to be toppled with a good bout of common sense. Of which he could find none. He wasn’t going to worry his mother with this---one kid was grievously injured, she didn’t need to know another had gone batty. Genn, the same reason.
And his father….well his father wouldn’t even look at him anymore.
And his brother, the one who was currently the same age as him, was….asleep, or something. Probably.
He couldn’t loose it either. He’d run through alleys, he’d meandered into the most well hidden clubs he knew of. But it followed him around. That boy, and that heavy feeling. Guilt.
“What do I have to do?”
“See me.”
“I do see you!”
“See me.”
“YOU’RE RIGHT INFRONT OF ME.”
“See me.”
“SHUT UP.”
The boy caught fire again, turned to ash again. He looked away from the neat pile on his floor. Rushing out of his room, slammed the door behind him, hurried down the hallway.
Paused at Armand’s door.
Paused for a long time, finally brought his hand up to knock so softly so that there was a hopeful chance it wouldn’t be heard. But it came, a weak voice. But much more mature then the version he’d been hearing for a while.
“Come in.”
Alex hesitated again, looked back towards his room. He hadn’t heard his own door open or close but Little Armand stood there, arm’s crossed, smiling.
“See me.”
Alexander nodded. “I know.” He slipped into the room, the door closed behind him.
Unseen, unnoticed, Little Armand pressed his ear against the door.
“Armand….I….I….I’m sorry I haven’t…visited. I’m….how’re you feeling?”
“Like crap.”
“Right, stupid question.”
“Coming from you? No surprise.”
Alexander grinned. The vice grips slackened just a bit.
Little Armand disappeared.