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capeandcowllogs2011-08-26 09:57 am
john-the-brave.livejournal.com) wrote in capeandcowllogs2011-08-26 09:57 am
Entry tags:
Underneath your skies
WHO: John Wayne Cleaver and anyone who might notice large open flames or slightly manic laughter out of an alley
WHERE: A back alley somewhere near the MAC apartments
WHEN: Today, early evening
WARNINGS: Fire, sociopathic/homicidal thoughts
SUMMARY: John is having a hard time adjusting, but figures out at least one of his new abilities.
FORMAT: Prose
John has needs.
John's always had needs, and he's always denied the worst of them. The ones that made him want to hurt animals, the ones that made him want to hurt people. He thinks of the pretty girl that he met over the phone device and he has to close his eyes and will the images that flash through his mind away because she had sunny golden hair like Brooke did and a cute giggle and he knows that if he was a normal teenage boy, he'd be thinking of kissing her. The problem is, he isn't a normal teenage boy. The problem is that he's thinking of her silent and still and cold on the mortuary slab back home, his hand brushing those bright blond strands all he likes, his fingers running over the skin of her arm, the scalpel dipping in and--
Yes, definitely a week. Even if it was over the phone.
Because John also has rules. One of those rules says that if he's imagining killing someone because they're making him angry, he has to smile and compliment them. Another of those rules says that if his thoughts turn inappropriate concerning someone, if he starts thinking of how their hair might smell or how soft their skin might be or how good it would feel to wrap his fingers around that pretty throat, that he has to avoid them for a week. Break the focus. Normally, he isn't this bad. Normally a single phone conversation wouldn't be enough to make him think like this because he doesn't like thinking like this and he doesn't crave these kinds of things this strongly normally.
But right now, nothing is normal. Right now, he's who-knows-how-far away from his home and his car and the peace of the mortuary downstairs. Right now, he can't send himself flying down to Freak Lake by bike, or show up at Max's house to listen to him grouse for two hours while playing video games. He can't use Foreman's phone or work on his plans to kill demons. Everything, all of it, all of his hard-won and tenuous connections are gone and he craves something, anything, to fill the void. But he can't, won't, so there's really one other option.
He knows it's probably illegal, almost definitely illegal, but it's not bad, not really. It won't hurt anyone; he'll make sure of that. After all, if there's anyone who knows how to watch and care for a fire it's him; fire is his drug and his truest friend and his only ally in so many ways. Fire would distract him, entrance him, soothe the burning ache of a dozen severed stubs in the broken but still-functioning muscle behind his ribs. If he has nothing else, and he really doesn't, then he has fire.
The matches had been in his back pocket, as per usual, and he doesn't even pause between stroking it alight and tossing it in. It all happens so fast that it's only when the debris starts burning within the metal drum that he feels it.
The fire. The fire is in his senses, in his mind. He can feel it like another limb, like a part of him, like it's not the paper and the trash that's fueling it, but him. Eyes slipping closed, he stretches the fingers of this new hand and he feels the flames reach up, stretching with him, almost licking the top of the drum. It's warm, so warm, and he opens his eyes to see that the flames have actually reached the hand still holding the metal.
It doesn't burn.
He is fuel for the fire, heart and mind and soul, but it will not devour him, will not leave him ashes and dust. It feeds on him but he feeds on the fire and his heart sings like the feel of a fist meeting flesh, the crack of a bone, the wild rage of control and fear and power his, all his. He can't help it, can't stop himself as he sends the flames higher. Logically he knows that the fire won't last as long if he builds it up like that, the fuel will be all used up. But nothing makes sense anymore and gloriously, fire doesn't have to either. It is it's own logic, it's own law, it's own world, burning and burning on the anger and the pain and the frustration inside of him.
He doesn't even know what he's doing as he pulls it into his hands, warm and enveloping but without pain. It just feels good, and feeling good is usually so rare he almost doesn't recognize it each time it happens. Better yet, it comes with no guilt; he hasn't done anything wrong and maybe he never has to again, who knew? Who knew anything at all because he can have fire without destroying anything or harming anyone, fire to fill up his soul and make it warm where no one else seemed to without fear. He'd know later that that wasn't true, that he was high on his drug of choice, but for right now it's such a good thought he can't let it go. He won't let the fire go either.
Sitting in an alley, in a world entirely different from his own, away from everyone and everything he's ever known, John is happier than he's ever been since he was a toddler. The shame and the reason and the anxiety might come later, but right now he's happy. Happy and laughing and holding onto the flames like he never wants to let go.
WHERE: A back alley somewhere near the MAC apartments
WHEN: Today, early evening
WARNINGS: Fire, sociopathic/homicidal thoughts
SUMMARY: John is having a hard time adjusting, but figures out at least one of his new abilities.
FORMAT: Prose
John has needs.
John's always had needs, and he's always denied the worst of them. The ones that made him want to hurt animals, the ones that made him want to hurt people. He thinks of the pretty girl that he met over the phone device and he has to close his eyes and will the images that flash through his mind away because she had sunny golden hair like Brooke did and a cute giggle and he knows that if he was a normal teenage boy, he'd be thinking of kissing her. The problem is, he isn't a normal teenage boy. The problem is that he's thinking of her silent and still and cold on the mortuary slab back home, his hand brushing those bright blond strands all he likes, his fingers running over the skin of her arm, the scalpel dipping in and--
Yes, definitely a week. Even if it was over the phone.
Because John also has rules. One of those rules says that if he's imagining killing someone because they're making him angry, he has to smile and compliment them. Another of those rules says that if his thoughts turn inappropriate concerning someone, if he starts thinking of how their hair might smell or how soft their skin might be or how good it would feel to wrap his fingers around that pretty throat, that he has to avoid them for a week. Break the focus. Normally, he isn't this bad. Normally a single phone conversation wouldn't be enough to make him think like this because he doesn't like thinking like this and he doesn't crave these kinds of things this strongly normally.
But right now, nothing is normal. Right now, he's who-knows-how-far away from his home and his car and the peace of the mortuary downstairs. Right now, he can't send himself flying down to Freak Lake by bike, or show up at Max's house to listen to him grouse for two hours while playing video games. He can't use Foreman's phone or work on his plans to kill demons. Everything, all of it, all of his hard-won and tenuous connections are gone and he craves something, anything, to fill the void. But he can't, won't, so there's really one other option.
He knows it's probably illegal, almost definitely illegal, but it's not bad, not really. It won't hurt anyone; he'll make sure of that. After all, if there's anyone who knows how to watch and care for a fire it's him; fire is his drug and his truest friend and his only ally in so many ways. Fire would distract him, entrance him, soothe the burning ache of a dozen severed stubs in the broken but still-functioning muscle behind his ribs. If he has nothing else, and he really doesn't, then he has fire.
The matches had been in his back pocket, as per usual, and he doesn't even pause between stroking it alight and tossing it in. It all happens so fast that it's only when the debris starts burning within the metal drum that he feels it.
The fire. The fire is in his senses, in his mind. He can feel it like another limb, like a part of him, like it's not the paper and the trash that's fueling it, but him. Eyes slipping closed, he stretches the fingers of this new hand and he feels the flames reach up, stretching with him, almost licking the top of the drum. It's warm, so warm, and he opens his eyes to see that the flames have actually reached the hand still holding the metal.
It doesn't burn.
He is fuel for the fire, heart and mind and soul, but it will not devour him, will not leave him ashes and dust. It feeds on him but he feeds on the fire and his heart sings like the feel of a fist meeting flesh, the crack of a bone, the wild rage of control and fear and power his, all his. He can't help it, can't stop himself as he sends the flames higher. Logically he knows that the fire won't last as long if he builds it up like that, the fuel will be all used up. But nothing makes sense anymore and gloriously, fire doesn't have to either. It is it's own logic, it's own law, it's own world, burning and burning on the anger and the pain and the frustration inside of him.
He doesn't even know what he's doing as he pulls it into his hands, warm and enveloping but without pain. It just feels good, and feeling good is usually so rare he almost doesn't recognize it each time it happens. Better yet, it comes with no guilt; he hasn't done anything wrong and maybe he never has to again, who knew? Who knew anything at all because he can have fire without destroying anything or harming anyone, fire to fill up his soul and make it warm where no one else seemed to without fear. He'd know later that that wasn't true, that he was high on his drug of choice, but for right now it's such a good thought he can't let it go. He won't let the fire go either.
Sitting in an alley, in a world entirely different from his own, away from everyone and everything he's ever known, John is happier than he's ever been since he was a toddler. The shame and the reason and the anxiety might come later, but right now he's happy. Happy and laughing and holding onto the flames like he never wants to let go.