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He wakes up and doesn’t move. Barely breathing. Eyes locked on the corner of his room. He could feel Them, see Their silhouette, hear Their taunting, feel Their hands on him. It wasn’t real and he knew that. They weren’t there and certainly wouldn’t have waited around like this but it still felt real. He didn’t know what was worse the feeling happening now, or the fact that nothing in any of his research mentioned that all of this could happen when it didn’t even happen to you.
He didn’t even feel this way really. He was lying to himself. He kept lying to himself about having experiences but those were only for people who actually suffered. People who don’t make things up so they can “observe it first hand” for people who actually struggle. He had to be faking nothing in any research he did explained it, everything that did had requirements that he didn’t meet, after all
Nothing happened to HIM.
None of that was true but that was a hard fact to know, he was tired and right now he didn’t really care. Right now he was trying to convince himself that They weren’t here. He was doing deep breathing silently because other wise the fear would figuratively rocket upwards. One breath. closing his eyes, that way he can’t see them. He can feel Their eyes looking to hard at places no one should look. Breath two. Don’t dig, don’t cause pain, don’t enjoy it, just suffer. Breath three. Somehow he relaxes They disappear just as suddenly as They got here, he’s tired but there is work to get done and they finally got a restock of crofters jam. He gets up. He checks damage. He gets dressed with an undershirt. And heads downstairs things were great for a while. He talked to everyone, the jam was really good, I mean we’re talking crofters, he was talking and no one listened but he didn’t get interrupted for a change! He got some work done without any new scars, and read some more of his book. Everything was great, he had hope. That’s a dangerous thing to have. Suddenly it hit him like a sheet of hard ice whacking him over the head after refusing to let a drop of rain hit him. He was fucking tired, his vision was moving (of course not enough he couldn’t do anything, that would mean t was real), he was feeling lightheaded, dissociated, and scared though more of it or himself, not of Them. He put down the book, it was hard to read with vision swimming. He couldn’t cry of course, that would be too merciful. He layed down and the battle begun. He knew the dance well. A dance above the fire burning the soles of his feet as he tries not to fall in the net that would hold him right in it or god forbid falling in. With balance and steps sometimes he can win. But it never feels like he wins when he does what he was supposed to want. Maybe that was why it was so hard. He couldn’t find a reason to stay out of that net. He didn’t want to jump in, he didn’t want to die. But it did. Everything figuratively acted like it was so obviously bad. There were better ways to cope and it caused the problem it solved but why couldn’t he do it in the meantime? He won the battle in the end it took the “later” step and the “poetry” leap but he made it. It didn’t feel like he won but he didn’t relapse. That was a good thing right? Either way downstairs time to mask. He didn’t feel better but no one knew. He couldn’t find a blade, punches hurt more but they barely leave a mark. At this point he wanted the proof his struggle was real more than he wanted the pain. He drew lines on his skin with markers after trying with a paper clip. Does that mean he releapsed since he tried? I’d he fail? After everything, after finding an alternative, after “winning” the fight, did he still fail? Failed. he went up and did more work. If he can’t be happy he will at least be productive. Eventually he couldn’t any more and laid down. god he was tired. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It was late but Logan had no intention of sleeping. He wanted pain but he really didn’t know why; He was a bit numb and a bit scared but not enough he normally would. He was just tired nothing more nothing less. So was Thomas. Maybe an early bedtime would go well. The world didn’t feel real. That was fine, normal even but annoying all the same. He checked on Thomas to find that sleep really wasn’t an option, he had friends over and was enjoying himself, Ironically. Logan was suffering and yet his host was having fun. That meant Patton was feeling good, that was good at least. That means that that he can’t sleep. What to do then? He moved from thing to thing trying, it kinda of worked but not quite. Just while writing all the emotions hit him at once. Sadness of what happened, of the others not listening. Fear of Them, Their eyes and hands, fear of it and what it would do, fear of himself for what he has done to himself. anger at Them, at it, at the others for not noticing, at himself. It all hits him at once after being uncomfortably numb. Like sitting on a thin mattress over spikes and he had been complaining about the bumps and now it was pulled from under him and it hurt speaking of. He was watching it again. He sees the skin scraped off and the bruise it left. For some reason both of them had been blocked from summoning anything sharp. The brain works like that, keeping them “safe”. At least he thinks, otherwise it would be Roman blocking it. Either way the battle continues till he goes to bed with a few more marks on his skin.
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I’m worried. I don’t want to be like killjoy down the hall but what has been being summoned is worrying. The number of blades by Logan is certainly strange. The first few times he noticed it he just thought to was for a dissection but Logan wasn’t talking about the results which he would’ve. What really sealed it was when a tiny circle saw covered in lemon juice, salt, and some long chemical than he looked up after and found that its primary use was to stop some other Chemical which stops pain. That was when I cut off, pun intended, Logan’s ability to summon blades, if he needed them he could ask but he hasn’t yet.
“ YEAH RO! you are at like a seven on my bad thoughts o-meter” Remus yells after busting into the room. Remus always has my back.
“Just kinda worried” I look down at the paper I had been trying to write an idea down on that I have now forgotten. There was lots of drawings of sad things and blood. I rarely drew blood. Remus gives him the look. The look of this is serious isn’t it before sitting down next to me.
“It’s the summons” I admit “they’ve been weird, weirder than Arial not writing to help the prince”
“What they been summoning? Dog sausages?” Remus asks.
“No, blades, all kinds of them, returns them quick after to” I explain worriedly
“Kinky” Remus responds without missing a beat. I face palm
“It’s teach’ who has been doing it” that seemed to confuse Remus. He sat for a little while thinking.
“Well that’s not good” Remus states the obvious. We know what this is. Both me and Re have done it, heck Thomas had, being a teen was hard. The question was what to do.
“I blocked his ability to summon them” Remus nods in approval.
“There has to be more than we can do” I nod. We then spend the next while brainstorming, a couple ideas are good but at the end we can only help so much till he reaches out.