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she yells- no, screams, and slams her hand on the table and he flinches, reminded of too many nights in an unfamiliar home with a man who called himself "sir", and everyone around them looks at them, uncomfortable with this open display of emotion."i'm going to powder my nose," there's a cruel look on her face and she may be whispering but winn is so fucking terrified, "and you will be GONE before i am back." she ends with a scream and dramatically throwing the food he had bought her and its mixing with the drink he had bought her and she leaves with the shoes he had bought her click-click-clicking on the disgusting bar floor.winn sits there, terrified, and people are staring at him so he stands up and starts walking fast, curling in on himself with his head down and he's berating himself because that was Your fault, winn, you should've been nicer and you shouldn't have been such a pushover to james because you dont love james you love lyra and you listen to lyra and you agree with lyra because shes the important part of this - "are you okay, winn?" and its james voice and he doesnt look up as he walks- shoves - pushes past him.xxvxxwinn comes to the deo on a thursday morning with a red cheek and a beautiful, blossoming, black eye.alex gasps and kara immediately tries to jump to his rescue, and j'onn looks protective and james who had been visiting kara seems like he knows something the others dont. mon el is the only want to ask what happened while everyone else stares at winn, who, not even offering a nervous giggle, simply says "none of your business." before sitting at his computer and looks like he was about to start crying before he starts to type.james waves them over, and they walk as a pack to an empty hallway to spread their rumors."maybe he was simply mugged?" mon el offers, before disagreeing with himself. "he would've told us." he says instead."someone may have attacked him, like the first guardian situation!" kara shoots james a dirty look as she says this.j'onn looks like he wants to return to winn and wrap him in a protective covering from the world."someone should watch over him, no matter what it was," he finally says.alex sighs. "maybe maggie can. she and lena could maybe do a weird nerd bonding thing with him?"kara hmms. she'll ask later.james, who's been sitting silently, mentally debating within himself finally starts to speak."i think it was lyra."xxvxxin the end, they never found out, but winn does know.winn obviously knows because it was his black eye and violently stained cheek on his ready-to-cry face and his girlfriend who he cant blame because she loves him and she has her problems that he can't unfairly expect to not be a problem and he loves her so he bares it and doesn't tell anyone his secret.it was lyra, and james was right, but he doesnt talk to james because lyra doesnt like james and winn loves lyra and only lyra and he didnt love james because if he loved james he wouldnt be dating lyra, now would he? lyra didnt much like any of his friends but especially not james, especially since he could so easily avoid him.she blocked james' number in winns phone because winn doesnt deny lyra anything and if lyra wants his phone he gives it to her because whats mine is yours and i love you, winslow schott jr, winn strayd.but thats not what's important what's important is that usually she only hits his torso or bites him hard enough to make him bleed and when she tried to kiss him he flinched so she slapped him but when she tried again he started crying so she punched him then cried and made him apologize and when he didnt do well enough apologizing she stormed out and left him alone to cry.
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Evan stares at the ceiling in his bedroom, laying on the floor instead of his bed. He counts out loud, trying to control his breathing.He had just gotten home right after another "successful" day at the Murphy's house, spinning lies faster than his anxiety could manifest in a crowded area, telling fake stories about himself and Connor Murphy."You know, I really don't understand why you put success in quotation marks. You're accomplishing your goal, aren't you? What is your goal, actually? If it's getting them to believe you, you're doing spectacularly." Speak of the Devil- Connor is sitting on his desk, cross-legged, and Evan would be worried about his desk if he didn't already know Connor weighed almost nothing in this state.Evan groaned, and put a pillow over his face, before pulling it away and glaring at him. "Sometimes I think it would be easier to follow in your footsteps."Connor rolled his eyes in response. "God, please, don't. This afterlife is terrible."But Evan knows he isn't speaking to a ghost. Evan knows it's just a guilt-induced hallucination."This would be so much easier if we were actually friends.""And why weren't we?" Connor speaks up, suddenly."Huh?" Evan responds.Connor stands up with his next words, "We were both freaks. Fucked up freaks at that. We both had one friend, if that. We were both alone. The eldest boy of a family. The ignored child. Rough relationships with our fathers. Outcasts. Alone. You were more accepted than me, of course. 'Oh, watch out, it's Connor Murphy!' They'd say. 'Nice haircut. Very school-shooter chic,'" Evan flinches in response. His subconcious was really going for it right now. Connor notices. "Oh, yeah, you were there for that one. Didn't even speak out against Klienman. Why weren't we friends, Evan? Huh? Why weren't we?"Evan doesn't know how to respond, and he stares at Connor, digging his nails into the arm above his cast."I-I don't kn-""Oh, of course not." Connor sits back on the desk, shrugging. "Everyone could've been nice to me. Could've been my friend. But no. It's fine. It's not like I'm dead, or anything."
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self harm or cigarettes?direct action or indirect action?usually he prided himself on being reckless and often jumped down rabbit holes before thinking about how to get back up, but today, he supposed that indirect action was okay enough. he hated possibly dragging others with him, though. they didn't deserve that, those happy sons of bitches who couldn't understand suffering if they even tried to imagine it. maybe indirect action is best today, if he wasnt even bother by the idea of sending others to their early graves.jack sighs, pulling out his first cigarette of the day, and tries to figure when he should buy a new pack.today, obviously. he'll send racer in a bit, with extra money, too, for medicine. no one will be any the wiser.and if they are, well, fuck them too. the smoke burns his lungs, and he almost coughs on the exhale. the scars on his inner wrist remind him that yes, francis, it has been that long since you havent been direct.
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when the funeral, (memorial, dusting ceremony. waste of time.) whatever you choose to call it, is over, klaus and ben sit together, as always. words spill from klaus's lips as easily as smoke from his lungs, and ben is just relieved he doesnt have to breathe anymore.ben stares at klaus. he thinks. klaus doesnt seem to care. neither of them have any idea how much time passes.ben watches, like always, (hes always watching. he cant do anything but) and opens his mouth the speak. "for what its worth," klaus looks up, exhales. hes shaking. "i always hated that statue." he tells it like a secret, and maybe it is.klaus laughs. full-bodied, encompassing, grating. "i think we all did."
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Antonio, surprisingly, has never been a fan of blood. It's too messy. It seeps in, and it stays. It goes everywhere, especially places you'd never expect.Though, he supposes, watching little drops of blood roll down his arms, slowly drip-drip-dripping onto the floor, it certainly can br beautiful, and he smiles. It doesn't register to him that he'll have to clean it up later.He really is tired. His office chair isn't that comfortable. But neither is the hardwood floor. So he stays sat in his chair, trying to stay awake, and staring at the growing puddle on the floor."...That's probably not good..."XxvxXAntonio never talked about his brothers. He made sure about it. He made sure never to talk to anyone who remembered them. He made sure to always cast them out of his mind. But sometimes, he gets stressed, and he sleeptalks. Sometimes he can't help but dream of them.Logically, Antonio knew he had to be dreaming. Because there was Michael and Peter. There they were, happy and laughing, just like the day of the crash, just like the day he became heir of the family 'business', and the day he had to watch both of them die.Antonio was taking a nap for once in his goddamn life, and kept muttering about cars, and his brothers' names, and eventually he started to scream about them. He screamed as he relived every terrifying second of the crash. L was home, barely a room away when he started screaming.He kept hearing the squeal of tires as they slid of the road, Michael yelling at Peter, to "slow the fuck down unless you want to see mom again, christ!", followed by the sound of the car making impact with the tree in front of them. He remembers jerking in his seat, the seatbelt holding him back. He feels his throat starting to burn as he keeps screaming.Antonio never has nightmares. He prays for them, sometimes, but he never has nightmares. It's so out of the ordinary for him. But now he was trapped in one.XxvxX he feels so useless.he feels so intensely. his heart is too big for his profession. no matter how he acts, he cannot cut himself off from his reality.everytime he kills someone, he feels the blows inflicted upon them as if they were simply bouncing off, hitting him twice as hard, but having less damage.well, not less damage, exactly. the wrong form of damage.instead of physically taking him apart, its mentally. emotionally. each person slaughtered carelessly before his eyes chip away at some part of his being.but instead of stopping the violence, instead of stopping the problem and fixing himself, he laughs, and pulls himself together.hits harder.shoots faster.slowly becoming more and more accurate and precise with each carefully constructed bullet.or maybe it was constructed carelessly.to him, all parts of murder are messy. careless. thoughtless. the building of the gun, of the bullet, the blade, even the fists, made without a second thought. one little inspection before being passed back down the maufacturing line. farther and farther until it slowly constructs itself- carelessly, messily- into a murder.but instead of ending the cycle,of ending the pain,of ending the merciless ending of lives,he contributes to it. more and more with each passing moment. ordering hits and carrying them out himself faster and faster, with increasing number, increasing the chipping at his soul, more and more of him being lost to the violent attacks, adding up much faster than he could've predicted, and suddenly he is only left with pain.well. he's always been a sucker for pain, anyways.XxvxXSometimes, Antonio wished he would just get nightmares.Sure, they'd certainly be awful as well, but he thinks they'd be better, if the images just flashed above his eyes as he thrashed in his bed, but that's not what would happen.It's never what happened.Instead, he sat alone in his office, saying he still had some paperwork to finish, and he buried a knife into his thigh. The blood was hot against his fingers, the pain burning as it coursed through his veins, but he kept it there, twisting it as much as he dared. Thoughts ran across his mind, images danced across his line of sight, and voices attacked his ears.("Vincent, just run!")("Vincent, huh? Interesting name. I'll keep it in mind after you're gone.")("I can handle myself!")("Just run!")He recognized the voices, as if he could ever forget them, and shuddered. The words stung so much more than the real pain he forced himself to endure.("You did something wrong again, Vince. I'll have to punish you.")That one came with the noise of a switchblade flipping open, a soft noise that he had long since trained himself to hear.("I know. I'm sorry.")His own voice, but younger, more innocent. Someone truly Vincent. These days, he tried to draw the line of who Vincent had been and who Antonio had become.He longed for nightmares, because they only brought phantom pain. Something he could shake off, maybe even forget after a few drinks.But instead, he sat, alone, laughing with every sob, sobbing with every smile, trying not to dig in too deep while still keeping it deeper than any sane person would even dare sticking a knife.Maybe nightmares would be easier.