He knows her, he knows her, he knows her. The revelation spins around his head like a dizzy murder of crows. He’s trapped in a smile as the details file in; that lush dark hair, that carefree bounce in her step, her eyes, those roses. Erik spends a few moments still as his mind rushes blind through a labyrinth of medicated amnesia. This reckless need to remember is dangerous; it could undo all the safe sunny happiness he has cultivated since his arrival at Wellington Wells. And that is terrifying-- but so are the seconds that pass when he can’t place her name.
Erik gazes glazed at the small spatter of glass upon the path, habit nagging him for the absence of his comfy vice. He needs to take it, but his processing feels stunted with too many things struggling through at once. He feels winded beyond the seizing pain in his chest as his heart kicks, his muscles seeming to remember what his mind cannot. Suddenly the sunshine seems so wrong, like he (they?) should only ever be cloaked in darkness. Like there should be water and candles, smoke and ink splatter and eerily trailing echoes...
Suddenly he’s haunted, thin gloved hand trembling very faintly as he presses his palm to his sealed mouth. He wants to ask her name-- he wants to say a thousand things he can’t even remember. It’s a simple problem really, all he has to do it pick up his handy dandy stash box, and load up another syringe. Find the spot, poke the dot, the colors will come flooding back.
So why doesn’t he?
Erik finds himself standing slowly, leaving his injection kit impatient upon the bench. With stiff slow movements he drifts towards the distressed songstress like a smartly dressed shade. His mask matches hers, painting him handsome and smiling-- politely adding a nose. His smile is mandatory, but the look in his eyes betrays him. In a world where anything less than delirious happiness can have killer consequences, wearing the wrong expression is practically treason. But for a few stray moments, his eyes behind the mask look so forlorn. So lost. So heartbroken.
The poster expression for a Downer.
Erik turns his face away as the sunlight seems (to him) to fade and flicker; for half a moment, the colors of everything seem to wither and fade, and the psychedelic butterflies that float over the flowers turn into flies buzzing over rotting withered branches.
He wades uncertain through the eerie moments until they pass, and finds himself lowering to his knees next to his forgotten songbird. Skeletal fingers in clean white gloves begin to meticulously fetch the little pink pills from the creases between the stones of the path. He keeps his gaze down, willing the agitation to leave him before it is sensed by the wrong Wellie. Why does he feel… so protective of these dangerous emotions?
With a tiny cluster of pink capsules captured in his palm, the misty minded man feels his gaze drawn back to the ‘stranger’ as if by inescapable gravity. She’s so beautiful that he feels like he could shatter into a million pieces.
Like a broken mirror.
He smiles at her, not that he has much of a choice. A polite little nod, as his free hand floats to his fashionably acceptable bowler hat, which he lifts very slightly by way of greeting; his hair beneath is thin and greying black. He can’t stop looking at her, and a few too many moments pass before he realizes he is staring rather uncouthly. The crown of roses in her hair presents a purity that tempts him in all the wrong ways. Why… why would he want to taint that? Why does such flawlessness taunt and call out to him?
With a smothered small cough, Erik breaks his unblinking stare and holds out the rescued pills by way of silent offering. Just a friendly fellow Wellie, helping out a perfect stranger. That’s what it’s supposed to be, even if it’s not.
Wait-- his eyes, aren't they a little strange looking? The left is unevenly colored, and the right iris spreads over the black of his pupil like a tattered spider web. Is it a trick of the light? Surely Joy blots out anything unpleasant to behold-- any difference, any especially unique trait that may cause offense. It’s why townsfolk start to all look the same, why the senses produce the same image of Doctors and Bobbies and anything else that can be cheerily chemically masked.
no subject
Erik gazes glazed at the small spatter of glass upon the path, habit nagging him for the absence of his comfy vice. He needs to take it, but his processing feels stunted with too many things struggling through at once. He feels winded beyond the seizing pain in his chest as his heart kicks, his muscles seeming to remember what his mind cannot. Suddenly the sunshine seems so wrong, like he (they?) should only ever be cloaked in darkness. Like there should be water and candles, smoke and ink splatter and eerily trailing echoes...
Suddenly he’s haunted, thin gloved hand trembling very faintly as he presses his palm to his sealed mouth. He wants to ask her name-- he wants to say a thousand things he can’t even remember. It’s a simple problem really, all he has to do it pick up his handy dandy stash box, and load up another syringe. Find the spot, poke the dot, the colors will come flooding back.
So why doesn’t he?
Erik finds himself standing slowly, leaving his injection kit impatient upon the bench. With stiff slow movements he drifts towards the distressed songstress like a smartly dressed shade. His mask matches hers, painting him handsome and smiling-- politely adding a nose. His smile is mandatory, but the look in his eyes betrays him. In a world where anything less than delirious happiness can have killer consequences, wearing the wrong expression is practically treason. But for a few stray moments, his eyes behind the mask look so forlorn. So lost. So heartbroken.
The poster expression for a Downer.
Erik turns his face away as the sunlight seems (to him) to fade and flicker; for half a moment, the colors of everything seem to wither and fade, and the psychedelic butterflies that float over the flowers turn into flies buzzing over rotting withered branches.
He wades uncertain through the eerie moments until they pass, and finds himself lowering to his knees next to his forgotten songbird. Skeletal fingers in clean white gloves begin to meticulously fetch the little pink pills from the creases between the stones of the path. He keeps his gaze down, willing the agitation to leave him before it is sensed by the wrong Wellie. Why does he feel… so protective of these dangerous emotions?
With a tiny cluster of pink capsules captured in his palm, the misty minded man feels his gaze drawn back to the ‘stranger’ as if by inescapable gravity. She’s so beautiful that he feels like he could shatter into a million pieces.
Like a broken mirror.
He smiles at her, not that he has much of a choice. A polite little nod, as his free hand floats to his fashionably acceptable bowler hat, which he lifts very slightly by way of greeting; his hair beneath is thin and greying black. He can’t stop looking at her, and a few too many moments pass before he realizes he is staring rather uncouthly. The crown of roses in her hair presents a purity that tempts him in all the wrong ways. Why… why would he want to taint that? Why does such flawlessness taunt and call out to him?
With a smothered small cough, Erik breaks his unblinking stare and holds out the rescued pills by way of silent offering. Just a friendly fellow Wellie, helping out a perfect stranger. That’s what it’s supposed to be, even if it’s not.
Wait-- his eyes, aren't they a little strange looking? The left is unevenly colored, and the right iris spreads over the black of his pupil like a tattered spider web. Is it a trick of the light? Surely Joy blots out anything unpleasant to behold-- any difference, any especially unique trait that may cause offense. It’s why townsfolk start to all look the same, why the senses produce the same image of Doctors and Bobbies and anything else that can be cheerily chemically masked.
His eyes are just like everyone else’s.
Aren't they?