(BACKDATED to Saturday/Sunday) Narrative
Sep. 30th, 2007 01:53 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsKevin figures out what to do now in light of his recent "incident."
Kevin's heart had been pounding, the dull thud of it resonating in his ears, when he had gotten the door of his motel room open. His paid time was up tomorrow and he had to sell something to get the cash so he didn't end up homeless again. That wasn't what chose to preoccupy his mind. The image of that idiot girl's face kept filtering into his head. Out of it and so full of her peace and love until she touched him. She touched him and she screamed. Maybe she hadn't screamed first, but that's the way it kept happening in his head. She saw her arm, that decrepit, useless limb held up in front of her and she screamed this high-pitched, shrill, blood-curdling sound. It hadn't really happened like that, but where was truth's place in his anxiety-ridden brain? Reality of the memory got shoved to the side and replaced with Kevin's panicked version instead.
He remembered thinking when he was talking to Marie that day, wondering if he touched something slowly or barely touched it if the decay would be slower. He remembered thinking once maybe if he didn't hold on for too long that it could be fixed. Medicine did lots of miracle type stuff, right? Then he would remember what her arm looked like, a five-thousand-year-old mummy from the elbow down. And it was his fault. No, it was her fault. She touched him. He didn't even want to talk to her. Some stupid bitch that thought it was still with sixties, naming herself something as stupid as Chakra. Did she even know what the fuck a Chakra was?! She shouldn't have touched him. Did she think he wore gloves in seventy-five degree weather for the hell of it? Because he wanted to? Didn't she have any concept of personal fucking space?
Did it matter? No. It was his fault. He'd done it again. He should have warned her, paid more attention, saw what was going to happen and pull away. Kevin hadn't really had the chance for any of that. Well, perhaps the warning. Yes, he could have warned her. But would she have listened? Did it matter if she listened as long as the warning had been issued? Was it his fault? Was it her fault? No, it was definitely his fault. It was his fault just for existing in the first place.
These were the thoughts that went through his head on loop. The entirety of that night was spent languishing over every moment where he could have done something, anything that could have prohibited the final outcome. It wasn't until dawn when Kevin had finally said the one thing he should have been thinking about for all those hours. "What the fuck am I going to do?" The words came out as a barely breathed whisper of realization. Replaying it over and over, scrutinizing every last moment of it and yet he hadn't considered what he was going to do until the sun was climbing back into the sky. It seemed symbolic a little, the sun had decided to be the light bulb going off over his head in a very cartoon sort of way.
"Fuck." Kevin had been laying on the haphazard bed for the blurred, innumerable past hours in his anguish, but now he jumped up and began pacing. Each step came quicker than the last. Faster and faster until he was clearing the room in only a few thoughts and the muscles in his calves started to burn, but he didn't stop. What could he do? Would she tell them that she'd touched some freak? Some mutie? Some boy disguised as a dark angel when he was the devil himself? Would she tell them Satan did that to her and he was an eighteen-year-old-boy with a Southern accent? Would they believe her? She reeked of the shit she'd been high on, what else did she do? She could have been on ecstasy. That would explain her stupid fucking idea to reach out and touch him. She could have been on acid, on shrooms, on any number of other hallucinogens. And if she was they wouldn't believe her. They wouldn't believe anything she said about an eco-friendly Satan whose face was so pretty but he stole her life out of her arm.
But then how to explain her arm? How to explain what happened to it? Thousands of years preserved in an Egyptian tomb did that to a person, not a fire or a drug or dry ice. She'd lose the arm, he finally realized. They'd have to amputate it; there was no way to save it. Leave it there and she'd drive herself insane just looking at it all shriveled and stiff, looking more like old jerky than a human arm would. Would she find God from the whole experience? God had abandoned Kevin, of that he was certain. Would she join one of those anti-mutant groups so she could try to hunt him in the night, take back the arm he'd taken from her?
In all reality, there was only one choice for Kevin. It was glaringly obvious, much like the sun streaking through the translucent curtains in the room. Kevin wasn't safe to be around. He couldn't function like a normal person. They'd pretend, at least, at Xavier's. They'd pretend he was normal, not any more freak than anyone else there even though he was. Just because he didn't look it, they'd pretend he could one day function. They'd pretend there was this magical off switch he knew didn't exist. More importantly, they wouldn't touch him. They'd know better. Kevin would likely be left mostly alone. No one would do stupid things like touch his face or anything else. The memory of the touch seared on his skin.
It took until just after high noon for Kevin to finally come to terms with his fate. It took another hour to get all his stuff packed back up in the military duffel he had. He didn't want to go back to Xavier's. It was better than Muir but that didn't make him want to return any more. In some ways it was worse being there. Out in the actual world Kevin could draw the distinction, there were people and then there was him. It was a definite difference, a line not to be crossed. At Xavier's everyone was a mutant, a freak. But some of them, no, most of them, could function. They could act like normal people. It was worse seeing people who were on his side of the line who could cross it. At Xavier's there was a new line. There was people out in the world, there were Xavier's mutants, and then there was him, a plague to be avoided.
After he'd checked out of the motel, Kevin had found a dingy alleyway. There was some clean cardboard to sit on and he took his time to finish the little sculpture he'd been trying to do yesterday. It reflected him a bit too much. Abstract, but it was all jagged lines, sharp corners, disjointed. It was pain, he realized. Someone would find beauty in it. Someone would see poetry. Someone would think it was the most poignant thing they had ever laid eyes on. Someone would decide they had to have it. It hadn't taken long to find a buyer. Kevin could sell his art. Really he also sold himself but he never really thought about it like that. With one, eleven inch sculpture he had enough money for lunch and a bus ticket to Westchester. There was even some change left over.
By time he'd walked from the bus station to the gates of the Xavier Institute the sun was threatening to sink. In some ways Kevin thought it was mocking him. That was stupid. He knew it wasn't the case. The boy glared its way just for good measure, though. He'd only spent five months there before. It was only vaguely familiar to be walking through the gates and up the drive to the door. He remembered where everything was, though the people he passed barely registered in his memory. Maybe he hadn't been paying too much attention last time, or maybe they were new. Kevin wasn't really sure. It didn't matter anyway.
Trekking to the appropriate office, Kevin met with Scott. He explained he'd left Muir because they couldn't help him and he was back out of the desire to train with his powers to better control them. This was, as far as Kevin was concerned, complete bullshit. He didn't think there was any control over them to be had. Scott either was dumber than he looked and believed him, or likely thought it was better Kevin was there than not. Kevin was willing to bet it was the latter. After all, he was a danger to society and he'd proven that to himself yet again yesterday.
After being told which suite he was assigned to and that he had a roommate, Kevin was also assured all the furniture in his room and the living space would be swapped out or at least covered with synthetic material so he didn't go disintegrating the couch by accident. His roommate probably wouldn't appreciate that. The door would also be changed from the wooden one to a metal one painted to look like all the others. That was sort of nice. Nothing like oops there was a hole in that glove and there goes the door. Scott was a useful guy, too bad Kevin couldn't appreciate the thoughtfulness with the rain cloud hanging over his head.
The people he passed walking through the halls were largely ignored. A couple looked vaguely familiar, but most of them still didn't register. It didn't matter. Kevin wasn't here to make friends, sort of the opposite. Though he did learn one thing the last time he was here, people were going to be dead fucking set on making friends with him anyway. Bastards.
Opening the door to the suite Kevin saw the door to the room his roommate had apparently claimed was shut. There was a guitar leaned against a wall and a duffel bag on the couch. And feathers. Red feathers littered the floor. As long as his roommate wasn't a six-foot-tall rooster it would be fine. Closing the door behind him, Kevin walked over and picked up one of the feathers. He twirled it between his fingers, studying it curiously. With his teeth he pulled off one of his elbow-length gloves. The feather was so soft and fragile. Out of a sense of morbid curiosity he very, very slowly brought the feather in contact with his index finger. Kevin was sure to stay calm, centered, breathe deeply. He'd been right. The moment he'd seen the reaction begin he'd stopped moving the feather closer. Standing there, the brunette watched the feather rapidly flit through the stages of decay. It was beautiful, like the leaves turning in fall.
When nothing but dust fell through the air Kevin realized something he'd not thought possible. He felt better. Some knot inside him came undone a little. Assuming his new roommate was asleep, Kevin gathered up the fallen feathers and repeated the same thing over and over with each one in turn. He did it over the sink so there was no cleanup to be had. With each feather reduced to nothing but ashes Kevin felt incrementally better, more relaxed. It was chalked up in his head to be due to watching how beautiful it was. That wasn't the reason at all, but Kevin was so caught up in watching the destruction that he didn't much pay any mind to that.
Small piles of dust in the sink were rinsed away and Kevin finally took his duffel back up and went into his room. He pulled out the sheets and blanket he carried around with him, synthetic so they could survive his skin. Stripping down to his boxers, Kevin crawled into bed and passed out near immediately. The past night of thought and worry had him exhausted. Right now sleep had such an undeniable pull he'd have to be an idiot to refuse. He'd deal with tomorrow when it was tomorrow, whatever that meant.
Kevin's heart had been pounding, the dull thud of it resonating in his ears, when he had gotten the door of his motel room open. His paid time was up tomorrow and he had to sell something to get the cash so he didn't end up homeless again. That wasn't what chose to preoccupy his mind. The image of that idiot girl's face kept filtering into his head. Out of it and so full of her peace and love until she touched him. She touched him and she screamed. Maybe she hadn't screamed first, but that's the way it kept happening in his head. She saw her arm, that decrepit, useless limb held up in front of her and she screamed this high-pitched, shrill, blood-curdling sound. It hadn't really happened like that, but where was truth's place in his anxiety-ridden brain? Reality of the memory got shoved to the side and replaced with Kevin's panicked version instead.
He remembered thinking when he was talking to Marie that day, wondering if he touched something slowly or barely touched it if the decay would be slower. He remembered thinking once maybe if he didn't hold on for too long that it could be fixed. Medicine did lots of miracle type stuff, right? Then he would remember what her arm looked like, a five-thousand-year-old mummy from the elbow down. And it was his fault. No, it was her fault. She touched him. He didn't even want to talk to her. Some stupid bitch that thought it was still with sixties, naming herself something as stupid as Chakra. Did she even know what the fuck a Chakra was?! She shouldn't have touched him. Did she think he wore gloves in seventy-five degree weather for the hell of it? Because he wanted to? Didn't she have any concept of personal fucking space?
Did it matter? No. It was his fault. He'd done it again. He should have warned her, paid more attention, saw what was going to happen and pull away. Kevin hadn't really had the chance for any of that. Well, perhaps the warning. Yes, he could have warned her. But would she have listened? Did it matter if she listened as long as the warning had been issued? Was it his fault? Was it her fault? No, it was definitely his fault. It was his fault just for existing in the first place.
These were the thoughts that went through his head on loop. The entirety of that night was spent languishing over every moment where he could have done something, anything that could have prohibited the final outcome. It wasn't until dawn when Kevin had finally said the one thing he should have been thinking about for all those hours. "What the fuck am I going to do?" The words came out as a barely breathed whisper of realization. Replaying it over and over, scrutinizing every last moment of it and yet he hadn't considered what he was going to do until the sun was climbing back into the sky. It seemed symbolic a little, the sun had decided to be the light bulb going off over his head in a very cartoon sort of way.
"Fuck." Kevin had been laying on the haphazard bed for the blurred, innumerable past hours in his anguish, but now he jumped up and began pacing. Each step came quicker than the last. Faster and faster until he was clearing the room in only a few thoughts and the muscles in his calves started to burn, but he didn't stop. What could he do? Would she tell them that she'd touched some freak? Some mutie? Some boy disguised as a dark angel when he was the devil himself? Would she tell them Satan did that to her and he was an eighteen-year-old-boy with a Southern accent? Would they believe her? She reeked of the shit she'd been high on, what else did she do? She could have been on ecstasy. That would explain her stupid fucking idea to reach out and touch him. She could have been on acid, on shrooms, on any number of other hallucinogens. And if she was they wouldn't believe her. They wouldn't believe anything she said about an eco-friendly Satan whose face was so pretty but he stole her life out of her arm.
But then how to explain her arm? How to explain what happened to it? Thousands of years preserved in an Egyptian tomb did that to a person, not a fire or a drug or dry ice. She'd lose the arm, he finally realized. They'd have to amputate it; there was no way to save it. Leave it there and she'd drive herself insane just looking at it all shriveled and stiff, looking more like old jerky than a human arm would. Would she find God from the whole experience? God had abandoned Kevin, of that he was certain. Would she join one of those anti-mutant groups so she could try to hunt him in the night, take back the arm he'd taken from her?
In all reality, there was only one choice for Kevin. It was glaringly obvious, much like the sun streaking through the translucent curtains in the room. Kevin wasn't safe to be around. He couldn't function like a normal person. They'd pretend, at least, at Xavier's. They'd pretend he was normal, not any more freak than anyone else there even though he was. Just because he didn't look it, they'd pretend he could one day function. They'd pretend there was this magical off switch he knew didn't exist. More importantly, they wouldn't touch him. They'd know better. Kevin would likely be left mostly alone. No one would do stupid things like touch his face or anything else. The memory of the touch seared on his skin.
It took until just after high noon for Kevin to finally come to terms with his fate. It took another hour to get all his stuff packed back up in the military duffel he had. He didn't want to go back to Xavier's. It was better than Muir but that didn't make him want to return any more. In some ways it was worse being there. Out in the actual world Kevin could draw the distinction, there were people and then there was him. It was a definite difference, a line not to be crossed. At Xavier's everyone was a mutant, a freak. But some of them, no, most of them, could function. They could act like normal people. It was worse seeing people who were on his side of the line who could cross it. At Xavier's there was a new line. There was people out in the world, there were Xavier's mutants, and then there was him, a plague to be avoided.
After he'd checked out of the motel, Kevin had found a dingy alleyway. There was some clean cardboard to sit on and he took his time to finish the little sculpture he'd been trying to do yesterday. It reflected him a bit too much. Abstract, but it was all jagged lines, sharp corners, disjointed. It was pain, he realized. Someone would find beauty in it. Someone would see poetry. Someone would think it was the most poignant thing they had ever laid eyes on. Someone would decide they had to have it. It hadn't taken long to find a buyer. Kevin could sell his art. Really he also sold himself but he never really thought about it like that. With one, eleven inch sculpture he had enough money for lunch and a bus ticket to Westchester. There was even some change left over.
By time he'd walked from the bus station to the gates of the Xavier Institute the sun was threatening to sink. In some ways Kevin thought it was mocking him. That was stupid. He knew it wasn't the case. The boy glared its way just for good measure, though. He'd only spent five months there before. It was only vaguely familiar to be walking through the gates and up the drive to the door. He remembered where everything was, though the people he passed barely registered in his memory. Maybe he hadn't been paying too much attention last time, or maybe they were new. Kevin wasn't really sure. It didn't matter anyway.
Trekking to the appropriate office, Kevin met with Scott. He explained he'd left Muir because they couldn't help him and he was back out of the desire to train with his powers to better control them. This was, as far as Kevin was concerned, complete bullshit. He didn't think there was any control over them to be had. Scott either was dumber than he looked and believed him, or likely thought it was better Kevin was there than not. Kevin was willing to bet it was the latter. After all, he was a danger to society and he'd proven that to himself yet again yesterday.
After being told which suite he was assigned to and that he had a roommate, Kevin was also assured all the furniture in his room and the living space would be swapped out or at least covered with synthetic material so he didn't go disintegrating the couch by accident. His roommate probably wouldn't appreciate that. The door would also be changed from the wooden one to a metal one painted to look like all the others. That was sort of nice. Nothing like oops there was a hole in that glove and there goes the door. Scott was a useful guy, too bad Kevin couldn't appreciate the thoughtfulness with the rain cloud hanging over his head.
The people he passed walking through the halls were largely ignored. A couple looked vaguely familiar, but most of them still didn't register. It didn't matter. Kevin wasn't here to make friends, sort of the opposite. Though he did learn one thing the last time he was here, people were going to be dead fucking set on making friends with him anyway. Bastards.
Opening the door to the suite Kevin saw the door to the room his roommate had apparently claimed was shut. There was a guitar leaned against a wall and a duffel bag on the couch. And feathers. Red feathers littered the floor. As long as his roommate wasn't a six-foot-tall rooster it would be fine. Closing the door behind him, Kevin walked over and picked up one of the feathers. He twirled it between his fingers, studying it curiously. With his teeth he pulled off one of his elbow-length gloves. The feather was so soft and fragile. Out of a sense of morbid curiosity he very, very slowly brought the feather in contact with his index finger. Kevin was sure to stay calm, centered, breathe deeply. He'd been right. The moment he'd seen the reaction begin he'd stopped moving the feather closer. Standing there, the brunette watched the feather rapidly flit through the stages of decay. It was beautiful, like the leaves turning in fall.
When nothing but dust fell through the air Kevin realized something he'd not thought possible. He felt better. Some knot inside him came undone a little. Assuming his new roommate was asleep, Kevin gathered up the fallen feathers and repeated the same thing over and over with each one in turn. He did it over the sink so there was no cleanup to be had. With each feather reduced to nothing but ashes Kevin felt incrementally better, more relaxed. It was chalked up in his head to be due to watching how beautiful it was. That wasn't the reason at all, but Kevin was so caught up in watching the destruction that he didn't much pay any mind to that.
Small piles of dust in the sink were rinsed away and Kevin finally took his duffel back up and went into his room. He pulled out the sheets and blanket he carried around with him, synthetic so they could survive his skin. Stripping down to his boxers, Kevin crawled into bed and passed out near immediately. The past night of thought and worry had him exhausted. Right now sleep had such an undeniable pull he'd have to be an idiot to refuse. He'd deal with tomorrow when it was tomorrow, whatever that meant.
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