05-06-2020, 02:32 AM
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cw: more depictions of suicide + self harm
Numb.
He couldn't remember the last time he had truly felt nothing. Had it been when he first died? With warm blood no longer stirring his body, his original body, he could only feel cold. And cold he felt, his limbs tingling like electrified jello as he blankly stared. What brought him here? Perhaps the call for Selby. Perhaps pure coincidence. He couldn't remember now. Not as limp paws dangled from the rafters to and fro, as detached feathers lazily drifted about a splintered cabinet, disturbed by the open door and the wind of onlookers. Mesmerized by the pendulum his friend turned herself into, Beck rocked back onto his rear, expression numb.
Of all the people in the room, only he could understand the reason why. He probably understood Feza more than anybody. Maybe that was because he saw fragments of himself within her, hidden beneath a vibrant pelt and false grin. He saw the little boy curled among his own bones, weeping for eternity over the pain endured. So, so tired. Tired of the pain, tired of the loss, tired of the world. He didn't want forever and a day to sleep. He wanted to be gone.
Like Feza, the memory of personal gallows struck him first. Tying a noose was as easy as tying a snare. Only with more steps. Yet even with the rope tethered to an outstretched branch and the borrowed barstool kicked from beneath his weight, no snap of vertebrae followed. Too small, too scrawny, too underfed -- Beck waited to suffocate, instinctively scrabbling at the tightened rope until fingertips caught on rough fibers and bled. Until an hour passed and he was still kicking at the air, a rabbit hanging by its scruff in a dog's teeth. Another hour; his hands hurt too much and his throat ached too much. He had fallen limp except for the hands balled into bloodied fists at his sides. Two more hours. He accepted defeat, allowing himself to slip down from the failed noose, crashing into the toppled stool below.
His second attempt at hanging, now considerate of his laughably puny size, didn't result in anything better. Only a crick in the neck for a month and a sore, friction-burnt collar to mark his failure.
A rope could be useful in different cases, however. Like looping a knot to a hefty stone large enough that it took two scabbed hands to carry, then another tight knot around his good ankle. After dragging his makeshift ball and chain to a relatively untouched lake, he waded past the shallows and took the plummet, sinking to the lakebed with water flooding his lungs and pressure popping his ears. He thought he would find peace. But instead, he found himself watching bluegill and pike and walleye mosey by, curious of the scowling alien invading their underwater world.
Who needed rope anyway? A high enough rooftop could work just fine. As the concept of civilization developed to taller heights, the poltergeist brought himself to the ledge of at least a dozen buildings while residents slept, stepping off and crashing against pavement below. No matter how many times blood splattered or bones shattered or limbs scattered, he just couldn't seem to get rid of himself.
His urges demanded more creativity as the years went on. Gunpowder drifted from the East and mankind invented firearms for warfare -- muskets and shotguns to revolvers and pistols all aimed at his temple at some point, the boy grimacing as his finger squeezed the trigger. With a single blast, he could wake up the next month to scrub the resulting spray of faded oily blood from the attic walls.
He tried electronics in filled bathtubs, shots of alkaline cleaner cocktails, leaps into highway traffic, razors slicing inner forearms and even his carotid once. It never worked.
One fact became glaringly apparent.
A ghost could never rest. Not for forever or a day.
With every momentary death, every break from reality, he had felt this numb. Beck couldn't help but wonder if Feza had felt numb, too.
Lost in a haze of spiraling thoughts, the poltergeist turned his head, sickened at not only the sight but yet another failure. He had seen himself in Feza, somebody hopeless and desperate. Yet he had hoped to outstretch a hand to her, to help her from the remains of suffering past, to pull her into a hug and let her know that she was loved. He wanted to watch her caterpillar neighbors grow with her, to weave crafts and scribble nonsense with her, to make her laugh and smile with her, discarding the phony mask once and for all. He wanted to be her friend. And if not that, then at least there for her.
With his stump of a tail lowered and head hung, his ragged breath hitched in his undersized chest, shoulders trembling as Beck snorted back an oncoming sob. Not keen on wailing and blubbering in public again, the poltergeist disappeared without a word, a chilled breeze passing the crowd on his way out.
Numb.
He couldn't remember the last time he had truly felt nothing. Had it been when he first died? With warm blood no longer stirring his body, his original body, he could only feel cold. And cold he felt, his limbs tingling like electrified jello as he blankly stared. What brought him here? Perhaps the call for Selby. Perhaps pure coincidence. He couldn't remember now. Not as limp paws dangled from the rafters to and fro, as detached feathers lazily drifted about a splintered cabinet, disturbed by the open door and the wind of onlookers. Mesmerized by the pendulum his friend turned herself into, Beck rocked back onto his rear, expression numb.
Of all the people in the room, only he could understand the reason why. He probably understood Feza more than anybody. Maybe that was because he saw fragments of himself within her, hidden beneath a vibrant pelt and false grin. He saw the little boy curled among his own bones, weeping for eternity over the pain endured. So, so tired. Tired of the pain, tired of the loss, tired of the world. He didn't want forever and a day to sleep. He wanted to be gone.
Like Feza, the memory of personal gallows struck him first. Tying a noose was as easy as tying a snare. Only with more steps. Yet even with the rope tethered to an outstretched branch and the borrowed barstool kicked from beneath his weight, no snap of vertebrae followed. Too small, too scrawny, too underfed -- Beck waited to suffocate, instinctively scrabbling at the tightened rope until fingertips caught on rough fibers and bled. Until an hour passed and he was still kicking at the air, a rabbit hanging by its scruff in a dog's teeth. Another hour; his hands hurt too much and his throat ached too much. He had fallen limp except for the hands balled into bloodied fists at his sides. Two more hours. He accepted defeat, allowing himself to slip down from the failed noose, crashing into the toppled stool below.
His second attempt at hanging, now considerate of his laughably puny size, didn't result in anything better. Only a crick in the neck for a month and a sore, friction-burnt collar to mark his failure.
A rope could be useful in different cases, however. Like looping a knot to a hefty stone large enough that it took two scabbed hands to carry, then another tight knot around his good ankle. After dragging his makeshift ball and chain to a relatively untouched lake, he waded past the shallows and took the plummet, sinking to the lakebed with water flooding his lungs and pressure popping his ears. He thought he would find peace. But instead, he found himself watching bluegill and pike and walleye mosey by, curious of the scowling alien invading their underwater world.
Who needed rope anyway? A high enough rooftop could work just fine. As the concept of civilization developed to taller heights, the poltergeist brought himself to the ledge of at least a dozen buildings while residents slept, stepping off and crashing against pavement below. No matter how many times blood splattered or bones shattered or limbs scattered, he just couldn't seem to get rid of himself.
His urges demanded more creativity as the years went on. Gunpowder drifted from the East and mankind invented firearms for warfare -- muskets and shotguns to revolvers and pistols all aimed at his temple at some point, the boy grimacing as his finger squeezed the trigger. With a single blast, he could wake up the next month to scrub the resulting spray of faded oily blood from the attic walls.
He tried electronics in filled bathtubs, shots of alkaline cleaner cocktails, leaps into highway traffic, razors slicing inner forearms and even his carotid once. It never worked.
One fact became glaringly apparent.
A ghost could never rest. Not for forever or a day.
With every momentary death, every break from reality, he had felt this numb. Beck couldn't help but wonder if Feza had felt numb, too.
Lost in a haze of spiraling thoughts, the poltergeist turned his head, sickened at not only the sight but yet another failure. He had seen himself in Feza, somebody hopeless and desperate. Yet he had hoped to outstretch a hand to her, to help her from the remains of suffering past, to pull her into a hug and let her know that she was loved. He wanted to watch her caterpillar neighbors grow with her, to weave crafts and scribble nonsense with her, to make her laugh and smile with her, discarding the phony mask once and for all. He wanted to be her friend. And if not that, then at least there for her.
With his stump of a tail lowered and head hung, his ragged breath hitched in his undersized chest, shoulders trembling as Beck snorted back an oncoming sob. Not keen on wailing and blubbering in public again, the poltergeist disappeared without a word, a chilled breeze passing the crowd on his way out.