He knew he messed up. he didn't know how, but as he left for the slums from the clinic, there was a voice of regret, haunting his thoughts. It came often, like am an delivering milk, or maybe the mail. Though, he never figured out how to get it out of his head, much like the horrible silence he found within the noisy main-street. He could hear himself breathe, half-expecting a frozen breath to come out and whisk him of the rest of his lungs with. As if it'd comfort him, the feeling of strangulation, suffocating, seemed so more much comforting than his hoarse, drying throat. Alistair entered back-alley to back-alley, he knew where he was going, but his thoughts drowned out his sense of direction. The road ahead seemed to blur with his imagination. Images of people, popping up out of the blue, as if waiting to ambush. From corners, to the peek of his eye. It seemed the cyan color became popular in only thirteen minutes. From stagger to stumble, upon every sighting he caught, it robbed him of wind. It was only until he had reached the gate of the Slums that he took some relief.
He entered, but found no one. No one but chairs to sit on, and horrible drinks to chug down. Though, no person to look to for help -- it was late, and he'd have to do this on his own. Though, the stress of even thinking about it -- oh, how he'd disappointed the man who paid for his tuition. For whatever he did, he didn't want it to go unpunished. All crimes deserve justice, and though he doesn't quite know what his was - he had an idea. As two -- no, three, familiar figures sauntered closer to him, interrupting a conversation he had with yet another face he found significant. It wasn't their fault - they didn't know any better, it should all be on his shoulders, hanging from them like anchors until he reached the bottom of a sea of fault. Alistair, he didn't want to snap. Not in front of so many people - not into a state so vulnerable to breaking down. Without another word, he made a mad-dash to him home. Ignoring the delusions he found along the way with struggle. Things moving when they shouldn't be were common - though, seemed to only get worse, the more he couldn't think of an answer.
He was never good at this, specifically this. He couldn't speak, and he knew no one who would wanted to relay a message. Did he-? but he didn't want to try, it was bad enough that he'd concerned him so many times, and.. Maybe he should've just shut his mouth, maybe not depend on him for advice so many times, maybe he'd feel okay. He can feel that foresight kick in, only choking him further, the spring air whisking at his skin as he began to dash faster. Maybe he was.. Running away from something? He things he keeps seeing? Alistair couldn't particularly tell all that well, his mind put into a fever-like state until he made it to his home.
He disregarded those wavy boxes, and those memories on the couch. He sat directly next to the film, reminding him of his hopelessness. Did he depend so much on the words of someone else? Why can't he solve this like he should? Was he really just.. Useless, emotionally stunted -- Alistair, like any normal being, had wanted to fix this part of him. Talking it made him feel better, but at the time there was no one to speak to, but him and his thoughts, had soon caused him a panic. A plan with no back-up was surefire to backfire, and that it did. Exploding in his face, first of all. And then having some combustion in his rib-cage, feeling bone fragments shatter bit by bit, as if repeatedly attempting to edge it off, something trying to escape. It was funny, considering - how he considered himself to lack a soul.
Alistair looked around -- he couldn't bear it much longer, in his panic, he left looking around. With no guide to help him, he came to the one conclusion that seemed to help. That helped himself with Monty, but just a bit. A way of apology Merina knew well, and a reason to talk to Fiske again. Like usually.
The dragon sure as fuck wasn't going to care about his issues! Why were they so big, anyways, they're not supposed to be an issue! Alistair was going to have to do it himself in the end, like always, because there's so often no one else to do it -- there isn't really anyone else to rely on! People don't help for no reason, people don't forgive for no reason. He doesn't know what he's done, but he can think back to something at least! He knew, he knew! He might've been assuming but it felt like the truth! And he knows exactly how it'll go! Absolutely under control! Self-discipline was always something he needed more, anyways! No matter what form it is, as long as it's deserved, it's fine! Things spilling, whether it be water or something thicker -- it would be from his choice! That was the good part, wasn't it? To show that you're sorry -- not by the words that no one seems to listen to--. But by actions.
By very dire actions, but just exactly what he needed.
He really wanted to talk to Fiske tomorrow.
His thoughts began to melt together, making no sense as his primal feelings took over his body. Emotions become a mental hand that pointed to his next cause of action. His eyes trailed the fire's flickering towards a glint on a cupboard.
He entered, but found no one. No one but chairs to sit on, and horrible drinks to chug down. Though, no person to look to for help -- it was late, and he'd have to do this on his own. Though, the stress of even thinking about it -- oh, how he'd disappointed the man who paid for his tuition. For whatever he did, he didn't want it to go unpunished. All crimes deserve justice, and though he doesn't quite know what his was - he had an idea. As two -- no, three, familiar figures sauntered closer to him, interrupting a conversation he had with yet another face he found significant. It wasn't their fault - they didn't know any better, it should all be on his shoulders, hanging from them like anchors until he reached the bottom of a sea of fault. Alistair, he didn't want to snap. Not in front of so many people - not into a state so vulnerable to breaking down. Without another word, he made a mad-dash to him home. Ignoring the delusions he found along the way with struggle. Things moving when they shouldn't be were common - though, seemed to only get worse, the more he couldn't think of an answer.
He was never good at this, specifically this. He couldn't speak, and he knew no one who would wanted to relay a message. Did he-? but he didn't want to try, it was bad enough that he'd concerned him so many times, and.. Maybe he should've just shut his mouth, maybe not depend on him for advice so many times, maybe he'd feel okay. He can feel that foresight kick in, only choking him further, the spring air whisking at his skin as he began to dash faster. Maybe he was.. Running away from something? He things he keeps seeing? Alistair couldn't particularly tell all that well, his mind put into a fever-like state until he made it to his home.
He disregarded those wavy boxes, and those memories on the couch. He sat directly next to the film, reminding him of his hopelessness. Did he depend so much on the words of someone else? Why can't he solve this like he should? Was he really just.. Useless, emotionally stunted -- Alistair, like any normal being, had wanted to fix this part of him. Talking it made him feel better, but at the time there was no one to speak to, but him and his thoughts, had soon caused him a panic. A plan with no back-up was surefire to backfire, and that it did. Exploding in his face, first of all. And then having some combustion in his rib-cage, feeling bone fragments shatter bit by bit, as if repeatedly attempting to edge it off, something trying to escape. It was funny, considering - how he considered himself to lack a soul.
Alistair looked around -- he couldn't bear it much longer, in his panic, he left looking around. With no guide to help him, he came to the one conclusion that seemed to help. That helped himself with Monty, but just a bit. A way of apology Merina knew well, and a reason to talk to Fiske again. Like usually.
The dragon sure as fuck wasn't going to care about his issues! Why were they so big, anyways, they're not supposed to be an issue! Alistair was going to have to do it himself in the end, like always, because there's so often no one else to do it -- there isn't really anyone else to rely on! People don't help for no reason, people don't forgive for no reason. He doesn't know what he's done, but he can think back to something at least! He knew, he knew! He might've been assuming but it felt like the truth! And he knows exactly how it'll go! Absolutely under control! Self-discipline was always something he needed more, anyways! No matter what form it is, as long as it's deserved, it's fine! Things spilling, whether it be water or something thicker -- it would be from his choice! That was the good part, wasn't it? To show that you're sorry -- not by the words that no one seems to listen to--. But by actions.
By very dire actions, but just exactly what he needed.
He really wanted to talk to Fiske tomorrow.
His thoughts began to melt together, making no sense as his primal feelings took over his body. Emotions become a mental hand that pointed to his next cause of action. His eyes trailed the fire's flickering towards a glint on a cupboard.
.. What nice knives he always had! ✰
