Ｃａｓｓｅｌ Ｓｈａｒｐｅ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
patheticvillain) wrote2015-03-23 01:16 pm
patheticvillain) wrote2015-03-23 01:16 pm
fifty ➢ video ( cw bodyhorror )
video
This is bullshit.
["This" being the black, silky ears he's sprouted in the wake of the flood. His long tail, equally black and twitching with irritation, pokes out from under his blanket, where he's curled up and sulking. The camera's at a skewed angle, balanced on the edge of his pillow.]
I just woke up like this. I didn't even do it. If it's gonna happen, I want to at least be the one to do it. I want . . .
[He trails off, his eyes distant and dull. When they snap back into focus, he sits up slowly, blankets falling around him, and narrows his eyes.]
It's supposed to hurt.
[And then he begins to change: skin rippling, body changing, limbs twisting. He grows a third arm, and then a fourth, the new ones vestigial, skinless, ugly. Growths emerge across his face, limning his high cheekbones. He curls up in the fetal position; you can hear bones crack, shift, curl, and break. All the while he's crying out in a dog's whine, an ugly helpless yet somehow angry noise. The blankets tangle around his shifting feet as they grow bark and tentacles and recede into stubs.]
[Eventually, endlessly, he is still. The ears and tail have gone completely.]
This is bullshit.
["This" being the black, silky ears he's sprouted in the wake of the flood. His long tail, equally black and twitching with irritation, pokes out from under his blanket, where he's curled up and sulking. The camera's at a skewed angle, balanced on the edge of his pillow.]
I just woke up like this. I didn't even do it. If it's gonna happen, I want to at least be the one to do it. I want . . .
[He trails off, his eyes distant and dull. When they snap back into focus, he sits up slowly, blankets falling around him, and narrows his eyes.]
It's supposed to hurt.
[And then he begins to change: skin rippling, body changing, limbs twisting. He grows a third arm, and then a fourth, the new ones vestigial, skinless, ugly. Growths emerge across his face, limning his high cheekbones. He curls up in the fetal position; you can hear bones crack, shift, curl, and break. All the while he's crying out in a dog's whine, an ugly helpless yet somehow angry noise. The blankets tangle around his shifting feet as they grow bark and tentacles and recede into stubs.]
[Eventually, endlessly, he is still. The ears and tail have gone completely.]
no subject
[He shrugs, takes a drink; pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, lights it. All natural, habitual actions that don't throw him too much, that put him in his comfort zone, as much as it even exists right now.]
It's not a big deal. It doesn't matter.
no subject
He draws on the cigarette, sighs out the smoke, and holds it back out to him.]
So that was what -- some kind of fucking self-expression?
no subject
It's just something I do sometimes. It's not always so . . . [He makes a face, takes the cigarette back, and breathes in smoke, moody again.] Public. That's just how it happened this time.
no subject
He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, one of the other hands bringing the bottle back to his lips.]
I shot up a coffee place a while back.
[He says it sort of conversationally. Cassel turns into monsters; Mickey takes out espresso machines.]
no subject
[He doesn't seem bothered in the least by this revelation. He just tilts his beer from one side to the other and kind of grins into it, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.]
You have fun?
cw drug use
[Granted, he'd been drunk enough and coked up enough at the time that anything probably would have been fun, but destroying hipster coffee joints with assault rifles? Definitely fun.]
These gentrifying assholes keep trying to come in and Beacon-Hills-up the place. Fuck that.
no subject
[He wonders if Mickey ever did any time, but doesn't ask. If he ever spent time in a place like where his mom did time, he doesn't want to know about it.]
Next time, you should take me with you.
no subject
[That surprises him, it's clear. He doesn't have quite the same impression of Cassel that he does of someone like, say, Scott, and he knows Cassel's said that Chris's money isn't his, but... it's still a pretty big leap from there all the way down to the ghetto. Besides, who the hell actually wants to go to the South Side, except the loyalists like him who grew up there and the yuppie scum that want to invade?]
...Why?
no subject
[It's not how he and Sam did it. But he wonders now if he was ever that good a friend to Sam, or if he didn't do it the right way at all.]
We're friends, aren't we?
no subject
[But they're friends here, where he has friends, where that makes sense. He's not sure what the intersection of those worlds would look like. It's hard to imagine. How would he even explain where he picked him up -- this smart, snarky, gloomy kid with the magic touch that's nothing like anyone else he knows?]
You've seen how shitty my place is, man.
no subject
[He shifts in his seat, struggles to articulate what he means. It's not that it doesn't matter, he knows that it does. It's just that he doesn't want it to. He doesn't want to be left out of somebody else's life, yet again, when they go home and go to do the things that matter to them on their own. He wants to be part of something. And he wants Mickey to want him to be part of his life.]
I don't care. I just don't.
cw reference to mental illness
Except Ian, anyway. No one sane.
But it's clearly important, somehow, for whatever reason. If this is about them being friends, like some kind of... rite of passage or something he doesn't get, maybe all he needs to know is that it's important.]
Okay. Whatever. Your funeral.
[And if anyone asks, he can say Cassel is his cousin. There's always a cousin around. Even his brothers probably wouldn't question it too closely.]
Don't bring anything nice with you.
no subject
Wasn't planning on it.
And if you want, you can come see Carney sometime. But you don't get to see my mom.
[Because she's a crazy motherfucker more than out of any protective instinct towards her, obviously.]
no subject
[He's got enough crazy evil family to contend with, thank you.]
Do they all...? Like you do? Out there?
[Is everyone magic?]
no subject
[He shrugs, a little helpless to describe the politics of work. Even the demographics of it - there's so little known, and so much less that he personally knows.]
It's genetic, I mean. I know that much. My mom and my brothers can do it, and my dad could do it, and Lila and her dad can do it. But it wouldn't be, like, weird, that you can't.
no subject
You sure I shouldn't pretend like I can anyway? Wrap it up like a fuckin' rubber?
[In spite of the crazy evil mom thing, he's always had this image of Cassel coming from something respectable-seeming. It's as hard for Mickey to picture himself, with his tattoos and hand-me-downs, in the Carney of his imagination as it is to picture Cassel in the South Side.]
no subject
[Grinning, Cassel gives a one-shouldered shrug, wiggling his fingers.]
The finger tattoos are actually pretty vulgar. You're offending me.
no subject
Good.
no subject
[But he says it fondly. He never imagined talking to a friend like this, rough and rude and cruel; the way he talked to Sam was different, the way he talks to Chris - it's something else entirely. And after all, it's not like he has a ton of friend experience to draw on.]
[This feels good, though. Comfortable. He flips the double-gloved bird back and then settles in to his drink, content as he can be under the circumstances.]