- Character: Clinton
- Roleplay: Birdcage
- Setting: 2055, Underground “safe haven” from the world
There is pain shooting up his arm, and he realizes he has most likely punched a wall. He doesn’t remember. But from the way it stings in his hand, he has probably broken one of his fingers.
He’s fairly sure he deserves it.
Fuck it, he knows he deserves it.
He thinks it might match the pain in her voice. Which is still far to clear in his mind. Or the pain caused from a knife in the back. That he does not regret very much. Put can pain match up like that? Can a pain self-inflicted compare to anything? Can he hurt so the others can’t?
Others. It makes it sound like there are more than just two. One. He repeats. There has to only be one. He is here for a second chance, but not like that.
Ashleigh is dead. There is no more pain he can inflict on her.
One, dead and gone, is better. Much better than two, one still very alive and angry and hurt and…
Clinton is on the floor of what he thinks must be his apartment. His hand cradled to his chest, pain clogging his brain. And some part of his brain hisses at him. This is for the best you know. This will do her good. Everyone will be better off in the end. The voice is full of hatred, and he would like to think it’s aimed at the Doctor. The Doctor who pushed this along, forced him into service.
But it’s not. It’s for him.
Clinton has long ago realized how utterly fucked up he is. It was around the same time he realized just how utterly alone he was. There is no stronger hate for him then his own. Self-loathing comes as some sort of specialty. A gift. Sick and twisted, but oddly fitting for a man like him. He thinks perhaps he is broken. And he remembers how Ashleigh tried to fix him once. And the worst part, that he had let her.
Dead. It takes a second to understand that the ugly sound he is hearing is his own laugh. Butchered and rough. He cannot recognize it on himself.
It is the thought of Ashleigh that stirs an anger in him that he almost can’t control. The need for violence has never been very strong in him. But the use of her name as a weapon. The threat on a family that wasn’t his own. It adds up and multiplies. The anger burns and contorts into a nightmarish hate that has far too much control over his actions than it should. He has the death of men on his hands, he knows what it’s like to see the life drain out of someone. He has only ever wished for it once.
Or perhaps twice.
He doesn’t like to think about that. How much he would let himself want it, if only he could. What would happen to the people here if he put a knife through the Doctor’s throat. He has seen the bloodshed before. What happens when a group of people shift to animals and then fall to their deaths. It is bloody and horrible, and he was a survivor of that. But the scars he carries as a result, he doesn’t know if it was worth it. The death of a loved one haunts his every move. The deaths of far too many crowd his nightmares. Clinton doesn’t sleep much anymore. It is the one place he has no hope of controlling. A place too weak, too vulnerable.
The voice comes again at that word. Snakelike and deadly. Picking apart at that vulnerability he allows himself to feel in private. Telling him he should be grateful. Thankful, bowing down to the Doctor for what he has done. Kissing his feet even, because the image is not enough without that twist. Sick. Clinton is sick, and he is not a survivor. Not truly. He has been going down, drowning since he can remember. He wants to blame it on Ashleigh’s death, but even that isn’t true. He’s been treading water for far too long, and some part of him realizes that eventually he will drown. He could have taken Galia down with him.
That he could never forgive.
But boy, does he almost want to.
He doesn’t know her. Not a damn thing about her, but he wants to. Wants to let himself try to patch up who he used to be, all for the sake of someone else. Laugh and have the sound not choke him.
He came so close with Ashleigh. So damn close.
Galia feels like a mirror sometimes. Although she’s also more than that, which worries him. But it feels too much like history has had it’s wicked revenge. As if this is a reminder that he wasn’t meant to survive his life. He already relives what happened in his memory too often, too much. A body at his feet was not something he could survive again. He isn’t surviving the first one.
Horrifying thoughts crowd him like flies to the dead.
He falls asleep sitting on his floor. Head titled back to touch the wall. His hand cradled to his chest.