terrie
in
deathmance
(no subject)
This is some thing I just wrote in like an hour maybe.
--
The day after was always the hardest part.
He'd wake up and pretend it never happened, going through his morning routine as per usual: calisthenics, dressing, cooking. He'd invariably see the boys at some point before they wandered off to amuse themselves. Sometimes he'd see Dr Venture and sometimes he wouldn't.
Afterward he'd either head to the hangar to work on the Charger or to the lab to fix something or to the hallway closet to grab the vacuum or to the shed to grab the plutonium. It didn't matter; the path out of the kitchen was the same no matter where he was headed, and on that path was a mirror placed innocuously on a wall. He would sometimes glance at it out of habit, but even the times when he ignored it completely, he saw it anyway.
Sometimes it was a bruise. Sometimes it was a series of bruises. Sometimes it was a shallow cut. Sometimes it was considerably deeper.
Sometimes it was a collection of teeth marks on his throat.
"Damn it," he would say, and realise that this time it hadn't been the dream he thought it was.
He'd do his best to put her out of his mind through the rest of his daily tasks. It was easier on the days they had to go somewhere and save some backwater village from horrible genetic freaks or retrieve a magical artifact from a cult that worshiped aluminium cans. Unfortunately these days were rare.
On normal days, he only thought about her part of the time, usually in quiet moments when there were no snakepeople or ninjas to kill. He'd see a particular brand of cigarette or get shot in a certain place and he would think, in the vaguest of ways without putting it into any concrete words, of that emotion he'd never tell her because she'd laugh and call him weak.
On the day after, he'd think about her every second.
When they didn't have to go anywhere and stayed at home, he would go through everything mechanically and efficiently. He'd spend the rest of the day in the hangar, smoking and keeping himself busy with pointless tasks.
Sometimes he'd drive out to a strip club.
At night, he was conflicted. On the one hand, the sooner he went to sleep, the sooner the day after would be over. On the other, if he went to sleep, he would invariably dream about her. Sometimes he ended up fucking her but usually she slit his throat or shot him in the head. The getting killed was easier to deal with.
The next day was always a little easier, and each day after that moreso. His bruises or cuts or teeth marks or whatever would fade and that pain in his chest would go away. He'd only think about her part of the time, and at some point they would go out to the jungle to inspect ancient inscriptions or take magma samples from some volcano. He wouldn't forget about her -- to do so would be impossible -- but she would go to the back of his thoughts, waiting to emerge when he could afford to be introspective and distracted. These times were rare, so he usually kept her back there.
Then he'd see her in Buenos Aires or Budapest or Minneapolis or somewhere, and she'd kick him in the face and kiss the bruises after.
Sometimes he wondered if the day after was hard for her too.
--
The day after was always the hardest part.
He'd wake up and pretend it never happened, going through his morning routine as per usual: calisthenics, dressing, cooking. He'd invariably see the boys at some point before they wandered off to amuse themselves. Sometimes he'd see Dr Venture and sometimes he wouldn't.
Afterward he'd either head to the hangar to work on the Charger or to the lab to fix something or to the hallway closet to grab the vacuum or to the shed to grab the plutonium. It didn't matter; the path out of the kitchen was the same no matter where he was headed, and on that path was a mirror placed innocuously on a wall. He would sometimes glance at it out of habit, but even the times when he ignored it completely, he saw it anyway.
Sometimes it was a bruise. Sometimes it was a series of bruises. Sometimes it was a shallow cut. Sometimes it was considerably deeper.
Sometimes it was a collection of teeth marks on his throat.
"Damn it," he would say, and realise that this time it hadn't been the dream he thought it was.
He'd do his best to put her out of his mind through the rest of his daily tasks. It was easier on the days they had to go somewhere and save some backwater village from horrible genetic freaks or retrieve a magical artifact from a cult that worshiped aluminium cans. Unfortunately these days were rare.
On normal days, he only thought about her part of the time, usually in quiet moments when there were no snakepeople or ninjas to kill. He'd see a particular brand of cigarette or get shot in a certain place and he would think, in the vaguest of ways without putting it into any concrete words, of that emotion he'd never tell her because she'd laugh and call him weak.
On the day after, he'd think about her every second.
When they didn't have to go anywhere and stayed at home, he would go through everything mechanically and efficiently. He'd spend the rest of the day in the hangar, smoking and keeping himself busy with pointless tasks.
Sometimes he'd drive out to a strip club.
At night, he was conflicted. On the one hand, the sooner he went to sleep, the sooner the day after would be over. On the other, if he went to sleep, he would invariably dream about her. Sometimes he ended up fucking her but usually she slit his throat or shot him in the head. The getting killed was easier to deal with.
The next day was always a little easier, and each day after that moreso. His bruises or cuts or teeth marks or whatever would fade and that pain in his chest would go away. He'd only think about her part of the time, and at some point they would go out to the jungle to inspect ancient inscriptions or take magma samples from some volcano. He wouldn't forget about her -- to do so would be impossible -- but she would go to the back of his thoughts, waiting to emerge when he could afford to be introspective and distracted. These times were rare, so he usually kept her back there.
Then he'd see her in Buenos Aires or Budapest or Minneapolis or somewhere, and she'd kick him in the face and kiss the bruises after.
Sometimes he wondered if the day after was hard for her too.