OOC: assorted fanfic and stuff I throw out there
Title: Impulse
Characters: Seven
Date written: Feb 20th 2011
Rating: PG
He can't get it right. He can't get it right. He tries and tries and there's always something off, something tilted and twisted about everything he sees, everything he puts his hands on. He knows it's wrong, knows it's different, knows that this bizarre obsession means that there's something off-balance in him, because if he could set up his mind as orderly as he tried to set up his world, then he wouldn't be hyperventilating and shaking and crying over poorly-folded laundry, wouldn't fly into rages when things were moved from their designated positions, wouldn't feel disgusted just looking at himself in the mirror or looking at his brother's worried face.
This obsession consumes him, controls him, and even when it's quiet it's still there, just waiting to be set off again. It's like some demon of symmetry is crouched inside his skin, hooked claws sunk so deeply into his soul that they will never come out again. He wants it gone. Needs it gone. He has to get rid of these impulses that flood his mind and keep him from thinking about anything except imperfections that don't matter in the long run. There has to be something he can do, someone he can talk to, some medicine or drug that can numb him enough so that he stops caring for long enough to--
It's never going to go away, is what he eventually realizes. He can try everything in the world, but he can't bring his own mind under control. He wants something to break, something to end, some memory to finally explain why exactly he is so messed up.
Nothing comes.
Characters: Seven
Date written: Feb 20th 2011
Rating: PG
He can't get it right. He can't get it right. He tries and tries and there's always something off, something tilted and twisted about everything he sees, everything he puts his hands on. He knows it's wrong, knows it's different, knows that this bizarre obsession means that there's something off-balance in him, because if he could set up his mind as orderly as he tried to set up his world, then he wouldn't be hyperventilating and shaking and crying over poorly-folded laundry, wouldn't fly into rages when things were moved from their designated positions, wouldn't feel disgusted just looking at himself in the mirror or looking at his brother's worried face.
This obsession consumes him, controls him, and even when it's quiet it's still there, just waiting to be set off again. It's like some demon of symmetry is crouched inside his skin, hooked claws sunk so deeply into his soul that they will never come out again. He wants it gone. Needs it gone. He has to get rid of these impulses that flood his mind and keep him from thinking about anything except imperfections that don't matter in the long run. There has to be something he can do, someone he can talk to, some medicine or drug that can numb him enough so that he stops caring for long enough to--
It's never going to go away, is what he eventually realizes. He can try everything in the world, but he can't bring his own mind under control. He wants something to break, something to end, some memory to finally explain why exactly he is so messed up.
Nothing comes.