dream † 003 † 08-19-10
[ooc: still technically on hiatus. But. Also. Uh. Youji's not a huge fan of pajamas, so... 8D
Dream effects: Tension. Uncertainty. Anxiety. At the end, exactly what Youji feels.]
Even with the sweet, spiced wine warming his tongue, the humid evening chill cut straight to the bone. The ticking of the clock was audible, palpable, echoing in his head in perfect time with the hammering of his heart. The bottle on the table before him, clearly marked ‘Auschlehen,’ had been steadily drained all evening, and the looseness of mind, of thought and potential action, that it provided him with danced all across the realm of possibilities.
Do I dare? Do I not?
This is the point where you’re supposed to tell me, Youji thought, looking all around at the four quiet walls, each tick of the clock piercing another wasted second. This is the point where I need you to smile and tell me what an idiot I am and what I need to be doing.
Silence.
Another sip. Another bid for oblivion; or drunkenness if he couldn’t manage that. Another two seconds vanished, bringing him closer to the point where it becomes do or die, no second chances, forever hold your peace.
Three. Four. Five. Sixseveneightnineten
The clock crashed, banged, rang out the hour, and seven more times after that. Eight o’clock. The breeze fluttered the curtain of a window he hadn’t opened, a motorcycle sounded, roaring off into the inky, starry distance, and Youji looked back to the glass of wine in his hand.
Two sips or one deep drink; to linger, to prolong it, or to take it and run? He wasn’t sure. Each second to savor, each second to waste, was dear, precious, golden, crucial, added up it became more than it was. Sixty seconds to a minute, each creeping closer, ever closer to the edge of the precipice.
His hand tightened around the base of the wine glass. Each tick of the clock, each beat of his heart, each laborious, catching breath, brought the decision closer. Closer, but not clearer, not better into focus. It remained distant, murky, unreal, do I? Or do I not?
The glass smashed delicately against the far wall, each shard stealing a moonbeam and glittering aimlessly. Youji inhaled sharply, and took a deep drink straight from the bottle.
I can do this. I can definitely, definitely do this. No matter what, I can do this.
Whatever it was. Tick. Tick. Tick. He took another drink.
Where was that oblivion she’d promised him?
Tick.
Right. He had to complete his end of the deal. Which was. Something he was perfectly capable of. I can do it. I can.
Tick. Closer. Tick. Closer. Tick.
Tick. Tick. TicktickticktickticktickticktickTICK
Closer.
Tighter.
Youji attempted to yell, but it died, was trapped, stuck at his throat, pressing, tightening, sharply tightening around his neck, at least if the hyoid breaks they’ll be able to tell, three to five minutes before brain death--
[Youji doesn't waste time with screaming or sitting up straight; he just starts breathing deeply, audibly, steadily, noticeably, like he can't get enough oxygen in his lungs. Only after his heart rate slows does he sit up. Without looking, he automatically reaches for the silver cross on his bedside table. He starts to fasten the necklace, but--he thinks twice, breathes again and lays it aside, only now noticing the Dreamberry next to it, still recording.]
Goddammit.
[He shuts it off.]
Dream effects: Tension. Uncertainty. Anxiety. At the end, exactly what Youji feels.]
Even with the sweet, spiced wine warming his tongue, the humid evening chill cut straight to the bone. The ticking of the clock was audible, palpable, echoing in his head in perfect time with the hammering of his heart. The bottle on the table before him, clearly marked ‘Auschlehen,’ had been steadily drained all evening, and the looseness of mind, of thought and potential action, that it provided him with danced all across the realm of possibilities.
Do I dare? Do I not?
This is the point where you’re supposed to tell me, Youji thought, looking all around at the four quiet walls, each tick of the clock piercing another wasted second. This is the point where I need you to smile and tell me what an idiot I am and what I need to be doing.
Silence.
Another sip. Another bid for oblivion; or drunkenness if he couldn’t manage that. Another two seconds vanished, bringing him closer to the point where it becomes do or die, no second chances, forever hold your peace.
Three. Four. Five. Sixseveneightnineten
The clock crashed, banged, rang out the hour, and seven more times after that. Eight o’clock. The breeze fluttered the curtain of a window he hadn’t opened, a motorcycle sounded, roaring off into the inky, starry distance, and Youji looked back to the glass of wine in his hand.
Two sips or one deep drink; to linger, to prolong it, or to take it and run? He wasn’t sure. Each second to savor, each second to waste, was dear, precious, golden, crucial, added up it became more than it was. Sixty seconds to a minute, each creeping closer, ever closer to the edge of the precipice.
His hand tightened around the base of the wine glass. Each tick of the clock, each beat of his heart, each laborious, catching breath, brought the decision closer. Closer, but not clearer, not better into focus. It remained distant, murky, unreal, do I? Or do I not?
The glass smashed delicately against the far wall, each shard stealing a moonbeam and glittering aimlessly. Youji inhaled sharply, and took a deep drink straight from the bottle.
I can do this. I can definitely, definitely do this. No matter what, I can do this.
Whatever it was. Tick. Tick. Tick. He took another drink.
Where was that oblivion she’d promised him?
Tick.
Right. He had to complete his end of the deal. Which was. Something he was perfectly capable of. I can do it. I can.
Tick. Closer. Tick. Closer. Tick.
Tick. Tick. TicktickticktickticktickticktickTICK
Closer.
Tighter.
Youji attempted to yell, but it died, was trapped, stuck at his throat, pressing, tightening, sharply tightening around his neck, at least if the hyoid breaks they’ll be able to tell, three to five minutes before brain death--
[Youji doesn't waste time with screaming or sitting up straight; he just starts breathing deeply, audibly, steadily, noticeably, like he can't get enough oxygen in his lungs. Only after his heart rate slows does he sit up. Without looking, he automatically reaches for the silver cross on his bedside table. He starts to fasten the necklace, but--he thinks twice, breathes again and lays it aside, only now noticing the Dreamberry next to it, still recording.]
Goddammit.
[He shuts it off.]