dire cries in his head |
| A bag was packed and he kissed her good bye. Not for the last time though it felt as such. He wasn't ready to give up not with their plans waiting in limbo that were meant to be fulfilled. The idea wasn't his idea nor did he expect her to bring it up when the pieces that were still being picked up, spilled through the cracks again. Their trip across the states, roughing it like the first time, was supposed to resolve. Bandage up the slash he caused. The wound not letting up with a slow leak, seeping from its dressing the further home they were. He tried to hold it together. To be secure and face the music another way, affected too much to fully ignore his wrong doings. The two months that passed wasn't just a wake up call. He was a scattered mass warring with himself to maintain all parts that once relied on compartmentalizing trauma. The tremors at night grew worse if he was able to sleep. Days of little rest made the spasm of his racing thoughts accelerate above his control. Losing all discipline rapidly left no room to bounce back. Middle age crisis wasn't to blame now in his 45th year. The principle of the matter was moving in and out unscathed, this time it had been different. This time he was faced with, mirroring the complications of Slade's life that involved family and a significant other affected to the gut by his hand. He didn't want to be that person and it happened while having a back seat to it all. The day he removed himself this time from home, was the day he was going to figure out what went wrong. How to get over it but the physical manifestations were speaking outwardly, begging for help. He didn't think there was possibility of it happening on his own as mental he was and edging quicker to another descent. Depression wasn't it or maybe it was; cloaked as the wolf in sheep's clothing again. His anxiety, something he never addressed was another deterrent and now more debilitating than ever. Reaching deep into teachings that groomed to run a business of healing, lacked the power but he had to be alone for this. The discomfort was too great, engulfing him with closeness of causing complete suffocation. The disappointment in and around was expressed. He heard her words ringing in his ear like a banshee. A full on siren call the scream of anger and frustrations at this world was a dizzying repetitive addition to an equally frustrated, angry, but passive entity. He held reasons to stay and his reasons to leave weighed heavier than they had broadcasted across his face. Unmoving, he showed less sign of life while the assault went on internally. Nathan's trip to one of his properties was stretched out. A common route downtown took forever to reach and he made the mistake to visit the loft that reconciled one tragedy and left a different home for the other. Old keys tangled up with the main set, taking minutes to find the right piece to enter. Months went on from the last time he stepped a foot inside. The security monitor still murmuring. Precise hearing zoning in on the small system hidden behind a concealed room. He missed the check point of making sure the place, used nothing more than a stash house, had not been disturbed. Rough steps prompted little pause as he moved deeper within the darkness. His limited sight not a worry as the sounds of his footfalls tapped against the walls, reverberating well enough as not to walk into any. He felt for the corner of a wall and hitting the switch where a light was set to dim rather than the brightness he wished he could handle then. A shade of blue fanned out against the ceiling, changing again in the following ten minutes. Blue, yellow, orange, a deep purple, then back to blue. He stood around for the entire cycle, mind absent from the present. Hardened features remained so. Stoned in his lost excursion from reality he tumbled further away, rolling deeper into nearly two years ago. Like the visions that prematurely transpired, the past was in his loft once again. Slade trying to crush her throat in defense from the spell she had been under. The first and not last of a rift that started the fissure. They were both interchangeable now. The reverse unable to become a blotted memory as heavy it toppled in on him. He couldn't hold up the weight much longer when he took a crash into the sectional seat. A booted foot kicked the end table forward, watching it slide forward and away. Wanting the scrap images to subside all the same. A corner of the room right in his rear was darkened but brightened as his head corrupted, lit it aflame. Blowing a frenzied ruckus of repetitive shots of trying to cut down the one he loved. Dismissed was his own feelings, thoughts, as an entire force flared in wildfire drowning out true objections. A moment made clear of being in over his head, revealed nothing but truths than deceit. He needed the face to change. The time to break apart and burn up the pieces that were resting in the corner for him to ingest, was unobtainable. This was his time apart. To keep away from being seen in a state of trouble great enough to affect what he wanted to save. Unable to do so kept the path way of sinking wider, and it resulted with the blob of dead weight into his couch. Steadily thinking of her that wasn't enriched with assuredness but the tragic what ifs when unable to pick up his head and screw it back on right. |