Harry’s brain doesn’t make those distinctions between reality and memory, except when it does. Tug of war ensues. The practical voices in his head will point out that at the very least he’s gotten a (nearly) private masters course in human anatomy and butchering.
AUTHORITY - (Bullshit. All he does is give you shit.)
HALF LIGHT - (Look at him flinch! He’s still scared.)
A sharp exhale.
Harry looks down at his bowl and forces the image out of his mind, of Jean’s bare chest painted red with his fingertips, his shirt cut open. Ungrateful bastard didn’t even appreciate his gift, his mercy, a token of admiration and yes, love. He doesn’t know what to do with it, there’s so much love in his lungs, and no one wants it. He’s going to choke…he’s going to drown.
COMPOSURE - (You can feel it. You’re going to cry. Not right now. But it’s going to happen.)
He takes another bite of stew and growls, points his spoon at Jean. No one wants his love.
“All you do is give me shit.”
Harry’s brain is yanked back to the now, by his own voice where he is sharing a kitchen with his satellite, back to the crawling feeling.
VOLITION - (They can’t see you. They can’t.)
HALF LIGHT - (But if they could they’d be laughing their asses off at you. He’s right.)
ESPIRIT DE CORPS - (Chester McClaine’s laugh is all simple childish glee. It’s not a particularly mean sound, it never is. Which makes it all the more disturbing. He can’t even laugh at someone like a grown man, not even when he’s kicking the shit out of them.)
INLAND EMPIRE - (But what if they really can see you, somehow? What if they’re all watching you right now. You know how it would be. Like on the radio but worse. So much worse! This isn’t ‘look Mullen’s fucked up!’ its ‘look Mullen’s a fucking f****t now.’)
CONCEPTUALIZATION - (What if you don’t want them to recognize you anymore?)
That’s a great point but what comes out of his mouth is:
cw identity confusion, police brutality, censored slurs, internalized homophobia, self harm impulse
AUTHORITY - (Bullshit. All he does is give you shit.)
HALF LIGHT - (Look at him flinch! He’s still scared.)
A sharp exhale.
Harry looks down at his bowl and forces the image out of his mind, of Jean’s bare chest painted red with his fingertips, his shirt cut open. Ungrateful bastard didn’t even appreciate his gift, his mercy, a token of admiration and yes, love. He doesn’t know what to do with it, there’s so much love in his lungs, and no one wants it. He’s going to choke…he’s going to drown.
COMPOSURE - (You can feel it. You’re going to cry. Not right now. But it’s going to happen.)
He takes another bite of stew and growls, points his spoon at Jean. No one wants his love.
“All you do is give me shit.”
Harry’s brain is yanked back to the now, by his own voice where he is sharing a kitchen with his satellite, back to the crawling feeling.
VOLITION - (They can’t see you. They can’t.)
HALF LIGHT - (But if they could they’d be laughing their asses off at you. He’s right.)
ESPIRIT DE CORPS - (Chester McClaine’s laugh is all simple childish glee. It’s not a particularly mean sound, it never is. Which makes it all the more disturbing. He can’t even laugh at someone like a grown man, not even when he’s kicking the shit out of them.)
INLAND EMPIRE - (But what if they really can see you, somehow? What if they’re all watching you right now. You know how it would be. Like on the radio but worse. So much worse! This isn’t ‘look Mullen’s fucked up!’ its ‘look Mullen’s a fucking f****t now.’)
CONCEPTUALIZATION - (What if you don’t want them to recognize you anymore?)
That’s a great point but what comes out of his mouth is:
“And they’d recognize you? Rat…fuck. Bastard. Fuck…You.”
He needs to give his twitchy hands something to do, he sets down his bowl and starts taking out his earrings.
PAIN THRESHOLD - (Rip the fuckers out. It’ll feel better.)
[No it won’t.]
PAIN THRESHOLD - (It'll make a point.)
HALF LIGHT - (It'll make him squirm.)