Teeth graze across the spread of the palm, fanned by the muddled cries and damp breath of a frenzied patient.
Scarecrow’s prey wrenches and with him, Jonathan twists himself to coincide, adeptly swiveling with his every foreseeable contortions. A man damned to illusion cries aloud and his every beseeching shout rebounds sealed doors, and it’s his own undoing. The motion rolls as one, intrusive, as he jolts with him in an intimate, paralyzing verisimilitude. Together, they closely share unilluminated boundaries to incite claustrophobia, fears camouflaged in a dismal playground. Burlap kisses across the lips, contorting the smile broad beneath crude knotting.
Supple flesh breaks as the nails bite and slowly does he rake them back before release to only anticipate his squirm. He collapses a slim distance away, applying one step to slide himself closer as slacks grind across disorganized flooring.
The right hand lifts to him, collecting a fistful of hair, coiling to entangle to steady him once more. Contact is hastened and a closeness regains as he skitters touch to find the throat again for what remains of his compound.
Languorous, the Rogue rummages for a flashlight, thumbing its edge to illuminate the pupils. In the interval shared, his own breathing hastens- a sharp intake of breath caught in the hollow of his throat, leaving behind a rasp.
A pitiful whimper escapes, cheek a pinkish red with the remaining traces of a thoughtless scratch. Lithe fingers pull at his hair, forcing Elliot upright, and he grits his teeth, bumping awkwardly against the table as those very same digits feel over his neck. Vision blurring, he flinches away from the Rogue’s touch, only to pull back even further as a bright light is shined in his face. Though Elliot processes Scarecrow’s utterance, he no longer sees the Rogue, processing him only as a fever dream of familial figures, first his mother, her visage contorted with wrath, who then morphs into his dying father. ❛ I - I didn’t mean it.., ❜ his words come out in a pitiful stammer, morphed by absolute terror.
❛ P - Please ------ ❜ His breath hitches, caught in his throat, but Elliot only tries to pull away, shielding his face from the blinding light. To him, it has become the glare of illumination found in a hospital room. He’s reduced to a child, not even in his teens, with a bandage wrapped ‘round his head. Injuries from being shoved out the window. YOU FAILED HIM. ❛ I’m sorry, I - I ------ ❜ But he’s dead. He’s gone. None of it’s REAL. Whatever attempts he makes at grounding himself in reality seem to go entirely unnoticed as his heart rate increases at a vicious rate, panic coursing through his veins along with the toxin that corrupts his very cognizance.
