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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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YOU ARE THE REASON
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@oz-a-e
I wish it was socially acceptable for a doctor to lock himself in his office
Yeah, owns this entire institution Walks around drunk half the time, often doesn’t show up to work.
[That explains decently why he doesn't think he's met the man.] And yourself?
I wish it was socially acceptable for a doctor to lock himself in his office
But we all can’t be Spaceman.
Spaceman? [He can appreciate alone time, even if he feels he spends perhaps a bit too much of it.]
No matter how many horse tranquilizers they give me...
As much as I’d like to enjoy it, it seems to be the only movie allowed to be played in mental institutions. I’ve already seen it way too many times.
Fair enough. I've only ever been here, but it stopped being amusing the third time through. I don't, however, dislike it. I merely zone out during it.
No matter how many horse tranquilizers they give me...
I refuse to watch ‘Finding Nemo’ again.
What's wrong with Finding Nemo?
So. Bombs.
Do you remember when you found me in the infirmary? And I told you how I fell as Lucifer did? You let it be and peered into deeper parts of me, instead of asking why I was hurt. [She smiles a weak smile, something of appreciation for him, for the way his mind works, the way his words wound around her brain and nearly made her forget anything had happened until it was her turn to speak again. Even back then.] I loved that. I don’t like that word. But it feels applicable because I loved it. [She clears her throat. They hadn’t done this much talking in a long while.] I hurt myself because the walls close in and drown me with tar and I can’t think. Rain melts me away. I don’t want to go away.
[The other question she had no answer for. So she just watched him, hoping he would understand that she is a flawed girl and nothing of legend like the way his gaze on her seemed to believe.] I see in you what you can’t. I wish that you could.
[He understands and at the same time, he really doesn't. He's never felt any less than whole in his position, but hearing her voice it - it strikes something in him. He doesn't know what, because he's never felt it before. But she's talking. She's talking and the words flow from her lips with an ease they don't usually possess, even if they may not be the exact ones that she seeks. It's pleasant just to hear her voice. Pleasant to listen. Not so pleasant to process.] But the question could not forever be avoided, River. We cannot forever ignore the parts of us that feel human, just as we cannot forever ignore the parts of us that feel so very much the opposite. We are as we are made to be. [He doesn't think the words are right, or even that they at all fit, but he says them anyways. He says them because he needs something to say. Words have never had the weight between them that so many place. It almost feels wrong just to spew, but the alternative is no sort of acceptable. So he speaks.]
So. Bombs.
[She stops for a moment before speaking. Her answer doesn’t know how to be worded, how to fully exist in the context that he wants it to. But if he asks, then she tells, despite whether he already knows the answer or not.] Towards myself, yes. Towards others, generally no. There have been exceptions. Indirect ones — trickery. The sort where you’re clever enough to have them cause the violence to themselves rather than place a hand upon them. But it’s violence all the same.
You’re more than your obligations, Oz.
Why yourself? [Despite the standard, he's not asking out of concern. Which isn't to say that concern is not building a dam in his gut as he speaks, but merely to imply that he has other motives. Because he doesn't want her hurt, by others or by herself, but how does one wound the stars? Do they tear them from the sky? And if so, when torn, how do they remain separate and the same? To cause herself pain seems to make her some sort of whimsy, some paradox, something he can't explain yet. Something he wants to know better. Someone he wants to know better.] Why others?
To you. Which I appreciate.
So. Bombs.
A violent nature is one of malice. Of anger soaked in lust. [She knows the words are more than she should say. But continues anyway.]It’s a shallow existence that breeds more of its own ways.
[She shakes her head, knowing her words are tangled. So much to say.] If you feel like you’re violent, then maybe you are. But I think there is much more to wade through than simple violence.
Have you ever been violent? [He's not choosing to ignore what she's said, rather tucking it away for later. He wants to see her seams, wants to know each stitch. He thinks by the way she speaks that she likely hasn't been, but if she was, well surprises were common enough in getting to know one another, weren't they? He'd never much tried to know another before.]
I don't feel violent. I simply feel obligated to be it.
So. Bombs.
Necessary. [She has many other words. But this feels most appropriate out loud.]
But no less violent. [He's never found necessity to dilute his nature, but he wants to hear what she thinks.]
So. Bombs.
I suppose I just acknowledge that they’ll continue to maim one another. That’s what they do.
I think that violent might not be the right word.
Of course. I suppose I could always try to make a difference.Then what word would you imply in its stead?
So. Bombs.
Does anything ever really need to be blown up?
Human beings are a violent breed. Little to no reason is needed for attack, most days.
I'd like to believe that some things do, but the occasion is very rare.
I agree with you on that though. Then again, I am a violent being by nature. I suppose I can't really judge them.
So. Bombs.
Bombs are a bit more man-based, don’t you think?
It could mean nothing.
If that's so, then what about Asphodel needed to be blown up? Children, the lot of them.
So. Bombs.
Meteors, and now bombs.
I've been told to ponder simply letting things be.
[How the conversation had somehow trailed along into something that she could grin about, something to place meaning in and still find humor — albeit darker than most would remain comfortable with — she could hardly place her finger on. But it had, all the same. And with the quiet glances and subtle upturning of lips, there had been enough words to fill a bucket and have her carry it along her side until their worlds could actually manage sensibility enough to collide — to meet tangibly, for one shining moment, rather than stolen brushes of burning skin, the biting down of her teeth upon the soft tissues of her lips to keep from spilling the words from the bucket itself.
Because he is Death. Invisible and everlasting complication, taking a black shroud of cloth and winding her within its fibers, trapping her forevermore. He is patience and selfish want all stacked atop one another, never faltering. Never tumbling down. She’d tumbled enough for the both of them, wondering idly in her mind and sometimes aloud whether the loud pariah regretted catching their attentions. When her young mind had wandered to the thought of Death, never before had she pictured him the way she did now. Between contemplative wanderings and the careful unraveling of her with his words, her eyes hoped to steal an image of him: silent, broodingly taking in the simplest if gestures from her. She wanted to leave a cup of coffee out for him in the early morning. Just to see how it might humanize the titanium man the way he had humanized her.
She pulls away from her reverie and slips a grin between pensive expressions. She could implode in on herself this moment. Unravel like the worst of them in the weakest of ways… and never know a better feeling.] Be it conundrum or cataclysm… if he did take her, the clouds could swallow her whole, and she’d never even notice.
Would she want to? [He doesn’t plan to re-write it so that she does. He thinks that it would be a kindness just in case the weight of the sky beneath her back was too dense, too present. But he wants her there and as of late, he’s beginning to think that if she had not requested otherwise, he might have pulled her through the veil already. He might have shredded a hole he didn’t know how to fix and sewn it back with lopsided stitches in strings far too thin to hold the weight of a universe just to feel her presence beside his.]
The weight of a world… it truly is too heavy. [Though not to bare. He doesn’t mean it like that. Only that it is too heavy to quantify, too heavy to mend, too heavy to carry in silence. But he does. His lips have long since been sewn shut like the gods of old and each breath on his lips is a lie, like his father before him. He was meant to be this, he knows, but it doesn’t hold shut the flood gates of truth. The truth about her. The truth about him. Amounting to everything and little more than leaves on the wind simultaneously.
She is a leaf. She is the crunch of the grass beneath his feet that led him to where she sat. She is the pariah, and the air he breathed, and the clouds that ran rampant in the skies as he searched to be something more when he was younger. She was meant to be and an impossible coincidence. She was inclination and indecision and simple. He heaved a sigh, like the intake might make the universe fall into place around him just the slightest bit easier. The most important gathering of life and breath and particles in human history. River.
And he was devious. He was suitably so in his nature. To an extent, there was nothing he couldn’t do. What did it matter if he blew a hole in it all for her? Wasn’t selfishness a trait of his? He took. He took it all and he didn’t want it. He’d taken for boredom once. Taken and told himself that he was alright. Taken and told himself as he spun tales to those around him that being alone was being protected. It was what kept him safe. Kept him happy. Kept him anchored to his reality. It was courtesy that kept him from ripping her from her home, and rather than smiling like he had been, he bowed his head and stepped back. He’d taken too much already.]
Coffee
The first cup comes as a surprise to him. It's not his design, or his doing. He doesn't even drink coffee all that much. So he eyes it for a while, trying to stretch apart ever seam it's made from until it makes sense, and when it doesn't, he drinks it to taste curiosity. Or something more; consideration.
But the second cup leaves a note the first one didn't. Not on paper - not physically. But perhaps in its persistence or existence or the way it feels like her. He doesn't stare at it this time, just sips it down over the paper - one that it several weeks old and likely not about to be refreshed - and contemplates how he is supposed to return the favor.
The next time he sees her he considers it. Even as their words carry his mind to places far from warm, mid-morning beverages, he considers her favor. Because it's been a week and a half now and he doesn't think that simply drinking it and leaving the cup where she can see that he's done it is going to cut it. It already doesn't.
So he goes to the art room and he pulls the pencils from their cases, and he draws her a map of each thing he sees within her - how to find it and how to see it. Then he leaves it where she leaves the coffee and hopes that maybe it will better her understanding of where she's begun to cross the veil - in little bounds and the slight of a hand.
I've been told to ponder simply letting things be.
[Seeing a grin form on his lips through her tired eyes almost makes her forget. Forget the way she has billions of words stacking up on top of one another inside of her brain, pushing for a chance to come through, yet timidly stopping just shy of the exit. But why shouldn’t she forget? He’d said his peace, hurriedly and hushed, like it’d been sitting upon his tongue since the moment he’d met her. And she’d groped blindly and gazed at him with glazed eyes and frustrated moments of silence. But the silence, as it always had been with them, was heart-tuggingly accurate.
She opens her mouth to forge at another attempt, his wistful grin prompting within her the need to make him know. But the gentle brush of his fingers through the tiny strands of hair, the heat of his embers radiating against her skin at the vague contact — it silences her more than her own emotional turmoil could ever muster. Her eyes close, involuntarily staggering her breaths so as to concentrate, to memorize the burn as it happens. After all, these moments were few and far between, achingly so.
And yet, in the calm, blank-sheeted moments of clarity, words spill from her lips as if there had never been hesitation to hinder her at all.]
If Death were to take the Universe as his own… what a cataclysm that would be.
[The words alone cause a rift in his thoughts that he isn't entirely prepared for. He'd be lying to say he hadn't thought of it before - what it would be like to have her walk beside him in his Elysium. However he'd never allowed himself to come to any conclusions, half because it was forbidden enough to imagine, and half because there was a sort of intrinsic loneliness that came with knowing it could never be. Or was that the kind of loneliness that came with being as he was? An entity. Death, no less.
But the picture that paints itself now is permanent. Nothing exists to erase it from his mind before the ink of it seeps into each and every crevice of their silence. It's made of the milky way, and feathers that bleed into her being. It's surreal and abstract all at once, while still being oh so hyper-realistic. He almost has to shut his eyes and bask in the implications. However instead, a grin crosses his thin lips and he cocks his head to the side slightly.] Conundrum might be an understatement.
[Because there's no way to say that he's fond of the idea, and simultaneously afraid of it in ways he definitely shouldn't be. She has that effect on him, strong and entirely too there.]
I've been told to ponder simply letting things be.
[They themselves. The way he subtly snuck words in between his phrases, hoping she would cleverly pick up on his tones, wrap her weary mind around their burrowing implications. The moments between each and every breath felt like eons of silent contemplation — unfiltered thought patterns running rampant in an attempt to figure one another’s meaning. But the words that followed… sheathed in riddle and garnished with tactful wit. Almost like a game, they wound themselves tighter and tighter until, almost as suddenly as they’d began, the let loose and spun away.
His spinning feels like a hurricane — tornadoes twisting about her insides and wringing her bones dry until they shook in rigid rigor mortis. And while the entirety of her brain called out to her like a conductor at his platform, signaling to her and her alone to play her piece fortissimo, the loudest possible movement of words from her lips telling him that she knows, that she understands, that the burning touch of Death would be all the dying star needs to calm a supernova into quiet resignation… she says nothing. Only swallows the thick bile building in the center of her throat and wishes idly for a world built simply for the two of them — where language doesn’t exist and communication is a feeling.
Her eyes flick up to meet his, heavy with implication. Words billow like storm clouds behind her gaze and if she could make him hear the song they sing, then she would know him to be right. Because if Death cannot hear the Universe when she speaks volumes directly from her soul… then who ever will?
Her eyes close, a small shake of her head pairing with the pained expression upon her face. How does one calm a supernova with touch when it has already begun distorting… pulling all light into its center in preparation to become a black hole? She has no answer that isn’t too candid for him to hear. A sigh exits her lips as she speaks, breathy and wistful.] Words are so useless.
[Oz has to crack a grin at that, despite the situation. He's glad inherently that she recognizes the same struggle he does and though she isn't speaking, he thinks that what she isn't saying speaks volumes. And while she looks tired, it's relieving to know that the paper-thin syllables - or lack thereof - take as much out of her as they do him. He thinks that were they not so intrinsically similar in the ways they were, that it might almost be sick to think so.
He reaches out to her in place of words, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes in an understanding gesture. It's less a strand to him and more of a twine of the universe. She's got galaxies laced in each flaxen strand, born to flow and eventually fall. But there aren't words to say anymore. There's no sentiment to be verbally expressed, only a sort of understanding that will permeate the air between them until they both begin to suffocate on their own wonderment. He wants to calm her, but there's no control between them. Only the ebb and flow of mutual interest and flames.]
I know.
I've been told to ponder simply letting things be.
[His words are a flurry in her mind — static electricity bouncing between her cell walls and igniting. Every second, every inch she had ever moved or word she had ever spoken, every moment she had lived wound up like a fly caught in a spiders web… it was all stasis. Stagnant, pooling edema in her ankles, weighing them down and preventing her feet from going forward like a frail, liver-spotted elderly man with a waning heart. And in turn, she had come wanton with her actions; deliberate and unprovoked, immaculate in her findings, yet uncaring all the same.
And when Death looked at her the way he did, when he talked about the sky and the existence of each and every one of her insignificant features, she worried he would notice the way that her skin prickled warmly with goosebumps, covering her entirely, briefly, and involuntarily. Infinite in number, they waged a tiny war against her better judgement and pressed her to step a small, almost unnoticeable inch closer. Like magnetic fields pulling her by the very iron in her blood.]
Give you the chance. [The words seem almost humorous, a sad smile making up her expression in reaction. As if there had ever been a choice.] That which I hold seems vague and empty, and yet you talk as if I’ve captured the universe in the palm of my hand.
I could be happy, to grasp understanding and call it my own. I could. But if I held nothing, nothing at all but the simplicity of your presence… I would be content.
[Oz grins lightly at her, his gaze falling to the floor, then back to her in short bursts as he contemplates language briefly. There are no words to fit what he wishes to express. All of them fall flat, too dull and too inane to encompass all that she is and all that she can be. Vaguely he wishes he could construct them as he did the earth beneath him. That maybe if he could just change those few, insignificant syllables, he could make them into something worthy of her name. But he can't, and so he has to make do with what is already in place; as sterile and simple as it may be.
Still he stutters silently on the first words, unable to force them out. There's no hold and nothing to make them right. So instead he tries to weave the logic like he does the cracks in the universe. Like praise-made plaster might successfully fill the gaps in their communication. The silence he knows they've both found a home it that lingers when the two of them are too lost in their own minds to fully speak. Because he knows no matter how hard he tries to voice it, he won't say enough. They never do.
Their conversations are built of silence and a mutual understanding that the other is just as thrown and curious as themselves. It's always been subtle turns and fumbling steps; shots fired in the pitch black of confusion and the insufferable need to then understand. More is left unsaid and understood then is ever actually voiced and he has to wonder if such interaction can really be healthy. He stands above his body, looking on at how they mingle and each connection, each breath, each movement seems intrinsic. Somehow natural despite that he is filled to the brim with concern for how it may all end.
In the end what he blurts out is tinged with the rush to simply have it said, and desperation for her to just understand what he means. It's too plain and too abrasive, but it's all he can manage in explanation.]
You're going supernova on me again. Tell me how does one settle the stars? For surely they themselves must know.
