Q. @rejectory said , " stop. "
fingers are twitching, his pulse is in his ears, and there's nowhere left to go. dead end in the form of an already capsized living room — it's neither of theirs, he doesn't feel guilt for the coffee table kicked in between them. it sits on its side, stretching long across the carpet, " get away from me. " voice lurches where his body doesn't. shockingly still after the tear through the halls, down to the belly of this home that refuses to feel like anything more than a trap. a comfortable lure to whatever end. not one in sight, perhaps, though a glance towards a window, there over steve's ( he knows his name, denial be damned ) shoulder where blinds are parted by curtains hang heavy to blot out the light.
they're seven stories up, but he's survived further.
sickness doesn't start in his stomach. for james, it's rooted in his eyes. too wide, too wild, and altogether too readily looking anywhere but the concerned lines of a face that still tries to flicker out. not blurry, not now, but his hand is raised like he's warding a snarling stray and the soles of boots won't sit too long to leave imprints in the carpet. " i said get away ! " lamp isn't thrown, but it is swatted from its seat on a side table. it rolls till the cord give resistance, pulls from the wall, and sinks them closer to a darkness he's more comfortable in.
" stop following me, " caught in the act of something similar, his voice cracks under pressure. exposes him for what he is ; terrified. poised in the line of fire, braced for the impact that never comes.. it's exhausting. remembering is exhausting.
