@glitchmcb for ester.
he might be dry heaving. let him be. hospitals give him the jeeves. they always have. but if he had just gotten to the lightbulb faster. if he’d picked sam up and carried her out...
his jaw clenches. michael munroe tony-- just tony-- hated being sober for this exact reason. the what if’s. the possible scenarios that could have happened. the butterfly effect that had unraveled based on one ill advised decision at the age of seventeen. he feels the bile rise but nothing comes out as he feels his body lurching forward to try to purge itself of the nothingness and stomach acid accumulating in his stomach. leather jacket stretches as he moves, hands on denim’d knees. gun strapped to his belt.
this time it’s his fixation on samantha’s coma. that same disgust rises in him and sets the hair on the back of his neck on edge, prickling all over his figure. michael stands fully now, wiping at his mouth, and then running a hand over his face. the many talismans he’s wearing clack and clink against each other as he jostles around, the bush he’s just bend over billowing in the wind. motels around pasadena weren’t hard to come by. it was just about getting sustenance, supplies, and gas now. that’s why he was hanging around the desolate parking lot of the convenience store, sweat soaked royal blue button up rumpled. dark eyes squint and cast along the array of establishments. a trinket shop in the corner alerts his attention mildly, as he pulls out the red and white package, large M emblem blaring.
if i had done something different. if i hadn’t killed that elk.. if i had chosen left instead of right. if i had made that squirrel my best fuckin’ friend..
maybe she’d be more than just a shell of a person.
flashes of wendigo hannah rush through his mind. the humanoid screech sounds in his ears.
the anger then sets on as the whisper of a taunting cackle enters his mind’s attic. he forces it away. it’s easier to, when he’s a two day drive from the place he’s now called his inhabitance for some time now. the dark haired male scratches at his scruff, inked digits soon bringing the brown filter to his lips. lighter sparked, cherried tip, vice’s smoke sucked in. long foot falls, boots crunching the gravel beneath his feet as he makes his way towards the shop in question. he was never one to admit it, but having sage at hand to burn and salt to ward off bad juju or whatever made him feel a little more at ease. buy away his trauma. 241st time’s the charm, right?