@nyastylion | Starter ;; | Song
It’s like a ghost, an ethereal feeling of what once. He feels it every now and then, the missing limb creeping down muscular anatomy to fuse with nerves. So often was he disturbed by the feeling, by the reality that he’d never be able to touch someone with his right hand and not fear possibly hurting them. By the fact that he could feel the organic one that he was born with. Human, the word rang deeply throughout his thoughts, oh but they were stripping that away piece by piece. Who’s to say they wouldn’t take more of him? Constantly locked in battle with the world and with himself, he couldn’t figure out what to do with the stray remnants.
He’s tired, exhausted really. When was the last time he slept well without having been perpetually knocked the fuck out? He was tempted to ask someone to just hit him over the head with a boulder at times. A laughable thought since he didn’t divulge in his issues with anyone. Issues he was sure they at least realized in some fashion or another existed with how he had his moments. He’d fallen asleep finally, kicked back in the common room with his arms as a pillow and his head down. Sleeping was one of his issues, often were his subconscious reels haunted with the damning haze of memories and severed heartstrings.
In the end, he’d take what he could get. That’s just how it was now, taking what he could get, giving his all no matter what. He couldn’t risk them, couldn’t risk losing anyone again like he’d lost his team. Not on his watch, never again. He’d tear his own lungs out to throw them at the enemy if he had no other choice if he had to. He’d tear his heart asunder with the reality that he was not vicious but had to be malicious in battle to protect them. His breath hitches, there’s ice in his veins as he feels the ghosting purple hued digits over his throat. Brown oculars snap wide and he’s plagued with the images again.
Being pinned down, his body immobile and his mind still at work to try to get out of it. Champion? No, he couldn’t even protect himself anymore. Not from this. Not from the hauntings and paralyzing fear that struck his every nerve the minute he saw those glowing yellow pools and jagged smirk. There’s bile in his throat but he refuses to yield, hands threading into the short strands of his hair to grasp and pull. It’s not real, he has to remember where he is but it’s hard. It’s damning him straight to hell for the blood on his hands, for the limb that wasn’t his.
His jaw clenches tightly and he hardly notices he’s not alone in the real world. An absolution he’d need to grasp immediately to stop himself in time. He’s jolted forward, arm cocked back and humming with that purple glow as he goes to throw a punch at his own delusions. His own messed up self. But it snaps back to reality when he sees glints of red in the rings of his vision. His fist stops, the ragged heaves of his chest all but rattling his bones as he trembled with his fist a few centimeters from their face. Red. That was Red.
Why were they here? What had they seen? He’s crumbling back into another relapse and he’s near frozen in place. The humming has died, he’s lowered his mechanical limb, and he’s realized-- There’s nothing there but the crimson lion at the moment. For that single instance in time, he’s found himself back againt the sofa, limbs tangling around himself as if he could physically hold himself together. It’s happening again, the flashes of hazed thoughts and glazed over eyes. He can’t find his voice, can’t even look up to apologize. Broken, defeated, ruined. He was desperately trying to grasp the threads of his reality to pull himself back but oh they kept breaking as the rhythm of war drums played through his ears.
