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Post by Paroxysm on Oct 22, 2016 12:23:59 GMT -5
I wrote this before we finished the Scarlett stuff, so I didn't know if it would fit in. I'm also unsure I have the characters completely correct, so we'll see how things go later. Noah in particular, I think I have changed his compulsions to checking his phone -- particularly for disaster news, replies from his kids, and the like. He can't handle the thought of missing something, and feels that if he does, inevitably his children will be involved and he won't be there for them. He is notified from all sorts of news feeds, so he's always got information coming in, and is almost always checking his phone.
In this, however, I had him counting -- particularly in multiples of four. He had to keep his office rotation symmetrical on all four walls, and have supplies in multiples of four. It was fun to write, and I am unsure how much of it I am going to keep canon for the character.
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Post by Paroxysm on Oct 22, 2016 12:24:24 GMT -5
He drank to forget. He knew that was a bad reason, but at the same time, he knew it worked. He would have preferred it if he had stayed dead.
He wanted to forget how to feel regret. Guilt. Loneliness. He wanted to forget Noah’s face, the cold confidence that had been beaten into it over these years. He wanted to forget his daughter, nearly a teenager now. That newborn. Now a child. He wouldn’t have recognized the child if he wasn’t with Noah.
Every time he thought of any of them, or looked at his phone-- holding within it a means for contacting them-- he bought another drink.
It was easier to remember Jira. She was gone. She was free. Noah was still alive, trying to raise those children alone.
Haymich downed his drink and slid another over.
He couldn’t go back. Even just the thought of it was too much to handle. He looked at the phone again. He wanted to, he needed to.
He called for another drink.
Too much had changed. There was no way to go back. It was impossible. And even if he could, if Noah would let him.. it hurt too much to try. Every time he looked at them he knew he would feel this guilt he tried to forget. He had abandoned them for eight years. He shouldn’t expect anything but hatred from them.
Haymich rubbed his eyes to make himself stop thinking. His drink was almost gone.
All he could do was drink until he forgot what he could have had, and try to find some sort of income. He had a valuable skill set, if given to the right people. Apparently the times only supported brute force, so having one of his caliber put him in high demand. He would do what got him another night of drinks. His name was gone now. So were the family rivalries.
There was no “organized” crime anymore. It was chaotic, everywhere. People had spent the years trying to avoid the random acts of violence from the infamous (like the one he met the other day.) Nowadays, they were just trying to stay out of the new police commissioner’s hair, to avoid her wrath.
He told them he wasn’t even the one making the hits, he just had a connection to the guy. He did what he could, took what jobs he could, keeping his name out of it, and not feeling anything. No thrill, no pity, no regret.
Just as he was about to forget, he heard the ghost of a laugh in his mind, saw amber eyes sparkling -- Haymich started his next drink, glancing at his phone again.
No regret.
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Post by Paroxysm on Oct 22, 2016 12:25:47 GMT -5
The scariest thing a young, lower-middle class child could see was their parents crying. So Noah tried. He went through the motions, he smiled for them, he hugged them, he brought them to events, and spoke to other adults for them because they were all he had left.
Even when it became almost unbearable, he held off until he put them to bed. He went to his study then. He locked the door four times, and tried to hold back tears when he knew he had to check an equal number of times. He wasn’t getting better. He had been lying to himself.
His room reflected itself as best it could on all four walls. A screen on each, a desk, each with the exact same supplies. Even the door-- a big, white, french one-- matched the big, white, french windows. He tried to ignore the handle that stuck out. He had to make sure he had time enough to work tonight.
Haymich had left him.
The thought left a hole in his stomach, made worse by the paperclips he dumped onto the desk to his left. He counted each one. 32.
Haymich had seen him only a few days ago, but why wouldn’t he call?
He put the paperclips back, one by one. 32. He tried to ignore the hot mist in his eyes, and upended the pens.
All he wanted was to not be alone. All he had ever wanted was his life back.
8.
And now.. now that half of what he had was back, Haymich was nothing but a shred of what he had been. It had been like watching a puppet. The dead man inside, trying to act as the man Noah had once known. Had once loved.
Still 8.
Still loved. He didn’t want to. Noah knew he was nothing anymore either. However much he pretended, he knew he had lost everything he was when he lost the both of them. That’s all it was now. Pretend. If he wasn’t pretending, he wouldn’t be here, in this hellish room, counting the post-its he had left.
151.
But if this was only the ghost of Haymich.. why did it hurt so much? Why did he want it to call? Why did it hurt to watch him avoid looking at his son?
He tore a post-it in half twice. 150.
Why did he expect Haymich to come back? To even want to? Why would he want to, when Noah had only gotten worse?
149.
He had never expected that if he saw Haymich or Jira again it would be anything other than happy. There was no happiness in their meeting. None. He hadn’t even said he was glad to see Haymich again. Why?
148.
Why was it so cold? Why was he so angry? Why did he push Haymich away?
147. fragdaggle. He counted wrong.
The tears fell now. He couldn’t hold them back as he ripped another note, slowly. All he wanted was to see that stupid face make that stupid toothy grin again. For real.
He ripped the note again. 146.
He wanted to hear that dumb voice of his. The one that made him laugh. For real. He hadn’t wanted to be dismissed by it.
“I’m sure I’ll seeya ‘round.”
He ripped another note.
It was said like it didn’t matter. Would he not try to even talk to him? Was he just waiting on chance?
145.
Why did he leave Haymich there?
He raised a hand, holding the last post-it, to the top of his head. A sob snuck through his lips as he recalled the warmth of Haymich’s hand, the flood of long-forgotten comfort. He wanted it back.
144. Finally.
144. Again.
4 hard drives.
4 hard drives.
Noah turned to the next desk, wiping his nose. He wanted it all back. He didn’t care if they had both changed. He wanted part of his home back.
He upended the paperclips.
31.
31.
31 31
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