floratic:

TOLD  YOU .  BEEN  CLEAN  FOR  OVER  A  YEAR  NOW , DICKBAG .   this  is  almost  true ,  except  he’d  almost  relapsed  once ,  tried  to  take  one  too  many  happy  pills  than  the  psychiatrist  had  prescribed  him . but  it  was  only  an  – almost –  .  parrish  had  tugged  on  his  clambering  fingers  & screwed  the  cap  shut  again ,  tossed  the  orange  bottle  away  and  beyond  his  sight .   ‘ look , it’ll  be  fine .  i’m  here  now ,  &  i’m  not  going  to  let  those  nut - job  doctors  to  take  you  away  back  to  juvie  again ,  i’m  here ,  yeah ?’   

———-except  parrish  couldn’t  save  him  on  the  night  of  the  murder .  and  elliot  did  not  blame  him  either ,  even  god  couldn’t  have  helped  him  in  the  situation .  or  was  he  ever  present  in  his  life ?  there  certainly  was  nothing  but  terror  that  night .  it  had  swelled ,  expanded ,  then  burst  into  an  ever - lasting  maw  of  darkness  that  drenched  at  his  ankles ,  attempting  to  drag  him  down  until  he  would  drown  through  it’s  muffled  silence .  

( &  for  a  moment ,  he’d  seen  it  reflected  clearly  through  the  hollow  stare  of  his  father’s  eyes .  then  he  ran .  )     ❝ —– &  i’ve  got  a  place  to  go  to  already .  ❞    as  if  to  understand  the  intent  gaze  settling  over  the  scarred  blood  &  ruins  on  his  face ,  he  swings  his  face  away  ,  raising  a  hand  to  cradle  the  cut  of  his  jaw  in  quiet  apathy .    ❝ so ,  go  away . ❞    the  man  was  extending  a  hand  for  help ,  something  he  might  have  been  in  dire  need  of  now ,  but  the  glowering  suspicion  within  him  had  already  spiked ,  had  its  hackles  risen  like  a  threatened  cat  .  there  was  nowhere  to  stay ,  no  place  was  ever  safe  enough  to  stay  for  a  long  time .  it  would  only  be  a  limited  amount  of  time  before  the  cops  would  begin  their  searching  sniffing  through  the  cities  as  well ,  &  he  would  have  to  cross  to  another  city — ,  another  state  maybe . tonight , he  would  find  home  in  the  empty  chapel ,  glared  upon  by  jesus  on his  crucifix ,  unwelcome  shunned  from  his  home  like  a  sinner .  the  next  night , he  could  easily  hijack  some  bummer’s  car , borrow  it  just  for  the  night .  

❝  you  chase  me  down ,  demand  for  my  story .  know  where  parrish  is — ,  but  won’t  tell  me  where .  then  offer  to  help .  remind  me  why  i  shouldn’t  pull  my  knife  back  out .   ❞    it’s  an  empty  threat ,  &  he  knows  it  too  well .  he  was  far  too  exhausted , fatigue  burning  though  his  muscles  for  another  street  - brawl  or  a  dirty  fight .  but  he  continues  on ,  thumbing  for  the  switchblade  again  while  keeping  a  steady ,  leveled  gaze with  the  man  again .     ❝  your  name .  don’t  care  if  you  give  a  fake  one ,  just  give  me  something  that  i  can  tack  to  your  face , — so  whether  i  decide  to  gut  you  or  trust  you , i’ll  remember  you . ❞  

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Dickbag, huh? Well, bitch face, while we’re exchanging insults, let’s keep that sobriety up, cool? You’re not fucking overdosing in my bathroom. Trust me, I’ve been burned before…” He gave a lop-sided smile, tilting his head to th eside and allowing the joints in his neck to crack with a series of pops.

“You can keep callin’ me dickbag if you want,but traditionally I tend to go by Isaac Moreau. I know, I know, my name probably precedes me, right? I used to be hot shit, way back when. Got my name in the papers, for good things. Scholarships and shit. Yeah, this guy was a fucking academic. Good at it, too. Guess I buried that goody-two-shoes bastard in the ground.”

For a moment, the smile fades, and he’s staring off somewhere, just beyond Elliot’s head, but not looking directly at him. There’s the flicker of a memory, of a reflection he used to see in the mirror, a younger him, with skin clear of tattoos and his hair once neatly combed back and styled. His voice was unmarred by smoke, and he sat straight-backed at a family  table, listening to his father lecturing,his mother pushing him to do better in school, you think youll get by with grades like this? If you dont get those As, you dont get dinner. Followed by a slap on the cheek when he dared open his mouth to speak out of turn.

He’s snapped out of the trance by a passing truck’s loud and obnoxious horn, and he remembers just why he’s here in the first place. Freedom. Thats what you wanted, right?

Youre free, Adam said to him once, when the lights were low and there was little to say between them that didn’t involve the shedding of tears or the reliving of past mistakes. But are you any happier here than you were there? Whatll it take to make you happy again?

“Look, Mister Stubborn-Ass McGee, wait right here for a second, okay?” He turns away from Elliot for a moment, watching the streets outside of the alley with a careful eye, setting his sharp gaze on a passing hotdog vendor, who was shouting something unintelligible and waving around a bottle of water. He fast walks over to the man, practically throwing a few crumpled dollar bills in the harried man’s face, walking away with the bottle, soundtrack of the man’s frustrated shouts accompanying him as he walked back to Elliot.

“Here, dumbass. At least take some water. If you still wanna stab me, go ahead, I see the way you’re just itchin’ to bring that fucking cereal box prize knife out again. When I go down, I’ll drop the key to my apartment, so it’ll give you some place to go. Because we both know you don’t have anywhere, at least not somewhere that’s not a shady, disgusting shelter where who knows what’ll happen to you. I know, how can a creepy stranger like me’s house possibly be safe, right?”

He pauses, watches a stumbling man in shabby clothes crossing the street against the light, nearly being hit by several cab drivers who all beep at him in unison. The man simply yells a few expletives and wearily holds up his middle finger, and finally comes to the sidewalk, where he promptly vomits, gripping a street sign for support.

He jabs his finger in the direction he’s walking (more like shuffling), saying rather frankly, “But it beats slummin’ it with the dirty bums and the fuckin’ whores who roam the streets and prey on desperate, homeless kids. Trust me, I know how hard it is out there. In the shape you’re in, you’re dumber than I thought if you think you’re gonna last another night facing the gangs that roam around, dying for some little angel-faced babe to sink their un-brushed teeth into.”

“What’ll make you happy again, Isaac?” he hears Adam’s voice ringing in his mind, faint, but still there, despite all the time that had passed between them.

“Helping kids like me avoid what I’ve done to my life. Guess you might as well start calling me Peter Pan.”

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Breaking the newest experiment out of his confinement in Umbrella Corporation’s laboratory was an easy enough task for Jacqueline to accomplish. She had all the access codes, all the key cards, and had memorized every inch of the ultra-secret facility in which she worked. She was assigned to watch over this newest test subject, a young man who was not to be given a name, but simply a  series of digits, taped to the front of his plexiglass cell. She would come to learn who he was each time she entered the room to study his behavior, feeling disgust from the fact that she was aiding in the torture of this poor boy. She couldn’t stand it any longer.

They developed a friendship, one that was kept under tight wraps and steeped in hushed secrecy for their safety. Jacqueline’s name was shortened to Jackie for simplicity’s sake, and she learned he used to be Carson, but preferred to be called Cross by his long-gone friends. They shared a commonality, the reality that they were both infected by viruses put out by the company, and their families were torn apart by the devastating consequences of biochemical engineering having been put into the wrong hands.

It wasn’t long before plans for an escape were put into place.

Unfortunately, Jackie underestimated just how difficult it would be for both of them to evade Umbrella Corporation’s workers, fully and tirelessly dedicated to their cause and not about to let a rebellious research assistant waltz off with their most important specimen to date.

Soon, they found themselves racing through the thick forests that encased the lab in a veil of underbrush. They were both severely out of breath, weary muscles using the last bits of energy they had to support each other as they ran, Jackie taking the lead as she knew the territory the best.

They were forced to skid to a halt, though, as Jackie suddenly couldn’t stop herself from keeling over, heaving and expelling the contents of her stomach. A substance akin to that of black tar spewed across the forest floor, and she continued to vomit the noxious, chunky liquid until she physically couldn’t anymore.

When she was finally finished, she looked up at her companion with horribly bloodshot eyes, shaky hand being raised to wipe her mouth, which only served to smear remnants of the black stuff across her face. “Maybe you should just go on without me. I’ll tell you which way to go, to get out of the area. But I think… I think I’d only end up being a dead weight to you. I don’t want to be the reason you get captured, again.

@floratic







floratic:

YOU  NEED  TO  LEAVE .  oh , only  if  the  solution  was  as  easy  as  the  statement ,  breathed  out  in  a  cautious  feather  of  breath  by  parrish .  he  hardly  bears  a  flinch  when  his  wrist  is  tugged  out  free ,  and  beneath  the  dimming  sunlight ,  he  too ,  finally  examines  the  colors  battered  deep  into  his  flesh  like  bruised  plums .  parrish’s  gaze  stung ,  a  form  of  guilt  prodding  angrily  against  his  heart  as  the  boy  turns  his  distressed  eyes  against  him .  it’s  not  fair ,  he  almost  wishes  to  say .      ❝ just  leave ,  huh . ❞   the  words  fall  more  colder  than  he  expects  it  to ,  but  the  weight  sinks  like  drowned   stones   against   the  steep  silence  between  them .  

 ❝ first ,  you’re  not  going  anywhere  near  him .  second ,  leaving ,  that’s  just  a  pipe-dream .  ❞  if  he  left ,  the  beast  would  spin  its  way  around  his  mother ,  tear  her  to  empty  pieces ,  her  bones  picked  clean ,  flesh  torn  until  there  would  be  nothing  to  destroy .  that  was  only  how  the  system  had  worked  itself  to  this  point :  elliot ,  the  self - made  barrier  between  his  father  and  mother ,  a  self - established  role  since  the  terrible  age  of  13 .  

  ❝ —- i  can’t .  not  now .  ❞   his  voice  finally  drops  the  tense  blade - edge ,  and  expression  sinks  back  to  a  softer  twitch  of  something  like  remorse .  and  he  slowly  snags  the  wrist  back  towards  himself ,  pressing  a  careful  thumb  over  the  bruise ,  as  if  the  action  could  erase  the  color .  he  keeps  his  finger  pressed ,  wonders  why  parrish  was  so  desperate  to  keep  him  afloat .  often ,  his  words  meant  the  key  to  the  bird - cage ,  his  offers  the  climbing  ladder  from  the  sunken  ditch  that  he’d   successfully  cornered  himself  down  to .  again ,  that  was  his  defense  mechanism

 sometimes ,  he  was  certain  that  if  he  searched  hard  enough ,  dug  through  the  dirt  viciously  enough ,  the  10 - year  old  boy  would  be  found  again ,  crouched  and  quietly  breathing  the  words  of  ‘ please don’t ,  i’m  sorry .’  in  a  mantra ,  as  if  they  were  the  saving  grace .  but  it  was  different  now .  he’d  long  chosen  to  leave  the  boy  behind ,  kept  him  buried  beneath  the  dirt  as  he  pushed  forward  towards  life .  to  live ,  to  live ,  it  was  to  forget ,  and  become  a  different  creature  for  him .  it  was  the  only  way  at  the  time .     ❝ i  wouldn’t  stab  with  the  scapel , i  would  dig  it  into  his  throat .  hard  enough  to  kill him  , ❞

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His heart sinks like a stone in his chest, listening to Elliot’s voice, focusing hard on the darkened edges of his tone that had Parrish cringing. The way he exhibited little reaction from having been touched so forcefully sent shock waves down his spine. Hes giving up, hes giving up isnt he? It was always all or nothing with him, his black-and-white mind often unable to truly understand the demons with which Elliot grappled, the intricacies of his familial ties that he could never dream of having to deal with. His father was long dead; a brute, sure, but now just a corpse buried underneath six feet of dirt.

Elliot’s father, though, was alive and breathing, and had pushed his son so far to the cliff’s edge that he was now speaking of jamming a blade into his paternal figure’s throat.

 He felt a spike in his blood when Elliot’s warning hit his ears. Youre not going anywhere near him.

“What, do you think I wouldn’t take him out right here and now if he was here? I have half a mind to go knocking on your door and tearing into him.” But he knew he would never, could never, go that far. It was all talk, as much as he wanted to deny that. He wasn’t Elliot, this wasn’t his fight, as much as he wanted it to be; wasn’t aggressive enough, wasn’t strong enough, supposed he wasn’t man enough to deal with this problem on his own (maybe dear old dad was right about me and my weaknesses all along).

“Well, look, would you at least come by and let my mom patch you up a little? I can see some cuts on your hands, and I know for a fact you don’t have any Neosporin in your medicine cabinet.” He lied about the cuts,but he couldn’t help it; he just needed to get any excuse to keep Elliot out of that house, if only for today, if only a few hours. He just hoped to god Elliot couldn’t notice the transparency of his fib, and he knew how unlikely that would be.

He tries to crack a smile, in turn attempting to put a crack through the tenseness of their situation. “If you get an infection and lose your hands, I’ll never forgive you. How’re you gonna hug me without any hands?” His voice lowered a bit as he added, staring into Elliot’s eyes that darted back in the direction of his home in a close to frantic fashion, “I know how much you care about your mother and her safety, I do. But I care about you, and you can’t protect your mom if you’re half-dead. I know it, you know it – don’t overestimate your strength, El. You can’t save her if you can’t even muster the will to save yourself.”

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floratic:

FIGHT  OR  FLIGHTthere  it  was  again .  he  thinks  about  the  switchblade  sewn  into  the  pocket  inside  his  jacket  as  the  fucker  advances  on  towards  him .  and  in  tandem ,  one  step  forward , &  he  takes  a  step  back , again  &  again ,  until  his  back  finally  meets  against  the  wired  fence .  carefully ,  he  digs  his  hand  inside  his  jacket ,  considering  the  blade  ,  lightly  pressing  against  the  sharped  point  of  the  weapon  before  his  breath  stalls  by  the  mention  of  his  . .  boyfriend .   now ,  there  was  no  longer  the  tug  of  hesitation ,  but  he  cuts  through  the  air  with  the  switchblade ,  keeping  it  in  a  measured  distance  against  the  stranger  before  bracing  himself . 

❝ what’s  he  doing  out  here ? ❞    perhaps  the  right  question   should  have  been :  who  are  you ?  what  do  you  exactly  want  from  me ?  or  just  fuck  off .   but  the  memory  of  parrish  &  alexandria  catches  him  off  guard ,  &  for  a  second , a  flutter  of  quick  breath  drains  through  his  lungs .  what  was  he  doing  here ? — how  did  parrish  trace  his  footsteps ? 

 he ‘d managed  to  leave  the  town  as  safe  as  he  could ,  no  cookie - crumb  trails  left  behind  him  or  a  pathetic  mistake  left  behind  for  the  crops  to  sniff  him  out .  yet ,  parrish  was  here .  he  nearly  forgets  the  blood  welled  dark  against  his  face  from  the  prior  fight  against  a  group  of  thugs ,  of  which  he’d  avoided ,  but  of  course ,  not  without  a  blood - struggle .   

this  man  could  be  an  enemy  or  something  else ,  he  wasn’t  too  sure .  the  first  instinct  was  always  to  distrust , but  he  would  need  to  play  in  with  the  man’s  games  if  he  wished  for  answers .  the  daring , lop - sided  grin  on  the  stranger’s  face  seemed  to  agree  with  his  thoughts ,  the  blade  is  slowly  wavered  down  from  the  threat - filled  gesture .    ❝ —-killed  my  mother .  that’s  what  they’re  all  saying ,  ‘course  they  all  fucking  believe  what  the  press  says , i  dashed  out  from  that  hell - hole  before  they  could  swarm  over  me  like  maggots .  ❞     he  pauses  then ,  wonders  if  trading  his  truth  is  worth  the  risk  of  speaking  to  this  stranger .  distrust ,  elliot ,  distrust .  no ,  for  the  first  time ,  he  goes  against  his  instinct  ,  grasping  against  parrish’s  name  as  a  tug  of  hope .       ❝ my dad ,  the  sonuvabitch  killed  her .  sure  did  a  theatrical  job  telling  the  cops  that  his  drug - addict  delinquent  of  a  son  finally  went  out  of  control ,  all  because  his  mom  didn’t  let  him  take  his  pills  .  real  fukin’  funny  though ,  because  i’ve  been  clean  since  last  december .   ❞  

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His hands go up, but not with urgency; the action is slow and drawn out, and with the prospect of being stabbed with a switchblade, comes a bout of laughter, the most inappropriate action to such a potentially lethal situation. But he could see the exhausted way in which this frightened boy’s chest heaved for air, the weariness in the muscles of his arm that lifted the weapon. He was in no real danger, not from this kid. He was running on stale adrenaline, and it was going down, crashing hard and fast.

“You are quite the little character, aren’t ya? Got any more sharpened magic tricks up your sleeves?” He laughs again, raspy and cackling, throat shredded from smoking various things in pipes and bongs over the years. “And as for your adorable boyfriend, Parrish, he’s lookin’ for you, of course! What, you think you can just run away and no one’ll ever come after ya? Yeah, not quite. Been there, rode that angry pony, nearly got kicked off and landed on my ass. No matter how good you think you are at hiding your tracks, there’s always someone who’ll come sniffin’.”

He’s squinting now, emerald halos brought to half their size as he fully took in the extent of Elliot’s features, the blood caked against his face, some of it fresh, some dried and crusted against his skin in thick maroon flakes. “Jesus, I’m inclined to think the kid just followed the blood trail you’re leaving like paint on the sidewalks. You look like someone tried to give you facial reconstruction surgery with their fists.”

A look of concern flashes across his face, but he’s quick to hide it behind a chuckle. “Damn, they’re really trying to demonize you out there, huh? Media will do that. I don’t trust any of ‘em, no good fucking dishonest reporters. Always trying to put out a shocking story, truth be damned. If it means anything, I believe you. You wouldn’t have come all the way out here, lookin’ as horrified and fucked up as you do, if you werent innocent. Guilty people don’t have nearly as much sense of self-preservation.”

Looking at Elliot was becoming almost painful, what with the damage done to his body. Hearing his story was almost as rough. He couldn’t imagine it, his own father framing him for such a terrible crime. What kind of fucked up bastard did such a thing? And that thought was coming from a self-proclaimed fucked up bastard! A wave of empathy crossed his heart, as he said, “Hey, why don’t you come in for a bit, get yourself cleaned up, maybe some water or something? And honestly, I’m not taking no for an answer; you look like you’re about to pass out, and trust me, better inside than laying out here, prey to god knows who or what. Daddy issues are no reason to let yourself fuckin’ die on the city streets. Just, when you’re inside, don’t fuck with my stash, alright? Don’t need you messing up my business, or your sobriety. I ain’t in the mood to deal with a relapsed junkie today.”

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“You just missed him, ya know.” His voice is not condescending, as it so often tended to be. Rather, it was simply matter-of-fact, and his expression was wiped of his oh-so-annoyingly-usual smirk. He scans Elliot’s form, giving him an analytical once over before nodding to himself, as if to confirm something in his mind.

“You look just like he said, not a detail out of place. But, if I may - I’d say you’re even cuter in person.” Then his lips break through into a wide grin,betraying his cool and casual facade. He couldn’t help it, the prodding, suggestive jokes and humor that some (99% of people) would consider crude and crass. It was simply in his nature. He didn’t come to be known by his friends on the streets as the Junkyard Dog for nothing, after all.

He comes closer to Elliot, green eyes vibrant and seeming to glow as a car passed by the alleyway, headlights illuminating the arguably cramped space they occupied, flashing against his irises and creating an eerie effect. “Ya know, I could just tell you which way he went, but that’d be too easy! I didn’t expect to see you just wandering around out here, it’s kinda a big surprise - I don’t get surprises much anymore. Life’s become a bit of, how you say, a goddamn big ass fucking bore.”

He’s leaning against the brick wall of his apartment complex now, arms crossed as he stares at Elliot with the gaze of a scientist overwhelmed with curiosity as he examines his newfound specimen. Behind Elliot is a wire fence jutting fairly high in the air, and by all impressions, the boy is cornered by Isaac. Whether it was his intention to make Elliot feel threatened was anyone’s guess. He simply had that effect on people, and sometimes he had no want to do so.

“Yer little boyfriend told me you were running from something big, but he didn’t specify what. I’m mighty curious as to what a scrawny little kid like you might have done. I don’t read the papers much, so enlighten me, mister man - just what kind of deep shit are you in? … And if it’s profitable, count me the fuck in!”

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@floratic







floratic:

 ❝ —LISTEN , I  TOLD  YOU .   in  recoiling  defense , he  shrugs  himself  away  from  parrish’s  reach ,  digging  the  bruise - battered  knuckles  harder  down  the  small  of  his  pockets .  here  he  was  again , always  evading  &  evading , —since   when  did  running  become  a  defense  mechanism ?  maybe  it  was  from  seven  years  back ,  him ,  cowering  behind  the  oak  drawer ,  dodging  the  shattered  throw  of  his  father’s  beer  bottle .   oh  elliot ,  what  happened ?  nothing .  absolutely  nothing  at  all .  it’s  always  nothing .     ❝  the  bastard  started  it ,  oh  actually ,  he  was  fuckin’  asking  for  it .  next  time  i’ll  send  him  off  to  a  month - long  vacation  hospital .  i  hate  him . ❞   truthfully ,  he  could  have  evaded  that  too .  the  fight .  of  course ,  in  flight  or  fight ,  flight  was  always  an  option — , but  not  for  him .  silently ,  he  falters  into  a  long  solitude  of  silence ,  waiting  for  the  familiar  phrase  to  fall  from  his  boyfriend’s  lips :   well . .  want  to  talk  about  it ?    

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@helleborae

He opens his mouth to speak, to offer some sort of supportive words, you_’re not alone, you can talk to me. Please, god, talk to me. _But he feels like a broken record, like he’s running in circles in the same way a dumbfounded dog chases its tail and doesn’t know what to do once it catches its “prey.” He debates reaching for Elliot again, part of him desperate to maintain some kind of physical contact – that way it wouldn’t seem so much like he was losing his boyfriend to the firestorm of destruction welling up around him, engulfing him like an unavoidable natural disaster to which he could only be a trembling witness.

“At this rate, you_’re both _going to wind up in the hospital. What’re you gonna do then, El? Stab each other with scalpels when you’re asleep in your beds?”

He’s running out of things to say, he feels it in the pit of his stomach. Running out of ways to put an optimistic spin on it, running out of ways to distract Elliot from the pain he felt. There was only so many times they could go out to eat together before the lack of money was noticeable, and road trips, no matter how far the distance they spanned, had to end someday.

There’s worry creasing his face, and his hands still itching to be anywhere but stuffed inside his own pockets, longing to examine Elliot’s bruises, so only he could convince himself the wounds wouldn’t, in fact, be permanent this time.

“I love you, Elliot… That’s about all I know how to say when this happens. God, sometimes _I _want to land a few punches on the bastard.” He dips his gaze away for a moment, waiting for the tidal waves of emotion to retreat from the shores of his mind and wash back out to sea. When he’s recovered, he looks back at his love, the love that makes his heart feel like it’s _burning _some days when he stares a little too deeply into those blue eyes.

He isn’t about to back down from this, not this time, not right now. He reaches forward, knowing full well he was risking being slapped or kicked or whatever else Elliot was capable of doing when he felt like a cornered animal, and takes hold of Elliot’s arm, all but _yanking _one of his wrist’s free and out into the open light.

“Jesus, these look worse than last time…” He breathes, looking down at the purple and blackened flesh stretched across Elliot’s knuckles. “This needs to stop. I-I don’t know how, but – you need to leave that house.” He pauses for a moment, eyes alight with an idea. “Why don’t you come stay with me? Doesn’t have to be for long, but, just enough until you heal. Seriously, El, you need time outside of there. Please.

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