[It takes Pokey a moment to recognize just what he's looking at. There had been a time where just finding severed limbs was a monthly occurrence for him, but those years were so behind that he's taken aback from the sight of the hand.
He stumbled back into his house momentarily, hands gripping at the door frame to keep him from falling entirely back. He leans back in and, for a moment, just stares at it. There's no urgency to him at the moment, no realization that he should probably pick the thing up, hide it, do something with it.
Just a constant beat in his head, matching his heart, like some long thin thread being pulled tight and loose again and again. Here we were. Was he really surprised at this? Every time he opened up anything about himself, tried talking, tried doing anything, he hurt someone. He should have just let the accusation run off his back, shouldn't have even fought it, hell. Everything was true right? Here he was, thinking he was just the king of fucking everything, and now one of those girls had their hand cut off because of him and
Stop. Shut up for a fucking moment. He doesn't have time for this. He already went through this last night as to how this was fucking stupid. Hating himself isn't going to get him anywhere and he wasn't the one who cut another person's hand off.
Pokey takes the hand up, moving back into the house. He looks around a bit, finding one of the grocery bags from his last visit to the shop. He wraps the hand gently in the bag before putting it in his fridge. Keep it wrapped, keep it cool. That's all he knows in the basic ideas of preserving the limb and, fuck. It might not matter anyway. But he had to try, at least do something about it.
Don't just sit and wallow in the failure. Adjust stupid.
Pokey crashes on his couch afterwards, running a hand through his hair. He'll need to tell someone else about this. That isn't really a question, to tell someone about this just to try and see about getting medical advice but fuck. He has no clue who he's even going to burden about this.
He thinks, not for the first time after facing adversity, of letting this just stew with him. Of just sitting here and letting it crush him utterly, destroy him. Like he deserves.
It thankfully doesn't take long for him to decide whether going witch or facing up to this is more appropriate.
He heads back out to the porch, trying not to shake as he lights a cigarette. And looks on down the street.]
That's how you want to play? Fine.
We can play that way.
[His voice rasps for a moment as he tries to talk between his teeth, forcing him to take a minute to realize he bit through the filter of the cigarette.]
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2017-03-03 11:53 pm (UTC)He stumbled back into his house momentarily, hands gripping at the door frame to keep him from falling entirely back. He leans back in and, for a moment, just stares at it. There's no urgency to him at the moment, no realization that he should probably pick the thing up, hide it, do something with it.
Just a constant beat in his head, matching his heart, like some long thin thread being pulled tight and loose again and again. Here we were. Was he really surprised at this? Every time he opened up anything about himself, tried talking, tried doing anything, he hurt someone. He should have just let the accusation run off his back, shouldn't have even fought it, hell. Everything was true right? Here he was, thinking he was just the king of fucking everything, and now one of those girls had their hand cut off because of him and
Stop. Shut up for a fucking moment. He doesn't have time for this. He already went through this last night as to how this was fucking stupid. Hating himself isn't going to get him anywhere and he wasn't the one who cut another person's hand off.
Pokey takes the hand up, moving back into the house. He looks around a bit, finding one of the grocery bags from his last visit to the shop. He wraps the hand gently in the bag before putting it in his fridge. Keep it wrapped, keep it cool. That's all he knows in the basic ideas of preserving the limb and, fuck. It might not matter anyway. But he had to try, at least do something about it.
Don't just sit and wallow in the failure. Adjust stupid.
Pokey crashes on his couch afterwards, running a hand through his hair. He'll need to tell someone else about this. That isn't really a question, to tell someone about this just to try and see about getting medical advice but fuck. He has no clue who he's even going to burden about this.
He thinks, not for the first time after facing adversity, of letting this just stew with him. Of just sitting here and letting it crush him utterly, destroy him. Like he deserves.
It thankfully doesn't take long for him to decide whether going witch or facing up to this is more appropriate.
He heads back out to the porch, trying not to shake as he lights a cigarette. And looks on down the street.]
That's how you want to play? Fine.
We can play that way.
[His voice rasps for a moment as he tries to talk between his teeth, forcing him to take a minute to realize he bit through the filter of the cigarette.]