finitevariety:

staggering out of a succession episode covered in blood

-a starter where my muse is dying . ( - OPEN) 

The room twists, plummeting with the coil of anxiety. Fear invites a mind to cave as the seconds swell. A shuddering breath whisks into searing lungs and it’s exhaled just as quickly. One-two. Reminiscent of an airy huff. It’s much too quick. Another shallow gasp. One-two. His body shakes, emitting a croak from the hollow of his throat, guttural.  

Pain seems almost numbing, an afterthought while muscles sing. Pale eyes flick into languid focus. The sight of his own blood stirs him. He can only watch as tremulous limbs begin to turn. The bend of his arm wetly roams the stretch of empty ground. Gummy knuckles pull drying blood, lifting with the thick sound of a wet and resonant pop. His blood dries thick. 

A rocky swallow precedes a sudden dry sob. Pain ripples through him, halving an unsteady heart. He can feel his pulse in his neck throbs under the unnecessary strain he allows himself. It’s the wrong sort of indulgence. Raw fear accompanies a fluttering heart as worn cords whine.

Lidded eyes swim with tears. Uselessness fits him well. It’s worn limply, emptily while the body twitches under similarly unavailing cries. 

Death is shockingly empty, Jacob realizes.

It is torturous. Hellish and slow. Intimate as the body reacts.

Hair teased from its disciplined style pulls in lazed drag. Resonant cries call back to him, reaching like a friend while the mind sheds itself of lasting sanity. His eyes can only roam now while every breath pulls in what could be his last.

Terror colors expressive eyes.

A malformed shape hangs across his peripheral. Unrecognizable voices stretch to him. His surroundings begin to revolve beyond fear-stricken eyes.

Low sounds crawl from the chest between gasps. Words are lost on the way, muddled as gravity hangs his jaw in a silent cry. One-two. He feels a worn heart flutter, and the pulse weakens.

Jacob registers his reality.

He is dying.

The voice calls to him again, and emptiness listlessly reaches back.
He isn’t alone. He will die, but he will not die alone. Gratitude is lost, but shallow breaths act as empty company before pale eyes seem to freeze open in shock. 

 –two years gone… 

Doused with cool recognition, Jacob’s heart folds. He makes his way closer to the West family home with a thumb jabbed into a thick pocket. Gravity coaxes him by the ankles until he stands rooted by the heels, washed with memories.

Just yards before the front door, Jacob pictures a child version of himself trodding towards a leaf pile, watching it grow alongside his sister while they fed its breadth with thick handfuls of crumpling leaves. The anticipation builds with it before one opted to flurry forward for the hop. 

He pores over the expanse of the ground that would’ve housed this leaf pile as some limp excuse to stay out of the house. The door awaits his pocketed hand, and he strides ahead.

Figurative hop this time. 

He has a key. It’d save him the trouble of a knock and explanation he’s bound to administer. Excuses are often withdrawn frantically. If he were to knock, would she stand with an expectant stare, watch him squirm? Or, would she welcome him in?

Possibilities are discarded under the low chittering of a simple act in opening the door to what was once “home”. The following creak disentangles the eldest West, and he hurries inside.

One crisp groan of the floorboards is the only telltale sign that he’s arrived.
Not even a hello.
Guilt could consume him.

A decision is made quickly, and Jacob begins his wanderings by seeking Nora in the kitchen, partly expecting a burnt casserole and a glass of wine. She’ll rave at him for his absence. Two years of holidays ignored. Calls amounting in the hundreds were ignored. He stopped using his phone. 

He ambles to the kitchen doorframe, eclipsed in shame, allowing his presence to precede him with a discouraged smile. 

“Would you hate me if I told you I lost track of time?” Jacob could have an excuse at the ready, but his options are discarded. “I’m….s-I brought you something." 

An apology is brought to her in the form of new acrylic paints. A loose guestimate.

“You realize we’re exactly ten minutes away from another store like this. I mean, it’s an outlet, ’m sure there's–– stop. Jules. I–”
“Doesn’t matter, I need this for one specific reason.”

When the taller man named Jules pauses for effect, the other stalls in time with him. Their eyes aim fixedly to one another. 

“Gross." 

Jacob’s musing transforms into a  low grunt as he realigns himself after a slant away from the towering ghost statue. Silence threads with unrivaled concentration. The duo stand with matching stares. With reluctance, Jacob continues. "Besides, this is the biggest and best decoration I could find that isn’t… bloodied or screaming at everyone. ‘n I asked politely if I could take the last one.” from the shroud of an extended arm, Jacob could make out the eyeroll from his colleague. 

“I don’t know about 'biggest’.” Jules crooks downward to scout for Jacob's reactive roll of the eyes in turn. Instead, the younger male is found rummaging through boxes in a hollow putter of sound. “It’s an animatronic, Jacob. There’s a plug nearby, and you’re closest to the floor.” 

Jacob peers from emptied boxes and gives the nearby plug a kick. “If this ghost doesn’t spin around and smack you, I probably will." 

"My ankles ache just thinking about it.” banter is cut short when Jules crouches down and plugs it in for a resounding crackling of sound at its crux. A guttural noise elicits. Moan and groan. The interior of the animatronic glows dully. A flutter of light dims. 

Eye contact is exchanged and Jacob hesitantly aims his stare upward. 
“You can have it.” Jules’ voice crackles in reach. He joins him on the floor, sprawling in languid defeat.

“Oh yeah? What’s the catch?” Nothing Jacob’s colleague does outside of work is within rational reason. 

“I have the liberty of watching you struggle to put something twice the height of you in our car…."