Harry has no memories. He has nothing substantial in his mind to weigh against the things he’s seen and done, but one where he was a father is easiest for him to separate from the pile. Harry is not a father. Harry has never lived in a place called America. Harry did not murder his wife because he spoke on the phone with her a few months ago. She called him a drunk. He screamed and cried and beat his knuckles bloody on the pay phone when the call timed out. He can’t forget this.
The other one is much harder. Harry is already a Revacholian lunatic with a fixation on Her Innocence Dolores Dei. But it’s been the first and only time in memory he’s ever truly crawled out of his wife’s shadow to find a moment of mental clarity. He is very sick and he can’t help but feel a certain fondness for that Harry. That may be as sane as he’ll ever feel.
He is so very sick.
Alfred doesn’t look great either.
VISUAL CALCULUS - (The boy hasn’t been sleeping. Marks on his neck. Self inflicted. Paranoia. Neurosis.)
He brushes his thumb over his cheekbone, leads forward to rest his forehead against Alfred’s. He’s seen cats use similar displays of affection. He just rests for a moment. The boy’s hands are warm on his waist. He can feel the places in his chest, the places beyond his chest, behind the meat and bone where those hands tugged and pulled out something worthwhile from his decrepit husk.
He’s sure more than ever of the image he beheld of Alfred over him. A terrible angel. Beautiful. Magnificent. A crooked grin twitches across his face, an involuntary movement. It’s more of a rigid spasm than a human expression.
INLAND EMPIRE - (What an immense role to be given. Cosmic.)
EMPATHY - (Terrifyingly immense. Handle him gently.)
“You’re such a sweet thing…I want you to know it didn’t hurt.”
no subject
The other one is much harder. Harry is already a Revacholian lunatic with a fixation on Her Innocence Dolores Dei. But it’s been the first and only time in memory he’s ever truly crawled out of his wife’s shadow to find a moment of mental clarity. He is very sick and he can’t help but feel a certain fondness for that Harry. That may be as sane as he’ll ever feel.
He is so very sick.
Alfred doesn’t look great either.
VISUAL CALCULUS - (The boy hasn’t been sleeping. Marks on his neck. Self inflicted. Paranoia. Neurosis.)
He brushes his thumb over his cheekbone, leads forward to rest his forehead against Alfred’s. He’s seen cats use similar displays of affection. He just rests for a moment. The boy’s hands are warm on his waist. He can feel the places in his chest, the places beyond his chest, behind the meat and bone where those hands tugged and pulled out something worthwhile from his decrepit husk.
He’s sure more than ever of the image he beheld of Alfred over him. A terrible angel. Beautiful. Magnificent. A crooked grin twitches across his face, an involuntary movement. It’s more of a rigid spasm than a human expression.
INLAND EMPIRE - (What an immense role to be given. Cosmic.)
EMPATHY - (Terrifyingly immense. Handle him gently.)
“You’re such a sweet thing…I want you to know it didn’t hurt.”
It was a clean death, flames aside.
INLAND EMPIRE - (A cleansing death.)
The pain came afterwards. Grief. Confusion. Kim.