Carson Phillips (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
boywhoflew) wrote2016-03-15 02:33 am
boywhoflew) wrote2016-03-15 02:33 am
[Darrow: Set for March 18th]
Carson had been camped out at a small table by the back wall of the library when his legs started getting that sensation of pins and needles, and with a sigh he had pushed away from the table to stretch and twist, popping his back with a satisfying crack. Glancing around he noted that while not empty, the building was beginning to quiet and empty out. He knew that there were several more hours before closing time came, but between his headache and the growing realization that he hadn't eaten since noon, he supposed he had reached the point of concession and it was time to pack up and head back to the apartment.
With one last stretch he hung his glasses from the collar of his t-shirt and began packing up his things. He took his time organizing his books and homework before shoving them carefully into his book-bag, and grabbed the few books he had been reviewing to place them back on their shelf.
It wasn't until he was back in the stacks, a neat and cozy nook in the back corner of the non-fiction section that he even thought to look at his phone. His focus had been on making sure the history texts were replaced with careful consideration in order to ward off the ire of the librarians, but when he idly checked the time on his homescreen he paused.
Six new voicemails.
With a surprised frown, he tried to remember if he had even heard it ring.
He checked his call log and noted there were no incoming calls for that day, and with a growing sense of confusion and irritation he clicked onto his voicemail and stuffed the phone between his ear and shoulder, juggling the last of the history books and hiking up the strap of his book-bag.
The book missed the shelf and hit the floor when he heard his mother's voice.
The exasperation was almost tangible, and despite not hearing his mother's voice in over a month it was suddenly so familiar that he had to choke back the urge to roll his eyes and laugh. Alternating rushes of hot and cold prickled his skin, but he tuned it away and found himself pulling the phone away from his ear to stare at it in surprise. He wasn't sure how it was even possible, but there was no mistaking it. Somehow even from a dimension away he could apparently still rely on Sheryl Phillips to call him up and give him shit.
With a stunned curiosity, he clicked to view the next message.
The initial curiosity began to bleed away, and something uncomfortable began to tighten in his chest in its place. His mother hadn't sounded like that in years. She sounded hysterical, and not in the way that she'd had too much wine and mixed her medications. If anything, it reminded him of the night his father had left. Of watching her scream and cry and throw a bathrobe at a retreating car. It was frantic and emotional, two things she was normally too sedated to muster the energy for. With a disconcerting sense of dread, he fumbled for the next message.
Afterwards he would wish he hadn't.
The first thing he heard was an inarticulate scream of frustration that made him wince. What followed was so much worse. His thoughts slowed when he heard the hitched breathing of tears, his heart stuttered and beat loudly in his chest when she stumbled over her words. But what really made him trip was the gasp of cops and say you're dead. It doused over him like ice, cold and prickling before giving way to a sense of acceptance he couldn't fight. He couldn't fight because of course he was dead. He had known, had been so sure before he had found his limbs working and his lungs breathing a month ago on the sidewalk.
The next message was begging. Shameless and desperate and tragic. It made his chest pinch and his mouth dry and he had to squeeze his eyes shut and try to make himself not feel anything. He didn't need to feel anything because it didn't matter.
The last two messages were just the muffled sound of heavy breathing and crying. Carson listened to them under a sweeping blanket of numbness. His bag strap slid off his shoulder and he followed it down to the ground, a roaring in his ears as he tried and failed to take in a steadying breath and caught his chest hitching painfully instead.
It shouldn't have mattered. He had suspected the moment he had arrived that he must have died, as nothing else bore any explanation. He had heard the thunder and smelt the rain, he had seen the bright flash and felt something sear and everything stop. But seconds later he had been lying on his back in Darrow, a buzzing in his ears and a promise for a new start and a new life. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder about how true it was once he had begun rebuilding and starting over. A new life he had been promised. But here he was, sitting on the floor in the back of the library, trying and failing to breathe because his mother was crying. His mother who ruined his life and made a mess of everything she touched was somewhere sobbing because he was dead. Him. The kid she often joked would have been better off as an abortion.
He pinched his eyes shut, and to steady and gather himself he pressed his face to his knees and grit his teeth. He could feel the roiling of warring emotions in his chest and he pushed them down and away, chased after the numbness and the safety of not caring, tried to ignore the stinging of his eyes when they threatened to water. With a shuddering breath he pulled his knees in close to his chest and tried to breathe, to push everything away and not care. He shouldn't care because he wasn't dead.
Except that he was. And if it was as true as those messages painted it to be, it meant that he wouldn't ever be going home.
[[Carson's item is a series of voicemails from his mother confirming his death, which you can view here. He is determined to Not Care, so enjoy that.]]
With one last stretch he hung his glasses from the collar of his t-shirt and began packing up his things. He took his time organizing his books and homework before shoving them carefully into his book-bag, and grabbed the few books he had been reviewing to place them back on their shelf.
It wasn't until he was back in the stacks, a neat and cozy nook in the back corner of the non-fiction section that he even thought to look at his phone. His focus had been on making sure the history texts were replaced with careful consideration in order to ward off the ire of the librarians, but when he idly checked the time on his homescreen he paused.
Six new voicemails.
With a surprised frown, he tried to remember if he had even heard it ring.
He checked his call log and noted there were no incoming calls for that day, and with a growing sense of confusion and irritation he clicked onto his voicemail and stuffed the phone between his ear and shoulder, juggling the last of the history books and hiking up the strap of his book-bag.
The book missed the shelf and hit the floor when he heard his mother's voice.
The exasperation was almost tangible, and despite not hearing his mother's voice in over a month it was suddenly so familiar that he had to choke back the urge to roll his eyes and laugh. Alternating rushes of hot and cold prickled his skin, but he tuned it away and found himself pulling the phone away from his ear to stare at it in surprise. He wasn't sure how it was even possible, but there was no mistaking it. Somehow even from a dimension away he could apparently still rely on Sheryl Phillips to call him up and give him shit.
With a stunned curiosity, he clicked to view the next message.
The initial curiosity began to bleed away, and something uncomfortable began to tighten in his chest in its place. His mother hadn't sounded like that in years. She sounded hysterical, and not in the way that she'd had too much wine and mixed her medications. If anything, it reminded him of the night his father had left. Of watching her scream and cry and throw a bathrobe at a retreating car. It was frantic and emotional, two things she was normally too sedated to muster the energy for. With a disconcerting sense of dread, he fumbled for the next message.
Afterwards he would wish he hadn't.
The first thing he heard was an inarticulate scream of frustration that made him wince. What followed was so much worse. His thoughts slowed when he heard the hitched breathing of tears, his heart stuttered and beat loudly in his chest when she stumbled over her words. But what really made him trip was the gasp of cops and say you're dead. It doused over him like ice, cold and prickling before giving way to a sense of acceptance he couldn't fight. He couldn't fight because of course he was dead. He had known, had been so sure before he had found his limbs working and his lungs breathing a month ago on the sidewalk.
The next message was begging. Shameless and desperate and tragic. It made his chest pinch and his mouth dry and he had to squeeze his eyes shut and try to make himself not feel anything. He didn't need to feel anything because it didn't matter.
The last two messages were just the muffled sound of heavy breathing and crying. Carson listened to them under a sweeping blanket of numbness. His bag strap slid off his shoulder and he followed it down to the ground, a roaring in his ears as he tried and failed to take in a steadying breath and caught his chest hitching painfully instead.
It shouldn't have mattered. He had suspected the moment he had arrived that he must have died, as nothing else bore any explanation. He had heard the thunder and smelt the rain, he had seen the bright flash and felt something sear and everything stop. But seconds later he had been lying on his back in Darrow, a buzzing in his ears and a promise for a new start and a new life. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder about how true it was once he had begun rebuilding and starting over. A new life he had been promised. But here he was, sitting on the floor in the back of the library, trying and failing to breathe because his mother was crying. His mother who ruined his life and made a mess of everything she touched was somewhere sobbing because he was dead. Him. The kid she often joked would have been better off as an abortion.
He pinched his eyes shut, and to steady and gather himself he pressed his face to his knees and grit his teeth. He could feel the roiling of warring emotions in his chest and he pushed them down and away, chased after the numbness and the safety of not caring, tried to ignore the stinging of his eyes when they threatened to water. With a shuddering breath he pulled his knees in close to his chest and tried to breathe, to push everything away and not care. He shouldn't care because he wasn't dead.
Except that he was. And if it was as true as those messages painted it to be, it meant that he wouldn't ever be going home.
[[Carson's item is a series of voicemails from his mother confirming his death, which you can view here. He is determined to Not Care, so enjoy that.]]