[ Krouse's body takes a deep breath at the prompting, residual conditioning slipping into the gaps of conscious response. It's normal, so it's okay. He can let go of thinking about it, because almost all the thinking is (finally; again) in someone else's hands.
All he has to do is answer questions, one at a time. And he barely has to do that. He just has to let the answers come up out of the loose weave of memories and feelings that make up the person on the couch. ]
...everybody wanted me to let go. Talked around it, hinted. Said it, sometimes. She did.
[ His hand burrows further into loose, sticky fabric, fingers slipping underneath the damp weight of his tiny companion. She butts against his palm, nips at his fingers, disconnected sensations that send odd shivers he can't quite follow up his arm. ]
Everybody wanted to give me permission. Like I must've wanted to, deep down. Like I didn't know I could.
[ From within the hoodie, something arches, flexes, and, at last, snakes out. It's a pallid, pinkish tendril, slightly iridescent in the firelight, tapering to a thin point. It loops around his wrist like a coiling vine. ]
I could let go. Put her in another box, close the lid again. Be finished for good, this time. [ The tendril pulses in a squeeze. The skin coating it is delicate, slippery over the muscle like a hatchling snake. His eyes open, dark and hazy. ] Could've done it whenever I wanted. And I never wanted to. I don't.
I want to let go of me.
[ It seems so possible, now. To take these fragments and push them out to sea, if he could only cut the last binding cords. He's barely even afraid. The high humming in his chest is almost excited, almost brave, almost ready. ]
Whatever it is about me that does this. Did this again. Made this sick, like I made her sick, like I made - everyone I ever fucking got close to sick of me.
yaaay that icon (':
All he has to do is answer questions, one at a time. And he barely has to do that. He just has to let the answers come up out of the loose weave of memories and feelings that make up the person on the couch. ]
...everybody wanted me to let go. Talked around it, hinted. Said it, sometimes. She did.
[ His hand burrows further into loose, sticky fabric, fingers slipping underneath the damp weight of his tiny companion. She butts against his palm, nips at his fingers, disconnected sensations that send odd shivers he can't quite follow up his arm. ]
Everybody wanted to give me permission. Like I must've wanted to, deep down. Like I didn't know I could.
[ From within the hoodie, something arches, flexes, and, at last, snakes out. It's a pallid, pinkish tendril, slightly iridescent in the firelight, tapering to a thin point. It loops around his wrist like a coiling vine. ]
I could let go. Put her in another box, close the lid again. Be finished for good, this time. [ The tendril pulses in a squeeze. The skin coating it is delicate, slippery over the muscle like a hatchling snake. His eyes open, dark and hazy. ] Could've done it whenever I wanted. And I never wanted to. I don't.
I want to let go of me.
[ It seems so possible, now. To take these fragments and push them out to sea, if he could only cut the last binding cords. He's barely even afraid. The high humming in his chest is almost excited, almost brave, almost ready. ]
Whatever it is about me that does this. Did this again. Made this sick, like I made her sick, like I made - everyone I ever fucking got close to sick of me.