[ Fortunate for Kim, he may be the one person to get away without injury in these circumstances. Head bowed and eyes screwed shut, Robby's gone for the childish way of ignoring everything by pretending--and hoping--it doesn't exist. But it doesn't make what he's trying to escape from disappear, or relinquish its control over him: there's still the voice of a mother, who of course won't leave him. No can do.
And still, with a rasp. And yet, there's a tone over there, some kind of distant mumble. It speaks on with hers, a strange echo, but not one that registers to Robby as peculiar. Everything is fucked here, truthfully, and even with his eyes as scrunched closed as they are, the world is darker for him than it should be with the fluorescent lighting above head that makes it more visible to other visitors.
The directions are sensible, even if nothing can be interpreted as safe or useful. Trust is a hard thing to come by when one's trust in themselves and what they can distinguish between hallucinations and reality has already been tested and failed. It's a trick, Robby's brain tells him, and surely something will happen despite the reassurances, and he'll have to fight (pretend that he can fight), run, or even find himself in his own bed...
But maybe closing one's eyes does keep the terrors at bay. Nothing's occurred, though it doesn't rid Robby of the possibility that tenses him at his shoulders. He's considering his ability to get up and run, his weight, and whatever sight he might see leading up to it or the consequence for trying to escape. He's breathing, of course: Robby knows the perks of controlling one's breathing before doing anything, though the thought of being comforted by his mother upsets him in a new way.
Breathe. He can't let ghosts get the better of him, saying for himself more than anyone: ]
You're not real, I didn't kill you.
[ It's said quietly, just as Robby clenches one of his hands into a fist. ]
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2023-11-23 04:47 pm (UTC)And still, with a rasp. And yet, there's a tone over there, some kind of distant mumble. It speaks on with hers, a strange echo, but not one that registers to Robby as peculiar. Everything is fucked here, truthfully, and even with his eyes as scrunched closed as they are, the world is darker for him than it should be with the fluorescent lighting above head that makes it more visible to other visitors.
The directions are sensible, even if nothing can be interpreted as safe or useful. Trust is a hard thing to come by when one's trust in themselves and what they can distinguish between hallucinations and reality has already been tested and failed. It's a trick, Robby's brain tells him, and surely something will happen despite the reassurances, and he'll have to fight (pretend that he can fight), run, or even find himself in his own bed...
But maybe closing one's eyes does keep the terrors at bay. Nothing's occurred, though it doesn't rid Robby of the possibility that tenses him at his shoulders. He's considering his ability to get up and run, his weight, and whatever sight he might see leading up to it or the consequence for trying to escape. He's breathing, of course: Robby knows the perks of controlling one's breathing before doing anything, though the thought of being comforted by his mother upsets him in a new way.
Breathe. He can't let ghosts get the better of him, saying for himself more than anyone: ]
You're not real, I didn't kill you.
[ It's said quietly, just as Robby clenches one of his hands into a fist. ]