Who's left to blame?
Jun 15, 2020 17:07:10 GMT -5
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Post by pretzelbender on Jun 15, 2020 17:07:10 GMT -5
Screws and detached pieces of metal and board are thrown throughout the usually dim motel room of Miles Lucky. To replace the stuffy darkness, is the bright harsh light of a naked bulb that was once a part of the ceiling fan that is no longer there. You can see everything this way. Every piece of junk he’s recollected, the things he’s destroyed. The smartly dressed mannequin standing in front of the bed, where a toolbox is sat as the neatest thing in the room despite it’s rust.
The television in the room is aged, somewhere out of a poverty stricken home of the 90s. The wood mixed with metal, like a family car. The television being something he hates, as it reminded him of something he no longer knew. It’s something that he doesn’t trust. The television is never on, but it's on and stripped. The front panel shows the guts of the bulky device as the screen continues to flash images. It’s news, from years ago.
He’s not paying attention, not really.
He lays on the floor, amongst his mess. Absentmindedly, he grinds his teeth against something in his mouth as he stares through the bright lights of the fidget spinner. The mannequin, believe it or not, is enjoying the television. Enjoying the sudden halt in curious chaos, Miles winding down from using the toolbox upon everything he could touch. He gives the toy another flick of his fingers from a bandaged hand, finally focusing and engrossing himself within it.
“I earned this, you know.” He says with a full mouth, to no one? No, he’s talking to something. Miles breaks his gaze away to look up at the mannequin from his spot on the floor and, honestly, why would we expect any different? “I worked hard, for all of this.”
Miles sits up, putting his back against the bed to try and watch the television with the mannequin. Trying to settle even though it’s a lost cause, he can’t relax. He hasn’t been able to relax since the War Horse title was put into his hands, a title that there's no clear sight of. He gives a rough bite to whatever is in his mouth, before spitting it out.
The finger.
The once fleshy, bloody object that he ripped from the champion he defeated, has been left with nothing but bone. He nursed it all away, with chewing and mashing, ripping and swallowing. “This too, MJ. This is probably the best thing I got from it all, but I really used it up, huh?”
Miles sounds disappointed in himself, working the finger down to the bone so quickly. However, it's not something easily replaced, so he pops it back in his mouth.
It's nearly practical. Miles’ oral fixation and nervous fingers are distracted by one that isn't his own and the fidget spinner he stole from a child in the crowd. His fingers are healing. His scabs aren't being picked. A pacifier and a toy, that's all he needed to stop eating and ripping himself alive.
So easily fixed.
“Do you remember the day I found you, MJ?” He looks up at the mannequin once more, making sure that the object understands who Miles is talking to. He turns back to the TV, watches as a hurricane unfolds. “You were out there all alone. In the rain, without anyone. You didn’t have a stitch of nothing on you. You didn’t even have a name. And I was walking in front outside of town and I saw you and I. I, uh.”
Miles begins to sputter from the tears that are growing in his eyes, shaking his head bitterly and rubbing them away in order to try and stop them. It doesn’t work. “I saw you and I thought, me and you were the same. I was alone and I didn’t know my left from my right and me and you, you know? You know it, right? Me and you, we were in the same mess.”
He remembers that day, remembers the day he woke up without anything other than slight bits and pieces of who he used to be. He didn’t remember where he came from, or how he got to the haunted town of Red Cliff. He didn't remember who he was. “I was so scared. I saw you and I figured you had to be too, so I took you. I took you right in and wasn’t that great, MJ? Wasn’t it great to have somebody, MJ?”
MJ continues to stare at the screen, some new vaccine. Some robbery. Some murder. Something to be aware of. The news. “PAY ATTENTION!”
It all shatters in front of him, a shovel crashing into the screen from a swing from Miles. It’s so sudden, the mannequin thinking the boy was still seated. Miles throws the shovel to the side, unplugging the television before flipping it onto it’s back in an angry display. Miles lurches toward MJ, grabbing a hold of his plastic face and roaring. “WASN'T IT GREAT TO HAVE SOMEBODY! WASN’T IT?!”
Miles takes a few deep breaths, tears streaming down his face as he glares at the object. Lowly, he speaks again. “Wasn’t it great to be given a name?”
He never recalled his name. The day he woke up, he didn't know anything. However, everyone he came across knew him. Jack knew him. They all said his name. The motel clerk called him, “Miles Lucky” and handed him the key he “lost again.”
He was named and placed by the town. Wasn't it great to be given a name, Miles? Wasn't it great to have a place as if you always belonged?
Miles, doesn't it fucking scare you to know that you haven't been here for a year. Maybe you've been here for more. Maybe you've been here for years. Maybe this is the one time that everything didn't fall on your head to make you forget like it's been doing again and again.
He's been here forever, hasn't he? Miles frowns deeply and gently rubs MJ’s face. He feels like he's been here for as long as the mannequin. They have that bond, that connection. MJ listens to him constantly, his warnings and his strange beliefs. He's feeding him his life, his paranoia, just so everything doesn't seem too overwhelming.
However, there's no helping this, is there? He's unlocked a closed off part of his brain. Dusted, snapped. Miles smiles and laughs.
“Isn't it great to be here, Miles?”
He frowns again. In one swift motion, he takes off the head of the mannequin. The Stockholm Syndrome he felt previously fading. He had been beginning to think of this town as a home. Looking forward to seeing the gas station attendant he has become so fond of whenever he's away. Thinking of ways to improve his living space. Digging for statues and putting his ears to trees to hear their heartbeats. Getting and giving gifts. Sadly, he had started to love it.
He had almost forgotten he hated it here. He almost forgot he doesn't trust anyone. He almost forgot how trapped he actually is.
Miles heads to the window of his motel, the head of MJ under his arm as he cracks the shades. The crows of the town are gathered in the lot of the motel, a sea if black and twitching feathers.
They already know what Miles has figured out.
“I have to get out of here.”
Not just appearing in one place to wrestle and rushing the drops of freedom he gets down his throat for the couple of days he's allowed it. Not just quick trips just outside of town. He needs to get out. He needs to get out without the help of anyone else. Without the help of Jack. Miles could cry again, drawing lines in the sand like this.
But he doesn't. Firmly, he brands the thought into his head. He shuts the blinds once more and holds MJ in both hands to look at him.
“I need to get out of here. I will get out of here. I'll take you with me, okay, MJ? Me and you, we're in the same problem and we'll get out of it together. We have to look out for each other. We have to help each other survive. You can't do too much, so I'll carry us, okay? I'll figure it out, I'll get us out. I just need you to keep an eye out, especially on the important things.”
Miles makes his way to the closet of the room and opens it. One would expect to see another mess, but the closet is neatly organized with containers. Against the back wall of the closet were the two belts Miles currently has, put on display as if treasures.
Miles takes a step in to place the head of MJ on the surface under the belts, some plastic boxes stacked too neatly.
“I have a match coming up,” Miles explains. “A match or two. I might be gone for a little bit, not too long. When I come back, though, I'll figure this all out. No matter what, I'll find a way. Stay here. Don't talk to anyone. Don't trust anyone, and I won't either.”
He leaves MJ and closes the door. Muffled on the other side, MJ hears Miles say “Happy Pigeon Day.”
And though Miles doesn't hear it, the mannequin sighs.
The television in the room is aged, somewhere out of a poverty stricken home of the 90s. The wood mixed with metal, like a family car. The television being something he hates, as it reminded him of something he no longer knew. It’s something that he doesn’t trust. The television is never on, but it's on and stripped. The front panel shows the guts of the bulky device as the screen continues to flash images. It’s news, from years ago.
He’s not paying attention, not really.
He lays on the floor, amongst his mess. Absentmindedly, he grinds his teeth against something in his mouth as he stares through the bright lights of the fidget spinner. The mannequin, believe it or not, is enjoying the television. Enjoying the sudden halt in curious chaos, Miles winding down from using the toolbox upon everything he could touch. He gives the toy another flick of his fingers from a bandaged hand, finally focusing and engrossing himself within it.
“I earned this, you know.” He says with a full mouth, to no one? No, he’s talking to something. Miles breaks his gaze away to look up at the mannequin from his spot on the floor and, honestly, why would we expect any different? “I worked hard, for all of this.”
Miles sits up, putting his back against the bed to try and watch the television with the mannequin. Trying to settle even though it’s a lost cause, he can’t relax. He hasn’t been able to relax since the War Horse title was put into his hands, a title that there's no clear sight of. He gives a rough bite to whatever is in his mouth, before spitting it out.
The finger.
The once fleshy, bloody object that he ripped from the champion he defeated, has been left with nothing but bone. He nursed it all away, with chewing and mashing, ripping and swallowing. “This too, MJ. This is probably the best thing I got from it all, but I really used it up, huh?”
Miles sounds disappointed in himself, working the finger down to the bone so quickly. However, it's not something easily replaced, so he pops it back in his mouth.
It's nearly practical. Miles’ oral fixation and nervous fingers are distracted by one that isn't his own and the fidget spinner he stole from a child in the crowd. His fingers are healing. His scabs aren't being picked. A pacifier and a toy, that's all he needed to stop eating and ripping himself alive.
So easily fixed.
“Do you remember the day I found you, MJ?” He looks up at the mannequin once more, making sure that the object understands who Miles is talking to. He turns back to the TV, watches as a hurricane unfolds. “You were out there all alone. In the rain, without anyone. You didn’t have a stitch of nothing on you. You didn’t even have a name. And I was walking in front outside of town and I saw you and I. I, uh.”
Miles begins to sputter from the tears that are growing in his eyes, shaking his head bitterly and rubbing them away in order to try and stop them. It doesn’t work. “I saw you and I thought, me and you were the same. I was alone and I didn’t know my left from my right and me and you, you know? You know it, right? Me and you, we were in the same mess.”
He remembers that day, remembers the day he woke up without anything other than slight bits and pieces of who he used to be. He didn’t remember where he came from, or how he got to the haunted town of Red Cliff. He didn't remember who he was. “I was so scared. I saw you and I figured you had to be too, so I took you. I took you right in and wasn’t that great, MJ? Wasn’t it great to have somebody, MJ?”
MJ continues to stare at the screen, some new vaccine. Some robbery. Some murder. Something to be aware of. The news. “PAY ATTENTION!”
It all shatters in front of him, a shovel crashing into the screen from a swing from Miles. It’s so sudden, the mannequin thinking the boy was still seated. Miles throws the shovel to the side, unplugging the television before flipping it onto it’s back in an angry display. Miles lurches toward MJ, grabbing a hold of his plastic face and roaring. “WASN'T IT GREAT TO HAVE SOMEBODY! WASN’T IT?!”
Miles takes a few deep breaths, tears streaming down his face as he glares at the object. Lowly, he speaks again. “Wasn’t it great to be given a name?”
He never recalled his name. The day he woke up, he didn't know anything. However, everyone he came across knew him. Jack knew him. They all said his name. The motel clerk called him, “Miles Lucky” and handed him the key he “lost again.”
He was named and placed by the town. Wasn't it great to be given a name, Miles? Wasn't it great to have a place as if you always belonged?
Miles, doesn't it fucking scare you to know that you haven't been here for a year. Maybe you've been here for more. Maybe you've been here for years. Maybe this is the one time that everything didn't fall on your head to make you forget like it's been doing again and again.
He's been here forever, hasn't he? Miles frowns deeply and gently rubs MJ’s face. He feels like he's been here for as long as the mannequin. They have that bond, that connection. MJ listens to him constantly, his warnings and his strange beliefs. He's feeding him his life, his paranoia, just so everything doesn't seem too overwhelming.
However, there's no helping this, is there? He's unlocked a closed off part of his brain. Dusted, snapped. Miles smiles and laughs.
“Isn't it great to be here, Miles?”
He frowns again. In one swift motion, he takes off the head of the mannequin. The Stockholm Syndrome he felt previously fading. He had been beginning to think of this town as a home. Looking forward to seeing the gas station attendant he has become so fond of whenever he's away. Thinking of ways to improve his living space. Digging for statues and putting his ears to trees to hear their heartbeats. Getting and giving gifts. Sadly, he had started to love it.
He had almost forgotten he hated it here. He almost forgot he doesn't trust anyone. He almost forgot how trapped he actually is.
Miles heads to the window of his motel, the head of MJ under his arm as he cracks the shades. The crows of the town are gathered in the lot of the motel, a sea if black and twitching feathers.
They already know what Miles has figured out.
“I have to get out of here.”
Not just appearing in one place to wrestle and rushing the drops of freedom he gets down his throat for the couple of days he's allowed it. Not just quick trips just outside of town. He needs to get out. He needs to get out without the help of anyone else. Without the help of Jack. Miles could cry again, drawing lines in the sand like this.
But he doesn't. Firmly, he brands the thought into his head. He shuts the blinds once more and holds MJ in both hands to look at him.
“I need to get out of here. I will get out of here. I'll take you with me, okay, MJ? Me and you, we're in the same problem and we'll get out of it together. We have to look out for each other. We have to help each other survive. You can't do too much, so I'll carry us, okay? I'll figure it out, I'll get us out. I just need you to keep an eye out, especially on the important things.”
Miles makes his way to the closet of the room and opens it. One would expect to see another mess, but the closet is neatly organized with containers. Against the back wall of the closet were the two belts Miles currently has, put on display as if treasures.
Miles takes a step in to place the head of MJ on the surface under the belts, some plastic boxes stacked too neatly.
“I have a match coming up,” Miles explains. “A match or two. I might be gone for a little bit, not too long. When I come back, though, I'll figure this all out. No matter what, I'll find a way. Stay here. Don't talk to anyone. Don't trust anyone, and I won't either.”
He leaves MJ and closes the door. Muffled on the other side, MJ hears Miles say “Happy Pigeon Day.”
And though Miles doesn't hear it, the mannequin sighs.