Hoop for Episode 128 - Heavy Goods, for @snarkybeans who kindly donated to The Okra Project. Thank you!!
"BREEKON
Stop it!
[WHEN THE ARCHIVIST SPEAKS, IT HAS AN ECHO TO IT, REMINISCENT OF THE HOLLOWNESS FROM EARLIER:]
ARCHIVIST
No.
[HE SAYS NOTHING FURTHER, BUT BREEKON BEGINS TO MAKE AN UNCOMFORTABLE, ALMOST CHOKING SOUND.]
BREEKON
E-Enough – stop – looking at me –
[THE STATIC – FROM RUMBLING TO REGULAR STATIC TO FEEDBACK – GROWS EVEN STRONGER. BREEKON MAKES MORE GURGLING/CHOKING SOUNDS, AND THEN BEGINS TO YELL, BUT ALMOST IMMEDIATELY AFTER HE BEGINS, HIS VOICE BEGINS TO FADE. HIS SCREAM IS STILL CLEARLY AT HIGH INTENSITY; IT’S MORE AS IF SOMEONE TOOK THE KNOB CONTROLLING HIS VOLUME AND TURNED IT DOWN MID-YELL.]
[SOMETHING MAKES A KNOCKING OR BANGING SORT OF SOUND AS THIS HAPPENS; IT’S POSSIBLE THAT BREEKON HAS BEEN PUSHED OUT THE DOOR.]
[THE STATIC CONTINUES, AND THEN THE ARCHIVIST LETS OUT A SOFT GASP AND BEGINS BREATHING HARD, AS IF NEEDING AIR.]
[HE TAKES ONE FINAL, STEADYING BREATH, AFTER WHICH THE STATIC BEGINS TO FADE.]"
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(my) Mag a Week: Closed Emptyness
Hello there!
I am participating in the "a mag a day" idea by @a-mag-a-day which is BRILLIANT and I decided to do "statement a week", rolling dice with the characters and fears that were ftw that week in the episodes I have listened.
For today I rolled Archivist!Breekon and The Buried (Eps. 179-185). It's a Season 5 style one...and I am actually pretty proud of this one.
As usual, please do forgive my quick tipper and non-native speaker mistakes,
Marla
Allons-y!
CW: body horror, literal suicide, mentions of family abuse and gashlightning, trauma and grieving
Also on AO3!
Of double vision and false identities.
Audio recorded by The Archivists… The Archivist , in situ.
Even the ones under the grace of The Beholding can fall. They can fall so deep the concept of “way out” is completely lost and foregone. Then of course, they are not the only ones that fall so deeply and with such rotundity they wished a sick mind as Fairchild’s had been the one to find them. Falls are for all souls, its pain, the fear the produce nourishment as strong as a five course meal.
Because, what comes after the fall…makes you contemplate it as an absolute bliss.
Steve was a normal boy. He liked his cartoons and he liked playing with his older sister.
He liked hiding under the bed when he got hurt, because that way nobody knew boys also cry. He liked being mean to his mother and father, because they always argued in front of his sister and that made her very sad, up to the point she started to seek for refuge under the bed too. There, she could spent hours, finally free of feelings she would simple not touch her. A place she felt the warmth Steve suspected not even himself was able to provide for.
A place she could remain forever, to lose her soul…
…Up to the point one day, she just simply didn’t come out.
Steve was a normal adult when the world turned: bitter, selfish, blaming his problems on others and empty on the inside. So empty he could feel the lack of any meaning pressing his soul up to the point breathing was not an action he could perform in a normal fashion anymore.
He took it on others, because he had learnt how to break people the moment his sister died, the moment his parents were to blame for something that mattered people that usually dismissed the weeping of the children on an almost daily basis.
He was good at taking it on others, of seeing imperfections and punished them as the capital sins his sister would never be able to commit…until the day he found a red-eyed boy, just as his sibling had once being, created by his actions …and chose to fall.
The eye opened as he wished for an open-skied arrival to the ground, internal organs destroyed.
Not a single bed nearby.
His organs were, indeed, destroyed, for he could feel part of them on his fingertips as he moved, other collapsing into his mouth with a taste he would love to be able to say was as disgusting as it needed to be.
He could hear his spine broke and being remade moment after moment with every single spam his body produced. The sound kept echoing all around him.
There was no sky, neither any other recognisable space where it was being though. Just darkness.
Just darkness and the smell of naphthalene.
The very same naphthalene his mother used to clean the sheets of his sister’s bed, the ones that were a bit too feminine for him (according to his father, at least).
There are sheets all around him; even if he cannot see them, even if he cannot be certain they are not the ones his childhood home had.
However, it doesn’t matter his sight is of no use: he is picturing them, so clear as the metallic taste of blood in his blood he is beginning to get used to. He could touch them, but that would mean embrace the truth of where he is, and that is not something he can do.
At least, he muses, his bed could have the decency of being narrower, of letting the wood carved into his skin, making the emptiness inside of him disappear…but they don’t.
Instead, he feels as the wood keeps expanding, as the sheets multiply; now partially entering through the holes in his body, perfectly combined with his scattered organs; just another appendix of his flesh. They asphyxiate him, while still leaving the tiny cracks required for him to realise there is nothing that could properly fill him.
He is trapped and yet nothing can complete his entrapment…
…and a weeping began to come from a place he cannot identify and yet knows exactly where it is…
Hope would have loved this one.
We wish Inspector Hussain got what she deserved after what she did…
…we… I never wished before.
I hope she helps to torture one of the disgraces I am allowed to delight myself with. She will hate to become that…perhaps even try to jump from a window for it…
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