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girlscoutbrownies · 6 months

Text

Fandom: School Bus Graveyard

Word Count: 1241

Summary:

What do people say again? Time flies when you’re having fun? They’d be right, except he’s not really having fun right now.

He’s not really having much of anything. He’s just… there.

Additional Notes + Content Warnings: Descriptions of disassociation, mild forest horror. Aiden is very much an unreliable narrator here.

This is not posted on ao3.

—

Aiden Clark does this thing where time flies sometimes.

That’s not really the right word for it, though, because saying that time is flying implies that he knows that it’s moving. He really doesn’t.

He blinks and he’s lost hours. He loses time. Yes, yeah, yeah - losing time. That’s the term.

( Actually, he’s been told that it’s disassociation. He doesn’t really care for those big words, though. )

Something’s off, he thinks, the first time.

His room is dark. It’s always dark in his room. Very, very dark. Dark, so that he doesn’t have to see the empty cans on his table and the stacks of cup ramen.

It gives off, automatically, the sense of someone is sleeping here, but they’re not living.

And maybe that’s corny, but is he alive?

He doesn’t feel alive right now. Alive people feel the mattress under their feet and the blanket over their legs.

God, his inner monologue is always kind of depressing. Seasonal depression, maybe? It is winter.

It’s always winter, though.

Maybe the seasons are changing, and he doesn’t know, because the sky outside of his window is dreary and sad and depressing and he’s not quite sure when the cold stops and the warm begins, because he doesn’t know what warm is like.

The monitor is dark, too. He thinks that sometimes, all he does is watch himself lay in bed, from inside some inner world where nothing can hurt him, the childhood monsters-in-his-closet latching onto him like some fucked up koala. No, koalas aren’t the ones that latch. Those are sloths.

He’s alive, actually. That’s kind of sad. Wait, no, it’s not. No, no, no, Aiden. Being alive is good.

( Sometimes he wonders what it’s like to die. It’s not in a suicidal way, though. Not really. )

He wonders if dead people still need to eat and live and breathe and order things at restaurants, except he’s seen enough movies and read enough books to know that the only dead people that do that are the zombies.

He wonders if zombies have to make eye contact and ask for consent before they bite people. But only alive people do that, because alive people know what it’s like to feel bad. Corpses don’t make eye contact.

Corpses don’t feel anything at all.

( If he thinks ahead, outside of this memory, he wonders if all of his intentional eye contact is just a weird way of him scrounging up whatever sense of identity he has left, a way of saying I am here and alive and you will have to look at me, or if it’s just another byproduct of never interacting with other people his age, not until Ben. Maybe it’s both, actually. )

He is alive. He feels his heart beating sometimes, a steady familiar song that he knows the exact tune to. You’re not supposed to hear your heartbeat, though, are you? Not unless you’re in a hospital, strapped to wires and stripped to the bone like a weird fucking mannequin on display.

That’s funny.

Well, it’d be funny, except he’s not laughing. That’s typically the baseline for something considered humorous.

He’s not doing much of anything. Right, what was he doing again? The blanket. It’s there. He feels the blanket, bunching it up in his hands. It feels fake, but he knows it’s real. The world isn’t advanced enough for something like that, not yet at least. It feels like something sheared too quickly and never processed and rough and it’s a disgusting horrible shade of gray and—

Right, what was he doing again?

Five senses. He can feel his veins twisting underneath his skin and blood flowing in an unending path to his heart to keep him alive. That’s not quite how you phrase it, he thinks.

He turns his hand. It’s pale and the blue lines stand out prominently, not faintly like a normal person’s would be. They snake under his bones like vines in a forest, grabbing hold of his bones and muscle because he can’t have anything, he’s surrendered it to rot in this room and he’s suddenly sharply thrusted out of this shitty memory—

( He doesn’t really like the forest. Maybe he did, once before, but a long, long time ago, he’d been told that bad parents send their children to the woods to die and that really, he should be grateful he has a house and a place to stay in.

The forest swallows up everything. It’s a wonder humanity hasn’t burned it all to the ground, honestly. Setting ablaze to his nightmares, the ones he has when it’s getting particularly bad and he sits in a dark clearing and watches nature reclaim its score. This was never their place to live.

It gets worse after the phantom dimension. Pillars of rock soaring into the sky, something that shouldn’t be possible because of the “laws of nature,” but nature follows its own set of rules, doesn’t it? It doesn’t care about us. He’d envisioned, the night after, when he’d finally managed to drift off, the forest grabbing onto Tyler and never letting go. Sinking into mud and dirt and decaying to the bone.

He doesn’t really like the forest. )

Right, he was doing… something…

Oh, he’s in bed. He’s in bed and the shutters have been pulled wide open, bright sunlight filtering through the glass. Wasn’t it just dark out?

“Aiden?”

His eyes snap towards the voice blocking the doorway. No, that’s not right. The voice near the doorway. His therapist told him to stop treating everyone like video game obstacles. Oh, well. Who was she kidding? It’s not like he told her anything, anyways.

Ashlyn is standing there, looking worried enough that he almost feels warmed by the concern. Almost.

They make eye contact, too prolonged and too vivid. He thinks he’s making her uncomfortable. That’s a shame.

Five senses. He can’t feel the blanket. It’s soft, isn’t it? He combs through his memories, knowing what it’s supposed to feel like. It’s silk or something, or maybe it’s fleece. He doesn’t know which one this is; they’re all the same colour, and he can’t feel. The texture is wrong.

It doesn’t feel like anything. He’s supposed to feel things. That’s his whole—pardon his redundancy—but that’s his whole thing. He’s the bouncy one, up and alive and too many feelings, to compensate for when the others are down.

Off topic. He’s getting off topic again. This isn’t a lecture, though; he’s not following a lesson plan. He’s just here.

“Um… are you… okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says with little hesitation. He thinks to himself that he really doesn’t care for speaking right now, but the familiar words roll off his tongue like…

He’s not that great with analogies. Similes. Whatever.

“You’re still in bed. It’s nearly two in the afternoon.”

Is it? He hadn’t realized time passed so quickly. Or, flew. Disappeared.

“Ben said that you were probably sleeping in, but, well…” She looks over, rather confusedly, at his unmoving form. He’s been sitting here for a while, hasn’t he?

“I’m hungry,” Aiden announces, pushing himself off the mattress. He feels it under his hands, which is good. It’s not the same softness as it should be, but it’s still there. It’s there, and this is real. He’s real.

“Do we have anything to eat?” The wood paneling is hard and cold under his feet. He wishes he’d gotten carpet.

It’s still cold in here.

#sbg #aiden rambles #school bus graveyard #school bus graveyard (webtoon)#aiden clark #tw disassociation #my fics #my writing #not on ao3 #forest horror #ish

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this-world-of-beautiful-monsters · 6 months

Note

UAFFAGABVA r!Jake and Lo’ak!!!!!! Number 31, sacrifice!! In love with this idea omshshs

Definitely inspired by some conversations we've had in the past--thank you! Story is also posted on ao3.

(tw implied noncon, implied csa, implied child abuse, implied mind rape, identity issues, mental health issues, implied past character death, vomiting, psychological horror)

They collapse by the shores of a lake that Lo'ak recognizes--at least, he thinks he does, but it's hard to tell when his head is so light and his vision is struggling to adjust to the sudden lack of walls.

The forest around here has changed too: it's been far too long since a controlled burn and brush scratches his skin, while rotting trunks from Bridgehead's contamination have collapsed everywhere, making it nearly impossible to locate himself in a place that he once could navigate with his eyes closed.

Still, there's something familiar about the smooth ripple of the lake spreading out and out before them, clear and pristine as a mirror. Although if Lo'ak's honest it could be filled with boiling lava and he'd still be crashing to his knees, wet stones digging into his legs as he heaves for breath, numbness pooling in his aching limbs.

Spider falls down and barely rips off his stolen mask in time to vomit, an acrid smell splitting the air. He's shaking all over, somehow looking even more exhausted than Lo'ak feels, his face white as he finally clips the mask back into place. Blood drags down his legs from thorns slicing him open, ones they'd been too exhausted to avoid after Eywa knows how many hours running at top speed.

Look at the state he's in, a voice that sounds too much like his father's purrs at the back of Lo'ak's head. You got your big brother hurt chasing after you, just like always.

"Fuck you," he pants faintly, firmly shoving Sully's voice back into the dark where it belongs. Spider blinks up at him, but looks too exhausted to ask (not that he needs to, not really). He grits his teeth and shoves his head underwater, just enough for it to cool his overheated face.

When he lifts his head Spider has slumped over on his side, sides fluttering as he keeps heaving for air. Lo'ak glances back over his shoulder, squinting against the oncoming shiver of eclipse.

The ground slopes down behind them--that's good, right? It means they're heading up, towards one of the lower vortexes, maybe, the ones that will distort any trackers buried in their flesh--if there are trackers, that is.

Of course there are, the shadow teases, and Lo'ak resists the urge to puke like Spider had. Instead, he forces his hands under him, dragging himself into a swaying crouch.

They need food, water...but there's no time to boil the stuff in the lake, even if it's not contaminated, and all the berries he can see are all hopelessly rotted. A run like this would've been grueling enough when they were at their prime, which they certainly fucking aren't after far too much time getting most of their exercise on their backs back at Bridgehead.

The thought sparks fresh pain in his sore guts and Lo'ak clings on to that, to the memory, as he forces himself to his feet, gritting his teeth as he tries to keep from falling. He braces himself against a tree, feeling bark against his skin--

Easy, son, Dad whispers as Lo'ak props himself against the bark, panting, his father's hands massive and heavy on his hips. His voice curls, amused, like it's a joke, because it is, it's not real, it's a story somebody else tried to write, it's--

"We need to go," he forces out, voice ragged. "We...we gotta keep moving." No one answers. "Spider?"

He looks to find Spider slumped over on his back, staring at the sky. There's a bit of vomit flecked on his chin and his eyes are glazed in a way that Lo'ak finds all too familiar, a look he's found in the mirror time and again.

"Dude." Lo'ak's voice is louder, a little more frantic (blood staining Spider's skin, look what you did). "Bro, come on--"

Spider mumbles something he can't hear.

"What?"

"I said go." Spider's gaze sharpens as his eyes roll in Lo'ak's direction. "Go on, man, I'll catch up."

Lo'ak laughs, loud and a little hysterical. "You--that's not funny, dude."

"I know." Spider huffs, reaching up like he wants to rub his eyes, only for his hand to thunk dully against the mask. "But I'm only going to slow you down, and we both know it."

"You won't--" Except it's true; Spider's slower than him, his legs are shorter, he can keep it for brief runs, but not for long ones. They used to toss him back and forth between them as they ran, Lo'ak and Kiri and Neteyam, all of them laughing, trusting each other to catch him, Spider trusting them not to let him fall--suddenly Lo'ak misses his siblings so much he can barely breathe.

Poor little things. You'll be together soon, I promise, all safe at home where you belong.

"They always caught up to me," Spider says, voice twig-brittle. "It was almost like they..." He shakes his head firmly. "You're stronger. You'll get away."

"I'll carry you," Lo'ak says, and his voice is shaking. "I'm strong enough--"

Don't be silly, baby.

"You don't have energy to waste." The defeat in Spider's voice is worse than Sully's cruelty, somehow. He waves a limp hand out towards the water. "If you really want to lose them, you're going to have to swim--you were a really good swimmer in Awa'atlu, right?"

Sexy fucking mermaid. Standing still, too scared to move, as water splashes on his head and Sully's sponge drags down his spine like teeth. Wish I could have seen you.

"Spider," Lo'ak says, and he means fuck you get your fucking shit together and don't you dare leave me alone with him and If I get in that lake I think I'll let myself sink to the bottom and stay until I rot.

Then we'll just bring you back, sweetheart. He doesn't know if that's actually Sully in there, whispering to him through the trees, or some kind of capsule broken open in his head, or his own voice as he completely and utterly loses his mind (runs in the family, doesn't it?) He's not sure he cares.

Of course you don't. The only thing that matters is I'm here for you, baby. I'll always be here for you.

"Lo." Spider smiles up at him, and Lo'ak's world is spinning. "It's okay, I'll--I'll hide myself, y'know? They'll be too busy looking for you to see me."

That's not true. I'm not like your daddy, kiddo--I don't let any of my boys slip away.

"That's not true." Lo'ak's voice sounds like a stranger's, although he supposes that sensation isn't, in itself, strange. "That's not--I can't--"

In the woods, far away, something breaks. Lo'ak's ears twitch and Spider sees it, back straightening. It's a heavy break, maybe just a palulukan comes to tear them to shreds, something gentle like that. Maybe.

Cool, huh? He's on the couch with Sully's arm around his shoulders and Sully's fingers slipping between his thighs, watching an ancient Sky People movie--a masked killer lumbering through the woods, bloodsplatter through his unrelenting eyes. Closer and closer, endless and undying.

"Shit." Spider breathes. He pushes up on his elbows, staring at Lo'ak with wide eyes. "Dude, you gotta go."

Go. Go. Run. Swim. Turn and leave, sprint off along the woods or take his chances in the water, go up or go down or all around, run until there's nothing left of him, until he's shambling bones, a bloodied broken thing.

Leave Spider, all over again. Leave Spider for as long as he can, which might not even be that long--

it's almost as if we let--

and go back home, find his family, look them in the eye with bloody hands and cum-splattered legs. Step back into their waiting arms, because he's free now, and that's what free people do. And he wants that, doesn't he? He wants to be free, wants it so badly he can barely breathe.

Lo'ak can barely breathe, now. It's torture to draw oxygen into his overtaxed lungs and he's just holding still, frozen while Spider's curses and pleas grow more frantic and more muffled all at once (trying to hide from us, baby, like we don't already know).

Fleeing will be another layer of hell, that place he learns a little bit more about each day. He takes a single step forward and his muscles want to scream, along with the rest of him.

Oh, honey. You don't have to do that to yourself. The voice is soft, tender, a hand petting down his spine.You don't have to leave your brother--you don't want to. What if something terrible happens to him because you're not there?

A sigh, smelling of blood in salt water and Mom's screams. Although I guess that ship already sailed.

"You got in this mess because of me, you fucking dumbass, you--" Spider tries and fails to push himself up with a grunt of effort, collapsing back down into a tangle of rubbery limbs. On his back, panting, filthy, beautiful.

Lo'ak looks down, down, down into the water, at his reflection peering up at him. It looks strange, distorted by gently rippling waves--it looks older than him, if only by a few years. It looks eager, younger. It's smiling.

Home follows you wherever you go. Isn't it wonderful?

Slowly, slowly, his limbs start to give. Slowly, slow, as he sinks back to the ground at Spider's side, bones creaking like an old man's. Weariness settles over him like blankets pulled to his chin, tucking him in tight.

Lo'ak wraps his arms around Spider's back and pulls him in close, ignoring Spider's attempts to scrape and claw at him. He thinks of carrying them both into the water, ripples surging over their skin like kisses.

You won't. You're not going to leave the people you love behind, are you? Not again. You wouldn't do that to them. The footsteps in the trees are growing louder, but they don't pick up, the measured pace of hunters drawing out a kill. You wouldn't do that to us.

Lo'ak presses his nose to Spider's hair. It smells of sweat and dirt and salty tears, the bitter stench of heartbreak as Spider's shoulders quietly tremble. Lo'ak rubs a hand over his shoulders, feeling muscles back helplessly.

You'd give up everything to come back home, and we'd give up everything to make sure that you had one, to make you understand that you can't survive anywhere else, not without your family, not without us.

The lake's waters start rustling louder and louder as the wind picks up. The footsteps in the trees are louder still.

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