2019-07-11 - The Past Will Always Haunt You
Not long after helping the little girl out of the Murray House Ignacio gets a nightmare that's way too close to history repeating itself.
IC Date: 2019-07-11
OOC Date: 2019-05-13
Location: Guest room - Celaeno House
Related Scenes: 2019-07-05 - Going Through The Door 2019-07-12 - A Watch of Nightingales 2019-07-12 - Broken Wings 2019-07-17 - A Wake of Buzzards
Plot: None
Scene Number: 619
"Out of the frying pan and into the fucking fire."
Murmured words could not be more true where haunted houses and Gray Harbor are concerned as he agreed to crash at the Celaeno House while Granny Dove flew off to her sister's so Finch didn't have to stay in spooky house numero dos all the fuck alone. It's not long after dealing with the charred ghost of, what? Flying Skeletor? He didn't know. He can't name it and can't get it out of memory either. More than ever the last few nights he has been really glad he packed a small travelling mini bar in his duffel for such an occasion.
His leg has been positively screaming at him for the last several days which was enough for him to just debate sleeping with his damn brace on. There's a reason the bossman never shakes his hand. He can't rightly blame him. the pain killers were not doing the job he'd hoped and the world still felt like it was screaming at him. Everything else Finch told hi? Well he's still 50/50 on that one. One one hand that's some scary as hell shit, and on the other really running away from that news won't help anyone and too often causes those problems one tries to avoid. Nope. Not leaving someone else behind.
It's a terrible thing; realizing surviving isn't the goal, it's the bonus. Making decisions that don't haunt you forever is kidna the goal, or so he's come to surmise.
The other goal is not kill his liver or his kidneys or give himself a damn heart attack by mixing a Xanex with the shot of honey whiskey to try to make the voices just stop. As sleep came to take him (hopefully not for the last time) he waited for his limps to grow heavy and the world to stop screeching out of alignment. He honestly lost track between PTSD, bad trips, and if, just if, he might actually be losing his damn mind. He surmised his sanity was, unfortunately in tact which left all of this bullshit to be quite fucking real.
Head growing heavy and leg still feeling like it's on fire sending lost signals everywhere from teh neuropathy he cusses, "I'd say god damn this place... but ya sorta took care of that shit already. Wayt'be on the ball with that one, God." He sighed and murmured, "at the very least can you just give the bird a break? Amen man."
The answer, he's come to find out, would be an abrupt: No. No guarantees, deSantos.
Ignacio had a good run of alcohol, so it probably doesn't take him much to fall asleep, but he might feel a bit on edge as his eyes close.
In his dream he'd find himself standing in the room where Itzhak left the hole in the floor with his hulk smash moment. On the edges of the hole that gives the drop off into the basement, there are the bodies of half dead birds. A Robin, A northern cardinal and a tropical kingbird. They all stop taking their last breaths at the same time.
And he can feel himself not able to breathe. The weight of the place bearing down on him. A pinkish purple finch flutters down from the ceiling of the room, teetering on the edges of the hole in the floor.
That finch is quickly snatched by a dark skeletal hand. He can hear it's bones crunch and pop as the bird is killed. Then it's body dropped down into the darkness.
When he jerks himself awake it will take him a few moments to get his breath. Like something was pressing on his chest.
Sitting bolt upright Ignacio's hands clutch the sheets leaning forward gasping for air in the room that has become too hot, too humid, and too everything. Every sense on high alert means being acutely away of every strange noise in that house is not doing a damn thing to make him feel at all better rigth now! The muscles in his leg just unwilling to move as they've been clenched for who knows how long he's been passed out. A shuddering breath is drawn in as a hand, a little roughened and with several small burn lines from stoves past, wipe down his tear-stained ashen face. The silent sob rattles around his chest as he tries to tell himself 'not again'. It's a shallow consolation. He hunches over, with his face buried in one hand to hide from the world like he inevitably does, and the other hand trying to massage the many scars in his leg trying to coax them to just stop.
Still, the emotions come back and he takes a deep breath to wait them out trying to bury them fast and deep taking memory with it.
Man, this is why no one wants the truth.
The truth sucks.
Why no one believes him he may never know.
There fucking goes sleep.
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