2019-11-22 - Fallen Memories

Late, very late evening as a tired-looking James trudges his way up to the front door.

His front door. He still wasn't used to that. Even though this old shambling Victorian was the house he grew up in, it was no longer the house he remembered. It was in disrepair, filthy, and stuffed to the gills with his late uncle's crap.

No, it wasn't his house, not anymore, even if it belonged to him now. It was just... the house.

James pauses in front of the door, one hand in his pocket, vaguely fishing about for his keys. For once, though, it's not to look around nervously in case he was followed home by some bizarre nightmare creature. No, he's paused because he's thinking about her.

Diana.

He'd just come from her place- originally just to check in on her and bring her some soup and whiskey and chicken and company while she fights off the flu, but the conversation had taken a bit of a turn. He'd... opened up to her. And that? That, my friends, is not normal. Not for someone like James, anyway. He'd learned a long time ago that leaving yourself open was how you got hurt. But he'd done it, anyway. Opened up and shared a part of his childhood- a part of the trauma that awaits him on the other side of that door.

Worse, he'd told her he liked her!

James shakes his head, and pulls his keys out of his pocket, unlocking and opening the front door a moment later. Beyond the doorway, the house is dark, and he doesn't reach to turn on the lights- frankly, the darker it is, the better this place looks. But before he closes the door behind him, plunging the house into near darkness once more, one might have caught sight of a classic hoarder house- piles and mountains of just... stuff, all of it everywhere. There are little meandering paths carved in between the piles of random shit, paths narrow and precarious enough to be a hazard to navigate even in the full light of day.

James stops just inside the doorway now, letting his eyes adjust to the dark... and listening. At first, nothing. And then, bit by bit, a whispering, a murmur, a soft chatter rises up around him, the thousand voices of all the random junk piled around, mumbling out their stories to him, begging, pleading for him to touch them, to hear them, to know them. He grimaces faintly, but takes a step forward, then another, and another, making his careful way around the narrow paths, arms up, being very careful not to touch anything. The distracting whispers help guide him, their volume indicating when he's close to straying off the path. "... fucking hate this house.", he mutters.

Halfway down towards the relative safety and silence of his bedroom, he almost stumbles, once, but manages to right himself just before his hand would have made contact with an old wooden pipe laying on a scratched plastic bowl atop a box full of an assortment of generic plastic toy soldiers. "I have got to get Byron and the others over here to help me clean up...", James growls, sighing. He would have cleaned all this up himself already, but it's... too much. Too much stuff, too many stories, too many sins stored all around him, waiting for him to take them into himself like the sin eaters of old. He needs folks who won't go into a seizure if they so much as try and move this shit a few inches to the right. He takes a slow breath to steady himself, then starts moving again.

This would probably be a lot easier if he left the lights on, of course, but he needs to do it this way, or at least so he keeps telling himself. He might be the mutant with the shittiest power on the team, but that's no excuse not to try and hone that ability if he's going to be fucking stuck with it, right? If nothing else, practice like this will make it easier to be... normal. Or at least to act like it. Learn to tune the chatter out, learn to hear it more instinctively, be aware of it without letting it overwhelm him.

As James walks, though, his thoughts start to drift again- back to just a couple of hours ago. He can't help but let his thoughts drift back to Diana. Thinking of 'powers' makes him wonder about what they'd talked about before, how she'd compared his sucky power to Cyclops. And then she'd shown him some telekinesis. Which... wait, did that make her Jean Grey? "... aww, fuck. I don't wanna be Cyclops in this analogy. He's kind of an asshole." Though he had to admit himself that Diana would look pretty hot as the Phoenix.

This last thought proves to be a fatal distraction, however: he starts smiling to himself as he thinks she would actually get that reference and probably out-geek him in reply, and doesn't notice the dangling power cord of a heavy iron precariously perched atop a pile of old pizza boxes. His foot tangles on the cord, and as he takes another step while thinking to himself that between the way she smiles at him, the way she cuddled up to him, the kisses to his cheek, and, oh yeah, her outright telling him that she likes him a lot, well, there's a solid 40-50% chance she actually kinda likes him, maybe. Which, let's face it, is an almost unprecedented level of optimism coming from him.

And then he's falling.

The first thing that hits James is a wedding ring- just a small silver band with a tiny diamond inset. Nothing fancy, simple, cheap, easily missed in the pile of metal washers it had been mixed in with. It bounces off of his wrist, just a moment's contact. But that's all it takes.

"YOU ASSHOLE!!", the woman shouts through her tears. There's a man in front of her, he's trying to explain, trying to excuse, trying to blame. She can't hear him. The blood has rushed to her head, it pounds in her ears, blotting out everything else. She's hurt. "HOW COULD YOU?! AFTER EVERYTHING-", she shouts, blind with anger and anguish. A hand touches her arm- she shakes it off, violently. "NO! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE TOUCH ME!", the woman screams, before doubling over, coughing, the pain and anger inside her too great to be kept under control. The man stands before her, still making excuses, still so weak, so pathetic, how had she ever loved him, how-

A flash of light and pain goes through James, all of this experienced in a moment, jolted away when his elbow hits the ground. His forearm twists, and he latches on the to closest thing- an umbrella sticking out at an awkward angle from beneath a pile of newspapers.

A small child clutches the umbrella to his chest and stares out the window of their small family home. It's raining outside, and he's waiting. Daddy left on a day just like this- rainy, gray, quiet. Daddy left in the rain and he forgot his umbrella- he'll be back for it, right? He has to come back for his umbrella or he'll get wet. The child holds the umbrella tighter, and the street beyond the window goes blurry from more than just the rain. He blinks his tears away, and he waits.

James gasps as he releases the umbrella, the visions coming faster, hitting him harder as his abilities lash out in his sudden panic. Another vision in a mere fraction of a second- he's still falling. His shoulder hits the floor, jolting loose a book from a nearby pile, the pages fluttering open as it lands right on his face-

An old man sits on a plush recliner. The book lies open on his lap. It's one he's read before. Read a dozen times, now, though he barely remembers. He's forgotten so many things. A name floats to the top of his consciousness. Sally? Who's Sally? He tries to sit up, to find Sally. Where's Sally? His arms don't respond, his movements are sluggish. He's so tired, so very tired, and as a wheezing breath leaves him, he blinks rheumy eyes in confusion. Who's Sally?

James screams in pain and shock as more memories flood through him- none of them pleasant. He wheezes, breath knocked out of him as a large mixing bowl falls on his stomach-

-just few drops, he'll never notice, it smells like almonds-

-and James scrambles to his knees, hands accidentally brushing against-

"... but you're my brother, why are you doing-" A loud bang, a flash of pain, blood gushing-

-tumbling objects, heavy with memories, dripping with resonance, each bump, each hit, each touch another stab of-

"-op squirming or I'll make this really hurt you fucking bit-"

-memories, of stories and people long dead but who's pain is as real to him in that moment as it ever was. James rises to his feet, unsteady, a hand leaning on a table nearby, fingertips brushing a hammer-

-AM WHAM WHAM just a few more nails and it'll be ready, they'll never find her in here, they'll never know it was me-

-and James is bolting, rushing, fleeing, no longer caring about anything, not caring how many poisonous possessions fling their hate and anger and resentment and loss at him, he needs to get to the door to the bedroom to where it's safe to-

SLAM

James closes the door behind him as he finally makes it to his bedroom- stark, empty, hollow. Nothing on the shelves. No furniture, no toys, no pictures or memories. No childhood mementos, no decorations. Just four blank walls, and a single old mattress, on the floor. He collapses on the mattress, panting, drawing his knees up to his chest, clutching himself, curled up tight against the world as hot tears drip from his eyes.

"... not... not mine. They're not mine. It's... it's not me. They're outside me and I'm not listening I'm not listening I'm not listening..."

Again and again he repeats this mantra, eyes shut tight, trying to convince himself he doesn't hear the whispers outside the door. Calling, cajoling.

They have so many stories to tell.