Leon's a shell. It's not bad, really--being hollow isn't as bad as the rest of the world seemed to make it out to be, and if he closes his eyes in his small apartment, he can hear the ocean. He's never been to the ocean, but he's been to the lake, and he can hear city traffic like it's waves.
It could be worse--he remembers, of course, the boiling, useless rage of adolescence, bubbling up inside him and spilling over uselessly. It still happens, once in a while, but he's not caught up in it like he was. Instead, he steps outside himself and lets his body take over, do what it needs to do to work out the problem, and he just watches from the outside until unconsciousness takes over.
Not feeling is infinitely better than feeling, Leon's decided, and he gets by doing just that, not feeling, floating from job to job and returning to his subsidized housing and laying on the futon that functions as a bed, listening to waves of traffic behind his eyes, and ignoring his heart and whatever still resides.
Until he goes looking through the journals for any potential job postings for a broken Guardian Angel, and sees the post from her. It's like the waves in his head increase tenfold, and suddenly they're cresting over his head and he can't breathe, he's holding his breath and his chest burns.
Shaking hands drop his journal and he tries to lay back down on the futon, shallow breaths wracking his body, but his chest hurts, it hurts, it hurts. He squeezes a hand in the top sheet bunched up under his body, squeezes and squeezes like he wants to pop, but he's still there, still feeling it, and it won't go away. It won't go away.
He wants to scream for help, but his throat doesn't know how any more. It won't go away. The fist squeezed around the sheet goes up and comes down on the futon, in times with his breaths, in time with his heartbeat, and there's something about the impact that makes breathing a little easier. Before he knows what he's doing, he's risen to his feet and has punched a neat hole in his wall--are they going to take that out of his rent, how is he going to pay for that, adult consequences mean nothing to him now--and his knuckles are bleeding and he can taste his heart in his mouth. He punches again, blinding pain spreading up his arm to his brain, and he punches again, and things go dark for a moment, dark enough that he doesn't know what he's going to hit, that he's swinging wildly with lights flashing on and off in his head, his knees quivering as his fists carve out a hole in the drywall big enough to pour whatever's going on in his chest.
When he blinks, he's in front of her old address, feet aching in worn tennis shoes, whole right arm numb except for his pulse. He knocks with his left, three times, and he can hear his own nerves in the knock. His chest still aches, and he doesn't know what to call it any more--fear, joy, anticipation, loss, love
He knocks again. His knees are shaking. He's going down sooner or later, and probably sooner.
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It could be worse--he remembers, of course, the boiling, useless rage of adolescence, bubbling up inside him and spilling over uselessly. It still happens, once in a while, but he's not caught up in it like he was. Instead, he steps outside himself and lets his body take over, do what it needs to do to work out the problem, and he just watches from the outside until unconsciousness takes over.
Not feeling is infinitely better than feeling, Leon's decided, and he gets by doing just that, not feeling, floating from job to job and returning to his subsidized housing and laying on the futon that functions as a bed, listening to waves of traffic behind his eyes, and ignoring his heart and whatever still resides.
Until he goes looking through the journals for any potential job postings for a broken Guardian Angel, and sees the post from her. It's like the waves in his head increase tenfold, and suddenly they're cresting over his head and he can't breathe, he's holding his breath and his chest burns.
Shaking hands drop his journal and he tries to lay back down on the futon, shallow breaths wracking his body, but his chest hurts, it hurts, it hurts. He squeezes a hand in the top sheet bunched up under his body, squeezes and squeezes like he wants to pop, but he's still there, still feeling it, and it won't go away. It won't go away.
He wants to scream for help, but his throat doesn't know how any more. It won't go away. The fist squeezed around the sheet goes up and comes down on the futon, in times with his breaths, in time with his heartbeat, and there's something about the impact that makes breathing a little easier. Before he knows what he's doing, he's risen to his feet and has punched a neat hole in his wall--are they going to take that out of his rent, how is he going to pay for that, adult consequences mean nothing to him now--and his knuckles are bleeding and he can taste his heart in his mouth. He punches again, blinding pain spreading up his arm to his brain, and he punches again, and things go dark for a moment, dark enough that he doesn't know what he's going to hit, that he's swinging wildly with lights flashing on and off in his head, his knees quivering as his fists carve out a hole in the drywall big enough to pour whatever's going on in his chest.
When he blinks, he's in front of her old address, feet aching in worn tennis shoes, whole right arm numb except for his pulse. He knocks with his left, three times, and he can hear his own nerves in the knock. His chest still aches, and he doesn't know what to call it any more--fear, joy, anticipation, loss,
loveHe knocks again. His knees are shaking. He's going down sooner or later, and probably sooner.