Post by Danny Boi on Oct 2, 2019 16:35:13 GMT -5
TW: Blood, self mutilation.
There should have probably been more pomp and circumstance to what was going on in that bathroom as the camera was angled on him. Another talk while applying his make up? An-- wait. That wasn’t a makeup brush in his hand, that was a straight razor, held tentatively between his fingers as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. Of course, the problem was, the Camera wasn’t even on. There was no one behind it. No one was even fucking recording. What the hell was Danny doing in that bathroom? His eyes were strangely unfocused but scrutinizing all in the same oxymoronic way.
DANNY BOI: “They want to meet the real me. They keep taunting him to come out, to show them all what he is, and what he can do. They say they’re not afraid. They’re afraid. The wrong people are afraid. My family’s afraid because they see the signs of the real me coming out. They see it every time my hands get bloody, or I taste flesh, or I get too carried away in the ring. They see me getting pushed this time of the year and..”
That nerveless hand lifted and placed the razor’s corner right above his brow. He flinched. His breathing shallow for a moment in anticipation before he twisted his hand and made the steel bite his flesh, dragging the razor down his face, wriggling it to make the wound wider, the red streaks already coming down that manicured brow and flowing over his high cheekbones, skipping over his startling blue eye to get into the meat of his cheek. He didn’t cry, he didn’t scream out, he kept his eyes on the reflection of the face he was slicing into. He felt it, his muscles twitched, the pain registered in his eyes, but it wasn’t a negative reaction. Part of him was very obviously enjoying this on some fucked up level as he kept those eyes leveled on the mirror, on his own reflection. Did he see it, though? Something was clearly amiss in those eyes, as if he saw something else. Someone else. Those eyes staring back at him. Were they his? Were they something that he recognized/
DANNY BOI: “Fuck. Fucking hell that hurts. That’s what you wanted though, isn’t it? To see how far Danny goes. Danny doesn’t want to protect his friends, he wants to be an entitled brat. He didn’t constantly defend NVR since day one or anything. No, he was entitled. He was a brat. A brat? Me? Mr. PLC? Mr. Defend what I love until I’m a broken mess? Yeah, that’s right, isn’t it?”
A towel lifted, pressed to his face for just a moment, not to stop the bleeding to wipe it away so he could see. Like a strange Harlequin, he started with the razor again, over the corner of his mouth, stopping short of cutting through his cheek as ‘decorated’ his face with a steady hand, somehow keeping it from shaking. No music, nothing but the shallow, frantic, breathing as he marked himself up.
DANNY BOI: “It hurts to talk. It always hurt to fucking talk, but in different ways, you know? You put yourself out there, you.. Oh, my. Look at that. Karen’s going to love this. Izzy, too. Tapp, I.. I don’t know. I think he’ll appreciate the artistry. He has a lot of good critiques when it comes to my make up. So does Izzy. I think Karen’s too eager to please, too gentle to tell me when I’m getting too weird.”
Too weird. Right?
He sucked in a hard breath as he went back to his forehead, to ‘paint’ a stripe over his other eye, mimicking the black paint he used to apply to himself pre most of his matches. Only now, it was blood, and it was a razor instead of a different art tool. The wounds only got bigger as he used them like a medium of expression, those blue eyes far more focused than ever before, as if he had something to latch onto in that strangely addled mind of his.
DANNY BOI: “They want me. They want everything I am. They want blood. They want fucking clowns? I’ll give them that, like I’ve given them everything else that they want, I’ll give them so much of me that they’ll choke on it.”
Pause. Beat. Danny sat down the razor and shoved the towel over his face, as if trying to strain his face his through it as the red washed over the white, hands pressing down hard over towel he was using like a shroud, putting pressure on the very wounds that he just caused, that he’d just carved into his face like a fucked up mosaic, standing there in a dark bathroom with a camera that wasn’t even on like he was cutting a promo, like nothing around him was even registering..
There should have probably been more pomp and circumstance to what was going on in that bathroom as the camera was angled on him. Another talk while applying his make up? An-- wait. That wasn’t a makeup brush in his hand, that was a straight razor, held tentatively between his fingers as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. Of course, the problem was, the Camera wasn’t even on. There was no one behind it. No one was even fucking recording. What the hell was Danny doing in that bathroom? His eyes were strangely unfocused but scrutinizing all in the same oxymoronic way.
DANNY BOI: “They want to meet the real me. They keep taunting him to come out, to show them all what he is, and what he can do. They say they’re not afraid. They’re afraid. The wrong people are afraid. My family’s afraid because they see the signs of the real me coming out. They see it every time my hands get bloody, or I taste flesh, or I get too carried away in the ring. They see me getting pushed this time of the year and..”
That nerveless hand lifted and placed the razor’s corner right above his brow. He flinched. His breathing shallow for a moment in anticipation before he twisted his hand and made the steel bite his flesh, dragging the razor down his face, wriggling it to make the wound wider, the red streaks already coming down that manicured brow and flowing over his high cheekbones, skipping over his startling blue eye to get into the meat of his cheek. He didn’t cry, he didn’t scream out, he kept his eyes on the reflection of the face he was slicing into. He felt it, his muscles twitched, the pain registered in his eyes, but it wasn’t a negative reaction. Part of him was very obviously enjoying this on some fucked up level as he kept those eyes leveled on the mirror, on his own reflection. Did he see it, though? Something was clearly amiss in those eyes, as if he saw something else. Someone else. Those eyes staring back at him. Were they his? Were they something that he recognized/
DANNY BOI: “Fuck. Fucking hell that hurts. That’s what you wanted though, isn’t it? To see how far Danny goes. Danny doesn’t want to protect his friends, he wants to be an entitled brat. He didn’t constantly defend NVR since day one or anything. No, he was entitled. He was a brat. A brat? Me? Mr. PLC? Mr. Defend what I love until I’m a broken mess? Yeah, that’s right, isn’t it?”
A towel lifted, pressed to his face for just a moment, not to stop the bleeding to wipe it away so he could see. Like a strange Harlequin, he started with the razor again, over the corner of his mouth, stopping short of cutting through his cheek as ‘decorated’ his face with a steady hand, somehow keeping it from shaking. No music, nothing but the shallow, frantic, breathing as he marked himself up.
DANNY BOI: “It hurts to talk. It always hurt to fucking talk, but in different ways, you know? You put yourself out there, you.. Oh, my. Look at that. Karen’s going to love this. Izzy, too. Tapp, I.. I don’t know. I think he’ll appreciate the artistry. He has a lot of good critiques when it comes to my make up. So does Izzy. I think Karen’s too eager to please, too gentle to tell me when I’m getting too weird.”
Too weird. Right?
He sucked in a hard breath as he went back to his forehead, to ‘paint’ a stripe over his other eye, mimicking the black paint he used to apply to himself pre most of his matches. Only now, it was blood, and it was a razor instead of a different art tool. The wounds only got bigger as he used them like a medium of expression, those blue eyes far more focused than ever before, as if he had something to latch onto in that strangely addled mind of his.
DANNY BOI: “They want me. They want everything I am. They want blood. They want fucking clowns? I’ll give them that, like I’ve given them everything else that they want, I’ll give them so much of me that they’ll choke on it.”
Pause. Beat. Danny sat down the razor and shoved the towel over his face, as if trying to strain his face his through it as the red washed over the white, hands pressing down hard over towel he was using like a shroud, putting pressure on the very wounds that he just caused, that he’d just carved into his face like a fucked up mosaic, standing there in a dark bathroom with a camera that wasn’t even on like he was cutting a promo, like nothing around him was even registering..
