Returning to the bathroom has Dirk a little apprehensive--at least until he gets through the doorway and can put his eyes on the body and head both. Neither one has moved.
Still, he's careful--if efficient and quick--about setting down his tools and approaching the tub. When nothing happens during that process, he places a hand on the body's back--then takes it by the arm, which hangs heavy and cool and inert in his hand.
So far, so good.
He steps over the side of the tub to join the head and all the blood inside what he thinks of now as the containment zone--the biosecurity of this scene is absolutely atrocious, but if he can still keep the worst of it in the tub, that'd be fucking super. The head doesn't blink when he picks it up--again by the hair before transferring it to both his hands. It doesn't move its lips, doesn't look around or move any of the hundreds of facial muscles underneath the skin.
Also good.
And... disappointing. He was so busy anticipating it specifically as a problem that the other reason he was anticipating it slipped his notice until it was obviously not a factor. But he wanted her to be alive again. He wanted her consciousness there, even if just for a second--he wanted to look into her eyes and see the way they looked with neurons firing behind them. He wanted to hold her gaze--to stare at her and have her stare back.
The way he locks eyes with animals that don't stun completely, or regain some of their senses before they bleed out all the way. He doesn't look away from them. Not just because he refuses--but because he wants to see them, and see them see him.
The way he imagined Hal might have, if he had been found faster.
Instead, he'd stared into Bro's eyes later that night, after staring into Hal's eyes with nothing seeing him in return.
But she's dead, and she's still dead. So he pus her back down and reaches out of he tub for the medicine cabinet over the toilet--where he scalpels are.
The reason he keeps them in the bathroom, in reach of the tub, is pretty obvious--as is the reason he makes sure he can open the cabinet and fish them out with one hand. He knows he won't be able to keep any scalpels he uses, so he pulls out a #20 for his work. Shaped for making incisions and big enough to cut large, but not the biggest blade he has. He'd like to avoid making a crude hackjob of this. Not for any mess related reason, really... he just wants to do it right.
And so, sitting down in the tub, he places the head in his lap--facing the wall, not him--and wraps his legs around it to hold it securely.
He starts above her ear, below the hairline, and the blood has drained enough that there's very little mess when he begins to cut.
It's surprisingly easy, once he finds the edge of the skull--with so little blood left, he can simply slice under the skin and slide the blade along the loose areolar tissue, so easy it almost glides. He has to pace himself, and not to get too impatient or eager and accidentally cut back up into the 'scalp' itself (and possibly his other hand), but as a result, there's something almost meditative about the process. So much so that he really loses track of time, and where he's turned the head itself--
All except once, when he unthinkingly turns it towards him so that her mouth and nose press into him and there's a suddenness of sensation. Then, and only then, does he come out of it, pulling back quickly so the head lolls and the scalp falls free--
He gets his shit together quickly, but he's careful after that, and soon the job is done. He lays the clot-matted scalp to the side, touching the bared bone underneath with his fingers--stroking it, feeling it, pressing against its unyielding surface through the thin layers of remaining connective tissue. He lays his palm over it, even.
Then, letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, he reaches over the edge of the tub for the hammer.
--
Uh.
"Ranboo. Ranboo. Ranboo, you--Ranboo, motherfucker, get in here, you need to see this. You really need to see this."
But there's no response.
He gets to his feet.
"Ranboo--fuck it." He puts the head down on the edge of the tub, then hesitates--he doesn't want to track blood everywhere, but his jeans are grimy and dark with blood and fluids. Brain fluids. Sinus fluids. Bits of gore. A lot of hair, dust and crumbs of bone.
He sighs aggravatedly, stripping his pants off completely before he turns on the water so he can wash his feet and legs of blood. His boxer-briefs are still reasonably clean, so while he may hate to walk around in just that, it's not as bad as it could be. He gets a little... carried away, cleaning himself. He meant to only wash his legs, but he ends up scrubbing his arms and shoulders and chest and even his face with soap and water, until the only parts of him that haven't been are his back and his groin area.
He's in a hurry, anxiey and impatience squeezing his lungs and accelerating his heart until he's almost dizzy with it, but he still does it. He can't stop himself from being as thorough as he is. Moreso in his urgency--something about the need for speed in effort makes it all that much more important that he be this way.
Then, his teeth gritted so tightly it's threatening to start a headache, he grabs the head with its exposed brain in his hands and jogs to the bedroom.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: Tw suicide
Date: 2024-08-10 03:09 am (UTC)Still, he's careful--if efficient and quick--about setting down his tools and approaching the tub. When nothing happens during that process, he places a hand on the body's back--then takes it by the arm, which hangs heavy and cool and inert in his hand.
So far, so good.
He steps over the side of the tub to join the head and all the blood inside what he thinks of now as the containment zone--the biosecurity of this scene is absolutely atrocious, but if he can still keep the worst of it in the tub, that'd be fucking super. The head doesn't blink when he picks it up--again by the hair before transferring it to both his hands. It doesn't move its lips, doesn't look around or move any of the hundreds of facial muscles underneath the skin.
Also good.
And... disappointing. He was so busy anticipating it specifically as a problem that the other reason he was anticipating it slipped his notice until it was obviously not a factor. But he wanted her to be alive again. He wanted her consciousness there, even if just for a second--he wanted to look into her eyes and see the way they looked with neurons firing behind them. He wanted to hold her gaze--to stare at her and have her stare back.
The way he locks eyes with animals that don't stun completely, or regain some of their senses before they bleed out all the way. He doesn't look away from them. Not just because he refuses--but because he wants to see them, and see them see him.
The way he imagined Hal might have, if he had been found faster.
Instead, he'd stared into Bro's eyes later that night, after staring into Hal's eyes with nothing seeing him in return.
But she's dead, and she's still dead. So he pus her back down and reaches out of he tub for the medicine cabinet over the toilet--where he scalpels are.
The reason he keeps them in the bathroom, in reach of the tub, is pretty obvious--as is the reason he makes sure he can open the cabinet and fish them out with one hand. He knows he won't be able to keep any scalpels he uses, so he pulls out a #20 for his work. Shaped for making incisions and big enough to cut large, but not the biggest blade he has. He'd like to avoid making a crude hackjob of this. Not for any mess related reason, really... he just wants to do it right.
And so, sitting down in the tub, he places the head in his lap--facing the wall, not him--and wraps his legs around it to hold it securely.
He starts above her ear, below the hairline, and the blood has drained enough that there's very little mess when he begins to cut.
It's surprisingly easy, once he finds the edge of the skull--with so little blood left, he can simply slice under the skin and slide the blade along the loose areolar tissue, so easy it almost glides. He has to pace himself, and not to get too impatient or eager and accidentally cut back up into the 'scalp' itself (and possibly his other hand), but as a result, there's something almost meditative about the process. So much so that he really loses track of time, and where he's turned the head itself--
All except once, when he unthinkingly turns it towards him so that her mouth and nose press into him and there's a suddenness of sensation. Then, and only then, does he come out of it, pulling back quickly so the head lolls and the scalp falls free--
He gets his shit together quickly, but he's careful after that, and soon the job is done. He lays the clot-matted scalp to the side, touching the bared bone underneath with his fingers--stroking it, feeling it, pressing against its unyielding surface through the thin layers of remaining connective tissue. He lays his palm over it, even.
Then, letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, he reaches over the edge of the tub for the hammer.
--
Uh.
"Ranboo. Ranboo. Ranboo, you--Ranboo, motherfucker, get in here, you need to see this. You really need to see this."
But there's no response.
He gets to his feet.
"Ranboo--fuck it." He puts the head down on the edge of the tub, then hesitates--he doesn't want to track blood everywhere, but his jeans are grimy and dark with blood and fluids. Brain fluids. Sinus fluids. Bits of gore. A lot of hair, dust and crumbs of bone.
He sighs aggravatedly, stripping his pants off completely before he turns on the water so he can wash his feet and legs of blood. His boxer-briefs are still reasonably clean, so while he may hate to walk around in just that, it's not as bad as it could be. He gets a little... carried away, cleaning himself. He meant to only wash his legs, but he ends up scrubbing his arms and shoulders and chest and even his face with soap and water, until the only parts of him that haven't been are his back and his groin area.
He's in a hurry, anxiey and impatience squeezing his lungs and accelerating his heart until he's almost dizzy with it, but he still does it. He can't stop himself from being as thorough as he is. Moreso in his urgency--something about the need for speed in effort makes it all that much more important that he be this way.
Then, his teeth gritted so tightly it's threatening to start a headache, he grabs the head with its exposed brain in his hands and jogs to the bedroom.