Dirk, on the other hand, is hyper-present. Everything is happening exactly at the pace it should be, it just feels slower because the problem hasn't been solved yet. That's how he perceives it, anyway. Every second is excruciatingly slow, every millimetre that the pool of blood spreads across his floor towards the doorway and the carpet is too much time. He doesn't feel his own pulse, creating a weird effect like he simply haas none. He has no blood, no heartbeat, no heart. He's an artificial, hollow-bodied marionette or mannequin or simply fellow corpse, only of course he's not. He's breathing. He's hot under the skin. Sweat is beading. He just has no pulse.
"Of course I have a fucking tarp," Dirk snaps. It's a lot sharper than he means for it to be, or at least sharper than he knew it would be until it's out of his mouth. Okay, so he might be feeling some pressure. That's reasonable. He can accept that. He takes a deep breath, quickly re-composing his presentation to something more direct, more purposefully commanding.
The breath he takes in smells so much like blood it's almost like being back at work. This body isn't kicking, though. It doesn't thrash, doesn't tremor, barely flailed for more than a second. It was like cutting the head off a doll with wiring in it. A Furby reacts more when its wires are cut than this corpse did. It leaves a weird, sour pit at the base of his stomach. Like he's powerless over it now. The body, that is. It just lies there, bleeding. He can't stop it from bleeding, he can't clean it up, he can't re-do or un-do or solve, or--
"One under the bed, another under the bathroom sink. Pick one." And with that, he grabs his own shirt, yanking it off over his head and throwing it down on the linoleum in front of the door frame, desperate to at least stop the blood from leaving his apartment.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2024-07-01 01:01 pm (UTC)"Of course I have a fucking tarp," Dirk snaps. It's a lot sharper than he means for it to be, or at least sharper than he knew it would be until it's out of his mouth. Okay, so he might be feeling some pressure. That's reasonable. He can accept that. He takes a deep breath, quickly re-composing his presentation to something more direct, more purposefully commanding.
The breath he takes in smells so much like blood it's almost like being back at work. This body isn't kicking, though. It doesn't thrash, doesn't tremor, barely flailed for more than a second. It was like cutting the head off a doll with wiring in it. A Furby reacts more when its wires are cut than this corpse did. It leaves a weird, sour pit at the base of his stomach. Like he's powerless over it now. The body, that is. It just lies there, bleeding. He can't stop it from bleeding, he can't clean it up, he can't re-do or un-do or solve, or--
"One under the bed, another under the bathroom sink. Pick one." And with that, he grabs his own shirt, yanking it off over his head and throwing it down on the linoleum in front of the door frame, desperate to at least stop the blood from leaving his apartment.