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 time he's not doing something about it. 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 enough like blood it's almost like being back at work. This body isn't kicking, though. It doesn't thrash, doesn't tremor, barely struggled for more than a second. Then he could see it: the vacancy inside as its eyes lost focus far too fast for his liking. 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 hangs 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 beneath her where she hangs, desperate to at least stop the blood from leaving his apartment.
Then he takes hold of the katana's hilt with both hands--one gripping it firmly under the hand guard, the other braced for support--and pulls.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2024-07-15 05:43 am (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 enough like blood it's almost like being back at work. This body isn't kicking, though. It doesn't thrash, doesn't tremor, barely struggled for more than a second. Then he could see it: the vacancy inside as its eyes lost focus far too fast for his liking. 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 hangs 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 beneath her where she hangs, desperate to at least stop the blood from leaving his apartment.
Then he takes hold of the katana's hilt with both hands--one gripping it firmly under the hand guard, the other braced for support--and pulls.