[Chef's still keeping it cool, and that's a relief. Willard doesn't exactly feel up to facing further shouting fits.]
You got somewhere else to be? [Almost, almost edging toward a tired humor for a moment, there.]
I haven't run into anything.
[It's better than being over there. Anything's better than being over there again. Jesus, once he'd done it, all Willard had wanted was to get that place out from under his skin get it out of his head (as if it's ever gone, as if he still can't feel it aching over him). Forget it, but of course he can't. Some places you never leave. Some places never let you go.
He isn't there, though. What he can say, what he knows is that he isn't physically there, that none of it can reach out and touch him (keep telling yourself that, keep telling yourself it isn't the mind alone keep telling yourself it isn't in you), pull him back in to what could have become, what he'd come so close to. Edge of the human mind edge of the soul. The snail caught crawling along the knife's edge, diamond through the head, it is possible to take existence into your hands possible to become in shattering.
Stop it. Stop it. Doesn't do any good.
Being here is probably better than being back in the world, too. It's easier to live among people, easier to have this shit hanging over his head when nothing is exactly solid. Easier when he doesn't have to find his way in that world he could only see as broken, anyway. He'll probably never see that world again, and maybe it's for the best.]
And I'm not sure you can be--
[Well, fuck. Can he say "killed here," or is that going to set Chef off again? He's probably already fucked it up by cutting himself off like that. Shit. This is one strange fucking situation.]
Some of the places you can find yourself in aren't exactly friendly. From what I've heard. Here, I guess we're all pretty safe. [As safe as anyone can be, but he's going to leave it on a more comforting note. That seems like the better option.]
no subject
You got somewhere else to be? [Almost, almost edging toward a tired humor for a moment, there.]
I haven't run into anything.
[It's better than being over there. Anything's better than being over there again. Jesus, once he'd done it, all Willard had wanted was to get that place out from under his skin get it out of his head (as if it's ever gone, as if he still can't feel it aching over him). Forget it, but of course he can't. Some places you never leave. Some places never let you go.
He isn't there, though. What he can say, what he knows is that he isn't physically there, that none of it can reach out and touch him (keep telling yourself that, keep telling yourself it isn't the mind alone keep telling yourself it isn't in you), pull him back in to what could have become, what he'd come so close to. Edge of the human mind edge of the soul. The snail caught crawling along the knife's edge, diamond through the head, it is possible to take existence into your hands possible to become in shattering.
Stop it. Stop it. Doesn't do any good.
Being here is probably better than being back in the world, too. It's easier to live among people, easier to have this shit hanging over his head when nothing is exactly solid. Easier when he doesn't have to find his way in that world he could only see as broken, anyway. He'll probably never see that world again, and maybe it's for the best.]
And I'm not sure you can be--
[Well, fuck. Can he say "killed here," or is that going to set Chef off again? He's probably already fucked it up by cutting himself off like that. Shit. This is one strange fucking situation.]
Some of the places you can find yourself in aren't exactly friendly. From what I've heard. Here, I guess we're all pretty safe. [As safe as anyone can be, but he's going to leave it on a more comforting note. That seems like the better option.]