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rorschach fanfic??
Rorschach cannot feel his feet, but they bear him forward all the same, out into the snowy desert, slow and resolute, like a heartbeat.
He sees Jon standing before him, and the chill seems to deepen, digging into his shoulders like cold, cold fingers. It feels like a sedative undermined by adrenaline, like smothered panic, like desperation. He shivers uncontrollably, despite himself.
There is a wet and quickly freezing spot on his mask, over his mouth and nose. There is wetness on his cheeks too. The mask sticks to him, stiff and heavy with his breath, snot, tears. It is all that stands between him and this blue, indifferent god: shifting slowly, amorphous -- meaningless, yet so persistent. And suddenly he hates it. Hates the nothingness that yawns within both the black and the white.
He imagines he can hear cats screaming, smell fat burning. He imagines he can feel the planet turning under his feet, so persistent. He imagines his mother, naked and jeering.
When he was twelve years old, a man looked at him without disgust, put a heavy hand on his shoulder and a Bible in his hand. Walter hadn't kept the Bible, but it had stayed with him, all the same. Until he tore it out of himself and threw it at the flames, to burn with human flesh, to burn with lifeless, grotesque mannequins, threw it down the gaping chasm that was at the bottom of it all.
But now it seems that he is face to face with God. Jon towers over him like a statue made of ice, perfectly immobile and calm in this barren, life-slowing stretch of whiteness.
He strips off his face, feels the sting of flecks of ice. He looks Jon in the eye. Jon stares back serenely, expectantly. What does he want? What is he waiting for? Rorschach has sworn to never pray again.
He sets his face in anger, the only thing left to him: fists and jaw clenched. If you'd cared from the start, he says. If someone could reach across the chasm, bridge it, close it, make things whole--
But no.
There is no wholeness; he knows this. Jon knows this too. Jon doesn't care.
Rorschach clenches his fists. He screams.
And is gone.
He sees Jon standing before him, and the chill seems to deepen, digging into his shoulders like cold, cold fingers. It feels like a sedative undermined by adrenaline, like smothered panic, like desperation. He shivers uncontrollably, despite himself.
There is a wet and quickly freezing spot on his mask, over his mouth and nose. There is wetness on his cheeks too. The mask sticks to him, stiff and heavy with his breath, snot, tears. It is all that stands between him and this blue, indifferent god: shifting slowly, amorphous -- meaningless, yet so persistent. And suddenly he hates it. Hates the nothingness that yawns within both the black and the white.
He imagines he can hear cats screaming, smell fat burning. He imagines he can feel the planet turning under his feet, so persistent. He imagines his mother, naked and jeering.
When he was twelve years old, a man looked at him without disgust, put a heavy hand on his shoulder and a Bible in his hand. Walter hadn't kept the Bible, but it had stayed with him, all the same. Until he tore it out of himself and threw it at the flames, to burn with human flesh, to burn with lifeless, grotesque mannequins, threw it down the gaping chasm that was at the bottom of it all.
But now it seems that he is face to face with God. Jon towers over him like a statue made of ice, perfectly immobile and calm in this barren, life-slowing stretch of whiteness.
He strips off his face, feels the sting of flecks of ice. He looks Jon in the eye. Jon stares back serenely, expectantly. What does he want? What is he waiting for? Rorschach has sworn to never pray again.
He sets his face in anger, the only thing left to him: fists and jaw clenched. If you'd cared from the start, he says. If someone could reach across the chasm, bridge it, close it, make things whole--
But no.
There is no wholeness; he knows this. Jon knows this too. Jon doesn't care.
Rorschach clenches his fists. He screams.
And is gone.