[And there they will remain standing, for however long it takes for them to reconnect with the world. There is no one there to offer comfort, despite that there is indeed someone there. Guzma is seated several feet away, back against a log with his hood pulled up over his head. No matter how many times he has to see it, it never gets better. It never gets easier. Time heals? Bullshit. Time just allows wounds to fester and scab.
There's someone there - why else would this stupid memory repeat itself - but Guzma doesn't get up, nor does he say a word. He's scrubbed at his eyes to the point of them being as red and bloodshot as the color that was tainting his past self's skin and clothes, and there are gashes along his face, where he'd dragged his nails down his skin. Bruises on his arms, from gripping onto them...something to hold. Something to wring together, to keep still. To keep his hands steady.
The sounds were always the worst part. Even if he turned away, shut his eyes, and tried to cover his ears...he could still hear it - the thumping of a club against skin and bone, mirrored to the beating of his heart in his ears. Thwack!Thwack!
Why did it have to be this one? Out of every piss poor experience he had growing up...why this one? Why did he have to go ahead and share this one? The other times it was just him grinding his teeth together and bearing the strikes himself. Over time, the pain even had dulled somewhat. An open hand, a closed fist, a belt...they all stopped hurting, after a while. But this...this one, he actually retaliated. He wasn't thinking, just acting. Just took it a step too far, perhaps, and...and--
cw: mentions of self harm and abuse
There's someone there - why else would this stupid memory repeat itself - but Guzma doesn't get up, nor does he say a word. He's scrubbed at his eyes to the point of them being as red and bloodshot as the color that was tainting his past self's skin and clothes, and there are gashes along his face, where he'd dragged his nails down his skin. Bruises on his arms, from gripping onto them...something to hold. Something to wring together, to keep still. To keep his hands steady.
The sounds were always the worst part. Even if he turned away, shut his eyes, and tried to cover his ears...he could still hear it - the thumping of a club against skin and bone, mirrored to the beating of his heart in his ears. Thwack! Thwack!
Why did it have to be this one? Out of every piss poor experience he had growing up...why this one? Why did he have to go ahead and share this one? The other times it was just him grinding his teeth together and bearing the strikes himself. Over time, the pain even had dulled somewhat. An open hand, a closed fist, a belt...they all stopped hurting, after a while. But this...this one, he actually retaliated. He wasn't thinking, just acting. Just took it a step too far, perhaps, and...and--
And he doesn't regret a thing.
Is that right?
Is that okay?
Does he even care if it is?]