He looks up at him in bewilderment. "Spirit, I don't..."
And then a horrible and blackened dread comes down on him; blackened, like that crashing and churned ocean, like the smoke that rose from the wasted city. Gritting his teeth and clenching the stone, he raises it over his head, and throws it.
Mulcahy is an athlete, but he's thinner than he once was, too. He throws another, and it makes it farther this time; he throws and it leaves the church doorway. He feels a determined anger welling up in him, and throws, but no stone makes it farther than a few yards beyond the church doors. He could do it, he thinks. He should be able to. He should be able to. He tries to will the dream to allow him and it won't. If the spirit had asked him to do anything but this, he could do it; he'd slice off his fingers, he'd dig open his ribcage, he'd pull out his teeth and cut out his own tongue; he'd vivisect himself for this anger, the kind of fury that feels like it should justify the world on its own terms, like the existence of it by itself can and should light up and devour entire forests. If the spirit had asked, he'd starve for this anger, the way he so often has. But he didn't; he asked him to throw stones, and no hatred can defy the world that's in front of him, which he is bound to.
He's sobbing as he throws another, fingernails scraping the cobblestones for the next pebble. I want to. And he can't. Never, not once, has this or will this ever work. It does nothing and means nothing, and--and all this wasted energy, for nothing, and he can't--he can't stop.
cw mentions of self harm, mutilation, gore, disordered eating
And then a horrible and blackened dread comes down on him; blackened, like that crashing and churned ocean, like the smoke that rose from the wasted city. Gritting his teeth and clenching the stone, he raises it over his head, and throws it.
Mulcahy is an athlete, but he's thinner than he once was, too. He throws another, and it makes it farther this time; he throws and it leaves the church doorway. He feels a determined anger welling up in him, and throws, but no stone makes it farther than a few yards beyond the church doors. He could do it, he thinks. He should be able to. He should be able to. He tries to will the dream to allow him and it won't. If the spirit had asked him to do anything but this, he could do it; he'd slice off his fingers, he'd dig open his ribcage, he'd pull out his teeth and cut out his own tongue; he'd vivisect himself for this anger, the kind of fury that feels like it should justify the world on its own terms, like the existence of it by itself can and should light up and devour entire forests. If the spirit had asked, he'd starve for this anger, the way he so often has. But he didn't; he asked him to throw stones, and no hatred can defy the world that's in front of him, which he is bound to.
He's sobbing as he throws another, fingernails scraping the cobblestones for the next pebble. I want to. And he can't. Never, not once, has this or will this ever work. It does nothing and means nothing, and--and all this wasted energy, for nothing, and he can't--he can't stop.