As is obvious, I haven’t been very active on Stitch. It’s been fun, but I just don’t have the time and dedication to be an active member of this group anymore. This goes for Jake as well. (I don’t know about Alan yet, still deciding.) I’m very preoccupied with a full-time job and other personal matters. But as it has been pointed out by members in the chat, if I’m not going to be active, I’m not going to be part of this group. Seeing that said kind of solidified things for me and I’m going to step down. I’m alright with that, if you’d rather open up my ‘slots’ to new players.
If you’d still like to write with me sometimes, I’m still writing on Pickle, Slick (very occasionally), and probably Droog when he comes off hiatus. If you want to write with my non-MSPA characters, Skype me sometime.
Stitch is hereby on indefinite hiatus/closed, barring odd incident or unexpected high demand, as is Jake. (Again, I’m not sure about Alan on this; we’ll see.) Thank you for understanding.]
Heat of the moment
Bruises are already beginning to form on the pale skin of your cheeks, and you wouldnt be surprised if another larger one was appearing on your stomach. Now that the barrage seems to have stopped, or at least slowed down, you take the time to catch your breath. Theyre coming in short heaves, probably as raggedly as his are.
Still on the ground, holding yourself up by quivering arms that threaten to give out at any moment, you look up at him. “You said you cant…help yourself…so I want to…I have to help you…” You moan quietly, laying down all the way and resting your head on one of your arms, the other holding your stomach. You feel like youre going to be sick all over the place.
"If no one else…is going to…then I will…"
Well, you will once you pick yourself up off the ground and stop internally bleeding. Might take a while though. You just sort of lay there, breathing and listening. You’re not sure why you came here either. What did you think you would achieve confronting him like this. Maybe you really did want to help him.
You stare for a moment, eyes still hazy, sort of lost. He… actually wants to help you…? No… There’s—he must be lying. Lying to get you to settle down, lying so he can manipulate you back into being complacent. That has to be it.
But you want to believe him. You want to believe anyone will help you.
It simmers you down like taking a pan off the burner. Your expression softens, less angry, brow furrowed in frustrated guilt rather than rage. You hate this; you hate how your head swims and spins and how your emotions are all over the place, tugging your heartstrings like a broken, out of tune cello. It makes you feel sick… or maybe that’s the whiskey. You don’t know anymore.
Regardless, you step away for a moment, and then return with a little white box, kneeling down in front of him. And a warm, damp cloth comes out, wiping blood from his face, disinfecting a split in his lip. Your eyes are out of focus but you still know what you’re doing. You’re the closest thing this family has to a medical doctor. “Don’t move too much,” you mutter. You’re going to fix this, just like everything else. “Limey bastard.”
Heat of the moment
Between the violent shaking and his slamming you around like a rag doll, you cant get a good enough grip on your gun, and when your head hits the wall, you drop it. Not that it would have done much good at this point anyway. Even with your special bullets, you cant imagine a bullet to anything that isnt fatal would stop him. You’ve seen the same with Crowbar.
You’re not a fighter. You’ve never claimed to be strong, physically or otherwise, so when he finally sets you down, all you can do is hope its over.
Two large fists to the stomach send you reeling backwards, and you think if the wall werent behind you you would have fallen backwards. Blood continues to drip in ever growing amounts, staining your shirt, pants, and the floor underneath you a sickening red. You try and breathe, the wind having been thoroughly knocked out of you. This isnt the first beating you’ve ever had, and you know at what point to resign yourself to it. Its pitiful, you know, but what else can you do.
As expected, he grabs you again, tossing you on the ground as if you were made of paper. You catch yourself with your hands on the floor, though, coughing up blood and a bit of bile. You must be a disgusting picture. “I kn— ow” You choke out finally, your voice sounding disturbingly not like yourself. “Im here to hgh…help you—” God, your everything hurts. You don’t get up. Theres probably a good chance that you couldnt even if you wanted to. “Please…”
Your ragged breathing is almost all you can hear with your blood pumping so loud in your ears; it’s hard to parse what he’s saying, or trying to say. And you really don’t want to listen, anyway. You just want him to hurt as much as you are; you want him to understand, even if that means beating comprehension into him. It doesn’t make any sense, but you’re too drunk to care.
When he doesn’t get up to face you, though… you start to lose steam. Your heaving chest slows in the frantic pace it was keeping, twice as fast as the rhythmic ticking in the workshop from every synchronized clock, until it meets that beat unevenly. There’s a lot of blood on your hands, splattered on your collar. And slowly, vaguely, you realize what you’re doing.
A low groan slips from your throat, frustrated. Disappointed. Upset. You don’t even know. What are you doing?
Please, he says.
You swear you feel the ghosts of her hands, cradling your warm face, gentle. Please, she whispers. Calm yourself.
You slowly lower your arms, unclenching your fists, looking down at him. “… Why’dya have t’come down here,” you growl, though most of your anger has dissipated.
((Mun, what's your personal blog? The link leads to a dead one))
[Oh, sorry! It should work now. I had a different URL on my personal during october.]
Heat of the moment
Him suddenly grabbing you makes you jump, and soon your in the air, your feet no long touching the ground. Anyone whos never felt this feeling could never understand the helplessness one feels when theyre lifted off the ground. The tightness in your stomach pulls knots through your nerves and you’re stiff, both hands going to his wrists to keep him from choking you with your own dress shirt.
You listen to him as he rambles, swallowing hard in between the shakes hes giving you. This was a mistake, you shouldnt have come down here knowing he was drunk. “Calm down, Stitch, you’re acting rashly. You’re unhappy, thats what I’m trying to fix—” Your words are cut off by being slammed against the wall, and you bite down hard on your tongue, drawing blood. Shit, thats going to leave a mark.
With his yelling right in your face, you cant get a word in edgewise, and you reach one of your shaking hands - dwarfed in comparison to his - down to grab your gun. “You’re making a mista—” His fists connecting with your face cuts off both your words and your thoughts. Oh god, it hurts. You think you feel a tooth jostle loose from your mouth. Gagging loudly, you spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor, breaths catching in your throat. Your hand finally manages to take hold of your gun, though you hold it not very stably. “Stitch, you have a problem and you’re going to get it taken care of.” Unfortunately, your words are muffled by your now bleeding mouth and swollen cheek, so you dont exactly give off the air of authority that you usually carry.
Seeing him bleed is sickeningly satisfying; it makes you shudder, wicked and vindicated. When you let yourself go like this, your true violent side comes out in full force, and you remind yourself and anyone unlucky enough to be close why it is you’re in the mob. You’re a bad man, a violent man, a twisted, sadistic old fuck. You’re beyond saving; beyond a normal life. And you know that full well.
You snarl, not even noticing the hand trying for the pistol. Instead you just slam him against the wall again, rattling his shoulders and trying to glance the back of his skull off the old verdant wallpaper. You have a problem, he says, and you’re going to get it taken care of. “Stop fuckin’ tellin’ me whatta do,” you spit, putting him down, but only to slug him in the gut with both hands, using his torso as a replacement for your sandbag.
"I can’t—do it—I can’t—fix—myself!!” You step back, panting, then lurch forward again, unsteady as you grab his collar again and pull, trying to throw him to the floor. Maybe that’s why you hate yourself so much; because you claim you can fix everything, but you can’t fix yourself. You can’t help yourself. It’s the only thing you fall short on; the only way you failed.
You wait like a vulture for him to get up, bristling. You’re not done, slurring heavily, face very flushed. “What part o’ that doncha fuckin’ get?! Ya dumb shit! Ya think yer so fuckin’ smart butcha don’t unnerstand a goddamn thing ya selfish old cockmonger!! Geddup ya fuckin’ pansy!!”
Heat of the moment
It would be a lie to say his tactic arent working. You certainly are skilled in your own kind of intimidating, but considering the many numbers of ways youre out of your league were he to decide he wants to lay into you, well, its difficult not to be a bit nervous.
"Are you always this damned bitter, you have the power to change all of those things yourself. I’m not here to insult you for complaining, I’m telling you all your problems are easily solved if you could clear the liquor from your eyes for a moment." As you speak, you cant help take a step back, if only because you’re trying to meet his eyes, and looking straight up at his is difficult to do without receding ground.
Besides that, though, you’re trying to focus while keeping one hand lightly on the butt of your gun. Just in case. You dont want to shoot him, you had similarly considered him a friend, and you would be down one tailor were that the case, but closer he gets, the more your stomach tightens in pure fear. “If theres something you want, you have to say so. You cant just expect things to fall into your lap, no matter how nice you act.”
Even his damn accent rubs you the wrong way right now. You’re just. You’re so angry.
He really doesn’t get it, does he? How long the real problem has been plaguing you, controlling your life, making decisions for you. You’ve been drinking to forget the memory of your wife’s lifeless body on your bed; of the charred faces of the men you nearly killed because of your own stupid mistakes, the blood in your eyes as you sewed up your own face. You’ve been drinking to fill the empty places, where you should have had a family with a child of your own blood, where Alfred should have been there to hold you, where your kids didn’t listen.
You know everything else would fall into place if you could just grasp anything long enough to pull it together. Anything longer than the neck of another bottle.
It’s hard. It’s hard and nobody understands. Least of all him.
Something snaps; a rush of anger you can’t control, a boiling hot vent searing up through your chest, your throat. Before you can listen to the rational part of your mind and stop yourself, you’re grabbing Scratch by the collar with both hands. “I don’t expect fuckin’ anythin’ to fall inna my lap,” you bark, throwing your quiet growling to the wind as you shake him. “Nothin’ ever does! I work for everythin’ I get n’ I got!! I work harder than an’one else innis god-forsaken infantile pondscum smear of a Family!!”
You tighten your grip and jerk him to the side, slamming him into the wall beside the door; your eyes are wild, breathing irregular and frantic and soaked in whiskey. “I don’t act nice cause I want somethin’, I listen and trya help cause it’s my goddamn respons’bility to ‘em! You stupid fuckin’ limey piece of shit!" you’re strong enough to hold him up with one hand, so you pull back the other one, aiming two slugs for his smug mouth. "DON’T TELL ME TA GET OVER IT WHEN I’VE BEEN FIGHTIN’ THIS FER TWENNY GODDAMN YEARS!!"
Heat of the moment
You can smell the liquor in the air as soon as you step near him, and it takes everything in you not to cover your mouth and cough. Even on your roughest nights, you cant quite handle the smell and taste of strong liquor, and here stands a 5’9” brewery of it.
Its almost hard to look at him in this state. Even with his clothes as they are, he looks an absolute mess, the kind of man to be found on the side of the road in a tattered coat, not in the workshop of a well established ‘company’ of men. It makes you sick even before the whiskey in the air. “No wonder you’re so belligerent, you must be breathing whiskey by now.” You scowl and swat at the air a bit, trying to clear at least the area in front of you. “Stitch, you have a serious problem. And your problems are becoming my problems. This needs to be fixed quickly, so could you please pull yourself up out of whatever bottle you were last inhaling and tell me what needs to happen so you can get back to work.”
You’ve never been very good at confronting drunks, everything considered, but you hope that your lack in that area wont cause too much damage tonight.
God, he pisses you off. His stiff back, that condescending way he looks at you and everyone else; how he has the balls to come down here and tell you that you have a problem. Wow, no way, you had no idea. And no one could have done anything about this sooner. You have more problems than you know what to do with, but, well, you’re so busy trying to fix everyone else that you don’t have the time or energy to play nurse to yourself—
—why doesn’t anyone get that?!
"So glad ya noticed,” you hiss sardonically, setting the bottle down; you’re not one hundred percent stead on your feet, but it doesn’t stop you walking, approaching him slowly, rubbing your wrists. “Now that my problems’re yer problems ya finally care, tha’s real fuckin’ nice, James. You wanna know howda fix it? Me too, that’d be peachy.”
By the time that word drawls from your tongue, you’re almost in his personal space, looking down at him with hazy, blank green eyes, shoulders drawn back, shifting your weight like you’re ready for a fight. Every fraction of your body language is set on intimidating him—a long-learned mob habit. “So unless ya can make my fiancé show his face ‘round here more’n once a month, or gimme some miracle cure fer wishin’ I was dead—? If yer jus’ down here to call me a lil’ bitch fer complainin’ about how unhappy I am, you can turn ‘round and get the fuck out. Doc.”
Heat of the moment
You honestly cannot believe this.
How is everything suddenly falling apart around you, and how are you supposed to hold it all up. You may be a man of many talents, but even you have your limits. With Stitch being one of the only other respected members in this motley crew of imbeciles, without him you have no idea how badly your reputation will go down the shitter.
Sighing heavily, you slam your laptop closed and stand. Of course you have to take care of everything in the end, you’re not quite sure why you thought to expect any differently. You pull on your gloves and forgo your coat as you leave your office, making the short trip down the hall and to where the no doubt drunk tailor will be.
You knock twice, but enter, anyway, deciding that confronting him in person would be the best way to deal with this. Like always, though, you have your pistol tucked away in its holster. Just in case.
"Stitch. We need to have a proper talk."
You are so drunk, and so finished with everything.
To be honest, you’ve been around; you haven’t really left the workshop much, except to slip out during the wee hours to the nearest speakeasy until they kick you out so you can crawl home again. You’ve been spending unhealthy amounts of time in the graveyard, and unhealthy amounts of time with your nose against the lip of a bottle of bourbon.
Which is exactly what you’re doing when Scratch decides to stick his own where it shouldn’t be.
You stand slowly when he intrudes on your personal space—your workshop, your private little prison—and scowl, face reddish behind the mint green, eyes lazy and lower lip wetted with Kentucky liquor. It’s a contrast to how well dressed you are (as always) in a jade green vest, white button-down, though your tie is absent and your hair is less than immaculate. That, and you haven’t been shaving often enough, a pale green-grey stubble marking your worn face.
You scoff, a scathing, mocking sound, throwing your arms open wide. “What, so I can tell ya properly to eat a dick, Doc?”
> You are so drunk that you didn’t even read any of that.
> Seriously, just. Fuck him so much. You’re so done. You don’t want to do any of this anymore.
Well now, there certainly is the words of a martyr. You gave up everything for us? What would you like, a medal? A trophy? Person of the year, you’re such a wonderful person for doing all this and getting nothing in return. You speak of me the way you do, yet you’re the one whos somehow expecting something in return for the kindness you give out. I patronize you because you are so incredibly naive. What on earth could you have been expecting from all this, why did you ever think what you give out to the world would have some sort of return other than heartache and pain. You of all people should know thats not the way the world works, you can try your whole life to make every word your worthless mouth utters mean something, and it never will. And not because you’re who you are,but because thats just the way the world is.
I accepted that fate many years ago and act accordingly, and thats why insults from someone like you mean absolutely nothing to me. Try if you can to find someone who cares about you the way you care about them, I will pay your way out of this god forsaken place myself if you can. But you wont. So shut up, nut up, and grow up. Get your arse back to work or I will show you a world that is infinity times worse than the one you live in now.
Eat a dick, James.