Kwabena's Holocaust

Summary:
February 23, 2015: Kwabena has a meltdown.

Upper Loft in the Tin Roof

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Mood Music:
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Not long after their meeting downstairs, Kwabena finds himself in one of the club's upper lofts. He's refilled his glass of whiskey, finding himself properly stoned on that THC cigarette, and craving a regular old smoke. Finding a pack, he's lit up and lounging upon a chaise, silver eyes staring at a television upon the wall playing music videos.


Melody didn't mind the smell of cigarettes. Since his return, and gagging from teh smell after a fortnight, she's gotten to the point where it was a natural smell in this part of the loft. Her loft. No cracking of the windows cause it was cold, but there was a lean that she took to it as she gaze outside, her jaw tense at what she was about to ask. But.. screw it. Melody usually didn't hold anything back. Well, not much.

"Okay Kwabena.." She finally says, boosting herself from her perch to stroll towards the television to hold her hand over the button. "Can I turn it off?"


Silver eyes move to Melody, then to the television. "Sure," he answers, gesturing toward the television in a dismissive manner. He's not saying much; probably because by now, he's mildly stoned.


Mildly stoned might be a good time for her to get some answers from the man, so with a hit of the button, she moves to down upon the ground in front of him, on the floor.. legs crossed and elbows pressed into her thighs. She studies him for a long moment, drawing in a breath as she finally lets it out just to ask.. "What happened when you were gone? I know you remember it. Like every bit of it. It's been too long for you to /not/ say something about it. At least to me, anyways."


For a very long moment, Kwabena merely states at the woman. There comes a gradual change from lazy and relaxed to haunted and perturbed. And yet, there is a prolonged silence; the cigarette, unattended, forms a cherry that begins to bend and lilt.

"You want de ugly details? It was hell, Melody. Almost literally." The cigarette comes up to his mouth. "What else is there to know?"


That look, right there. That's the look that she tried to mention to Catwoman earlier. But.. if she would have continued the conversation instead of going up into the loft, it would have turned quite possibly into a defensive fight.

"Everything else that you're not saying? Like.. when you get that really bad look in your eye when there's nothing else going on. Or.. probably the drinking. Or you getting high.. though I don't think that's not really too different from the normal you. So yes. I want the ugly details."

She reaches up to try to lightly take the cigarette from his mouth, but stopping short. Always asking permission.


It's distinctly possible that Kwabena was warming to the conversation. However, when she refuses to take the cigarette from his mouth, the haunted look becomes rage. A hand darts past hers, rips the cigarette free, and throws it across the room.

"Always defahrrent!" he blurts out. "Nevah just, just doing something! Always seeking pahmission! Fuck!"

Legs pull back until he's able to stand, at which point he seems quite clear and quite sober. Pacing the room, his words come with hatred and vitriol.

"Day and night, day and night, day and night! Except dere was no day, always night! Always de fucking night." He whips back toward her. "Do you have even de smallest fucking concept of what it's like to stop counting time? To wondah how long it will be? Befah you see de sun, or a shadow, or a god damn worm to put in your mouth? No! Because you crawl, hand and foot, for de whore of a woman who feeds you, clothes you, wipes yah ass and gives you playthings to slip into yah cunt when you're bored at night!"

Kwabena's chest is heaving. He's not even fully aware of what he's saying.

"Night aftah night, talking to mahself, ovah and ovah and ovah and fah what!?" At this point, he's yelling. Spit flies from his mouth, his silver eyes glimmering with madness. "To be some, some fucking plaything in de cunt of dat endless dahkness! No, Mel, you don't have a fucking concept of what it was like, what I had to do, what it took to sahvive in dere! NONE OF YOU."

He comes close, sweating and panting, a dangerous finger leveled at her. "I could put my fist through yah head, cut yah Woman down, and tear through every bitch, every thug, every nigga-ass chump in dis place and nothing could stop me, and fah what? For de thrill? For de excitement? For nothing that's what! NOTHING!"

His voice rings throughout the loft, but suddenly, the rage has drained from Kwabena's eyes, only to be replaced by true horror. The words, the anger, the undoubtedly distraught look he's expecting to see, it all swims around like a nightmare in his mind.

His chest heaves. His sweat turns cold. He, finally, has gone chillingly silent, shocked at his own outburst.


The look that he had in his eyes, pure rage, was of one that she had never seen before. There was a silent moment where she was thankful that he hadn't seen her hurt.. but.. would he even care to have /this/ much of a look? This much of a feeling?

Her hand snaps back as the cigarette is tossed, his blurting drawing her to rear back, scooting against the wooden floor upon her bottom, feet and hands until she's able to leap to her feet to put herself upon the defense.

And then she watches, her hand reaching up to grip at her chest right above where her heart beats, feeling that if she were to let go of herself at that moment, she'd shatter to pieces.

She could barely even feel herself breathe, and.. once it was all over, her arms drop to her sides as she moves to take a perch upon the seat that he had vacated, shell shocked into silence.

She was truly a logical being, truthful in all faults. She wasn't sure if the truth would help in his case. In /this/ case.

"I know I don't know what it's like. I can't fathom what it could have been like for you there. I won't pretend and lie to say that I understand because I /don't/." She turns a little away from him, her hand lifting to wipe away at her face as she sniffs, her gaze planted upon the ground as her chest visibly heaves. "But.. is that what you really think of me, Kwabena? Some groveling slave who gets handed a man out of the darkness just so she could be complete at night?" Her head shakes. "No.. no. I don't even care about myself all that much anymore. But I care about what you think /you/ are. A plaything? No. The person.. this person that I love is not my plaything, and I really.. really don't appreciate you speaking about him that way."

With that she stands, keeping her gaze downward so that he wouldn't see how red her eyes had gotten, how angry she was in that moment. And how she didn't want to give up on /him/ giving up. She wasn't that far from him, she was right in striking distance.

"I love you Kwabena. I said it. Probably always will for what it's worth. I know you are more than what you call yourself. You're not my plaything. You're no ones plaything. So.." Her breath catches a little, her hand reaching up to wipe at her face. "Do it, if you want. Punch a hole through my head. Kill me. But some little particle isn't going to stop me from trying to help you through this. Dead or not."


Chest still heaving, Kwabena stands there and listens. He doesn't think of her that way. It was an outburst. She was merely a target, within reach. He doesn't care much about himself either; a point of comparison by which they might find even ground.

Then, she has to go on and tell him that she loves him. The antithesis of darkness. When she goads him to violence, the dangerous look flashes through his eyes again, only it's not him. It seems almost otherworldly in nature, like the glow of a demon, haunting him, teasing him, daring him to do it with such sultry words that he pictures it in his mind.

A hand coming forth, super solid fist, splattering brain and skull upon the wall behind. Another ripping through the gut of that black leather corset and popping through the back of the Woman downstairs. The bloodbath.

Kwabena's eyelids flutter, and he slumps to the ground. There's a reason why this all seems so familiar to him; it's because he's played it out already, time and time again, while trapped inside darkness. The razing of the East End; Kwabena's Holocaust. Played out like the skipping of a record, down to the tirade he just concluded moments ago.

Finding the barrier between reality and otherwise twisted, he collapses his head into gloved hands and grumbles.

"Dis… must… stop."


Melody rushes forward as Kwabena slips to the ground, her arms surrounding him without the need to ask for permission. There were a few things she'd ask to do; snatch a cigarette from his mouth, turn off the tv, shut out the light, considerate things. But this was purely selfish, forcing a hug upon the man who could possibly end her with one slip and a grasp. But, that would be alright for her, in some weird, fucked up way that she formed in her own head. It would be just fine.

"Then stop it." She says simply, as if those words held certain clarity. "It's okay to feel like a monster. To feel not yourself. But if you want it to stop, just do it."

She plants a kiss atop of his head, then rests her cheek upon it. Simple.

"I got you."


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