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Molly were so close she could almost feel the glow of his Demon like UV rays on her skin. She felt foolish for not noticing, and even more so for not anticipating the assault would trap him here; Charlie could usually slip out of sight and nearly make it home in these situations if she couldn't help calm him down first. She knew this because she knew Charlie, maybe better than anyone, and because she knew him, she could see his Demon. It had Charlie in a chokehold, Molly could hear the pressure on his trachea, but if she intervened, he would only feel worse, and so the assault would only get worse. She stayed put in the brawlers' blind spot. Pinned, Charlie continued to exercise what little verbal self-validation he had left, with no point or greater revolt but to justify his pain, and his Demon responded to an unanswerable question by thrashing him alligator-like onto his back. And then, there was noise. It started low, a croaking, monotone groan, like a zombie becoming re-acclimated to derelict vocal chords. As it grew in volume, its intent strengthened, becoming less of a disjointed utterance and more of a syllable; Charlie's Demon was trying to speak. And it charged that strained syllable like an old battery until its acid ate under Charlie's skin. His Demon's eyes became mad scribbles like its mouth, and from the flat, unmoving maw came more noise. Charlie trembled as the sound filled his mind, a piercing echo, everywhere all at once and inside him; shielding ears with anguished hands wouldn't dull the discord. Molly could hear it too, but it didn't hurt; it wasn't for her. The long, drawn-out "Ahh" cracked into a "Ct", and the Demon formed words that escalated into deafening, ever-present screams pulsing through Charlie's nerves. They were not an attempt to communicate; they were an attack, a dirty taunt. And they were an ironic reference to Charlie's viral pursuer; it would've been funny if the context was changed. The joke was that Sami the Salamander wasn't "acting casual"; he was drawn with an unsteady hand and looked so uncomfortable he might burst. The crueler joke was that Charlie couldn't just "act casual" - not through the party, not toward Molly, not through this. It was so much more complicated than that. This was the role it played for Charlie: a suppressor, preventing action or any movement. It was both the fear and the very thing keeping one from facing it. It sucked; it had become routine for Charlie, and that in itself was maddening, but it never stopped sucking. The blows never softened, the attacks varied in intensity, but even when Charlie could take the hits, he never sat right. He was never comfortable; the threat of triggers for Demon attacks made that harder for him than most. It seemed like hurt was an infinite resource, and his Demon's taunts were echoes in its well. As the screams softened, Charlie reeled, muscles limp from overbearing tension, skin clammy. Charlie's Demon hovered over still, bent at a 90-degree angle for its face to be inches from his. And still, in spite of exhaustion, Charlie could sit up to recoil. |