[[ OOC Notes: Will match format. Open to literally any prompt/event/scenario ever, so feel free to set something else up. Probably too many things to warn for content wise, but it could encompass anything associated with war, physical or emotional issues, and vulgarity, so proceed at your own risk! PM this journal or @ blakeroo on plurk for any necessary clarification.]]
i.
"What a curious feeling..."
Alice had it right, he thinks, although it's clear from the tone of his mimicry that he finds this considerably less curious and immeasurably more disconcerting as he begins to familiarize himself with his surroundings. He's no expert in storybooks — no expert in anything really — but upon observation, he suspects there are certain experiences that should be exclusive to fiction.
White rabbits and shrinking girls and opium smoke are not the stuff of dreams, no sir, especially not Billy Prior's dreams, not unless Wonderland comes stocked with Mills bombs and gangrene and tired tinned beans. And yet it feels every bit like one unreality has been traded for another. Had he really left the front? Or was he back in Scotland with the rest of the loonies? He could be long gone for all he knows, drooling down his chin while some nurse sponges his balls and doesn't even need to think of England to keep herself right.
Christ, he could use a cigarette. The tightness in his chest says otherwise, its presence like a heavy hand over his heart, a niggling reminder that things are not well — that he's not well. But when had he ever been?
"If anyone spots Lewis Carroll, I'd very much like a word or two," he mutters, muddling his English accent. He knows exactly which ones he'd choose, too, although he hardly thinks them appropriate when Alice might be around to overhear. It wouldn't stop him, of course, but at least it's crossed his mind.
ii.
He's always hearing open air is good for the lungs, but he hasn't remembered ever having so much trouble breathing, and there's plenty of open air here.
The uniform's gone by now, traded in for something more civilian (If the word can be used in such a way, he thinks it apt; he hasn't returned to that life, but he likes to pretend.), and now he feels silly for it. Perched on the edge of a chair, back hunched particularly and knees tight together on one side, the young man grips the armrest while his head does plenty of laps in the pool.
Prior wheezes between words, each breath struggling past his lips. "How much must I hate— myself if my own dreams— are trying to kill me?" he asks, and while it should be interpreted as rhetorical, Billy already knows the answer: If this is anything at all, it's definitely not a dream. Regardless of that, if he's in control, then it's certain he isn't in for a very good time.
The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He can feel eyes on him. It's not usually a problem — he's always liked attention, particularly when it's being freely paid — but he finds it inconvenient at present, like he's being observed from outside the bars of a cage not of his making.
"Didn't your mother tell you— it's awfully rude to stare?" Squeezed through the neck like that of a balloon, the words quiver as he rasps. His head is already floating, so he certainly can't say it isn't apt.
Billy Prior | The Regeneration Trilogy
i.
"What a curious feeling..."
Alice had it right, he thinks, although it's clear from the tone of his mimicry that he finds this considerably less curious and immeasurably more disconcerting as he begins to familiarize himself with his surroundings. He's no expert in storybooks — no expert in anything really — but upon observation, he suspects there are certain experiences that should be exclusive to fiction.
White rabbits and shrinking girls and opium smoke are not the stuff of dreams, no sir, especially not Billy Prior's dreams, not unless Wonderland comes stocked with Mills bombs and gangrene and tired tinned beans. And yet it feels every bit like one unreality has been traded for another. Had he really left the front? Or was he back in Scotland with the rest of the loonies? He could be long gone for all he knows, drooling down his chin while some nurse sponges his balls and doesn't even need to think of England to keep herself right.
Christ, he could use a cigarette. The tightness in his chest says otherwise, its presence like a heavy hand over his heart, a niggling reminder that things are not well — that he's not well. But when had he ever been?
"If anyone spots Lewis Carroll, I'd very much like a word or two," he mutters, muddling his English accent. He knows exactly which ones he'd choose, too, although he hardly thinks them appropriate when Alice might be around to overhear. It wouldn't stop him, of course, but at least it's crossed his mind.
ii.
He's always hearing open air is good for the lungs, but he hasn't remembered ever having so much trouble breathing, and there's plenty of open air here.
The uniform's gone by now, traded in for something more civilian (If the word can be used in such a way, he thinks it apt; he hasn't returned to that life, but he likes to pretend.), and now he feels silly for it. Perched on the edge of a chair, back hunched particularly and knees tight together on one side, the young man grips the armrest while his head does plenty of laps in the pool.
Prior wheezes between words, each breath struggling past his lips. "How much must I hate— myself if my own dreams— are trying to kill me?" he asks, and while it should be interpreted as rhetorical, Billy already knows the answer: If this is anything at all, it's definitely not a dream. Regardless of that, if he's in control, then it's certain he isn't in for a very good time.
The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He can feel eyes on him. It's not usually a problem — he's always liked attention, particularly when it's being freely paid — but he finds it inconvenient at present, like he's being observed from outside the bars of a cage not of his making.
"Didn't your mother tell you— it's awfully rude to stare?" Squeezed through the neck like that of a balloon, the words quiver as he rasps. His head is already floating, so he certainly can't say it isn't apt.