( @Foxy HECK enjoy my edge commentary)
((Warning. Mentions of underage abusive situations.))
It was really ordinary night. Calan was tired. That was understandable. He’d just spent an entire day working with his powers, flying faster, lifting heavier, seeing more easily in the dark. He felt strong, but he felt tired, and that was understandable.
What wasn’t understandable was just how tired the day had made him.
Calan stumbled down the hallway towards his bedroom, his entire world dizzy and blurring. He couldn’t see straight - hell, he thought, as his vision momentarily darkened, he could barely see at all. Everything was aching, aching all over, and Calan wanted nothing more than to let his bed embrace him.
Struggling to stand up, Calan gripped the wall hard for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow. Sweat? Why sweat? He felt so cold… Cold everywhere. Fever? Fever, maybe? It would have to be a pretty bad fever. He figured he should check his temperature, but the bed was so much closer.
Calan collapsed on the bed as he entered his room, his body burning and freezing at once, his breath coming out in sharp pants. He stripped his sweat-drenched clothes down to the boxers and climbed beneath the covers, intent on calling someone, anyone, who might be able to check him out. However, as he reached down to his hip, he realized his cell was still in the pocket of his skinny jeans. Those were all the way by the door. He was too weak to get to the door.
Calan didn’t know what was going on, but as a jagged pain ripped through his entire body, he found he was too tired to care
—-
Calan awoke lamely, his face already set into it’s usual scowl. Another day, another dimwit. He chucked bitterly at himself, the way he always laughed. Oh, that was great. That was a keeper. He should go right that down somewhere…
The brunette rolled - literally rolled - himself out of bed with a groan. It was the way he usually started his morning. With pain. And a bowl of glass. No milk. Alright, that was a lie, but he liked to pretend he was that hardcore. Shut up, dad. You don’t get his problems. Anyway, he picked himself up with another exaggerated moan, loudly this time, testing the waters. If his dad walked in to yell, Calan would know to be sneaky this morning. If he didn’t, the coast was clear.
However, when Calan stood up, the most unexpected thing happened.
His boxers nearly slipped down his hips!
“What the fuck?” he muttered, grabbing at them before they did. Did… Did he borrow his dad’s? Why the hell would he do that? He didn’t even like borrowing his dad’s shampoo — why in the name of the moon - yes, name of the moon - would he borrow boxers? It was… unsanitary… Just like love.
God damn, he hated love.
Anyway!
As Calan stared at the boxers, he realized something peculiar. He’d gone to bed fully clothed the night before… Day before, really, because he was nocturnal as fuck… and his backpack was in bed with him. Why… were boxers…
He looked at the bed, searching for his backpack, for some sign of… something to tell him what was going on.
Holy. Shit.
That was not his bed.
“WHAT THE FUCK.”
——
It was now around noon, and Calan was wandering around town - NOT HIS TOWN - like a lost, edgypuppy wolf monster creature with massive muscles and a fierce attitude and don’t screw with him he will fuck you UPPPPPP. Ahem. Anyway, he had brushed his hair nicely - he always did that, even in the face of death - yes, he looked into the face of death often - he actually was death - kidding, he was death’s second cousin twice removed - MOVING ON. He had brushed his hair nicely, as was his habit, and had tracked down one of his favorite tee shirts - why was it so faded? Why was it there? - and a pair of jeans - again, what? - that had been stuffed suspiciously in the back of the bedroom closet. Yes, he had gone snooping a bit. He didn’t understand any of it.
There was a man living in that house, and he was not home. It was not his father. His father stank of vodka and lived almost exclusively on the couch, and aside from the couch, the bathroom floor. There was no sign of the man, but there were men’s clothes, men’s cologne - really fucking expensive too, ego much, stranger? - and a wallet in the pocket of some very suspicious jeans by the door to the bedroom. The wallet, too, was very suspicious.
Inside the wallet, he found several credit cards, a large hunk of cash, a driver's license, and an ID card. The most peculiar thing about it all was that anything with a name on it read his. His name. Calan Marshall on every item in the wallet - except for the money, of course. The picture looked like an older him, but with ridiculously red hair and some kind of dopey grin that this Calan would never be caught alive with. Yes, alive. Because he was dead inside. Also, he never smiled anyway, and he wouldn’t start with that one.
It didn’t add up. Not at all. I mean, not to mention it wasn’t even his house. Hell, it wasn’t even his city! His… Well, he hadn’t checked anything bigger than the city, actually. Calan even had a different number of piercings now - one on his tongue (which he had played with, and then put back when he realized it was his sun charm) ((why was his sun charm in his fucking tongue)), two on his lip and a whole shit ton in his ears. Calan remembered having more. And where was his epic dragon tattoo?
He didn’t actually have a dragon tattoo. He just liked to tell people he did. And believe. It got awkward when people asked for proof. He had to tell everyone it was on his butt.
Shut UP dad. You don’t GET his LIFE.
GOD;;;
Anyway, Calan was currently flipping his shit as he walked through a city apparently called Manta Carlos. There was that wallet in his pocket and the phone he’d also looted, but couldn’t get into because he didn’t know the long-ass password. His face was a careful mask of edgy in difference, but every time he opened his mouth, it was to yell at some fluffy punk and “ask” them where the hell he was. But he wasn’t weak. He wasn’t going to have a panic attack. He was cool. Chill. Deadly.Dead.
In truth, he was losing it inside. He wanted Brooke. He wanted his old town. He wanted the stinky booze smell and the burned out cigarettes on the floor. Most of all, he wanted to know who was responsible for bringing him here. He wanted to know what sicko stole his identity, upped it by 6 years (the card said 19), stuffed him in a new house in a new city, stripped him down, put him in boxers that were way too big, stole his favorite clothes, hid them in a motherfrickin closet, changed his piercings, and dressed everyone on the streets in wacky magic monster costumes.
He wanted to know why there were potion shops on every corner and girls with cat ears running rampant.
He wanted to know where he was, why he was, and who everyone else might be.
He wanted to know why it was 2016, and not 2010.
Calan sighed, running a hand down his face, and slid against a wall into a crouch.
Fuck it all. For the first time in his life, he just wanted to go home.
((Warning. Mentions of underage abusive situations.))
It was really ordinary night. Calan was tired. That was understandable. He’d just spent an entire day working with his powers, flying faster, lifting heavier, seeing more easily in the dark. He felt strong, but he felt tired, and that was understandable.
What wasn’t understandable was just how tired the day had made him.
Calan stumbled down the hallway towards his bedroom, his entire world dizzy and blurring. He couldn’t see straight - hell, he thought, as his vision momentarily darkened, he could barely see at all. Everything was aching, aching all over, and Calan wanted nothing more than to let his bed embrace him.
Struggling to stand up, Calan gripped the wall hard for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow. Sweat? Why sweat? He felt so cold… Cold everywhere. Fever? Fever, maybe? It would have to be a pretty bad fever. He figured he should check his temperature, but the bed was so much closer.
Calan collapsed on the bed as he entered his room, his body burning and freezing at once, his breath coming out in sharp pants. He stripped his sweat-drenched clothes down to the boxers and climbed beneath the covers, intent on calling someone, anyone, who might be able to check him out. However, as he reached down to his hip, he realized his cell was still in the pocket of his skinny jeans. Those were all the way by the door. He was too weak to get to the door.
Calan didn’t know what was going on, but as a jagged pain ripped through his entire body, he found he was too tired to care
—-
Calan awoke lamely, his face already set into it’s usual scowl. Another day, another dimwit. He chucked bitterly at himself, the way he always laughed. Oh, that was great. That was a keeper. He should go right that down somewhere…
The brunette rolled - literally rolled - himself out of bed with a groan. It was the way he usually started his morning. With pain. And a bowl of glass. No milk. Alright, that was a lie, but he liked to pretend he was that hardcore. Shut up, dad. You don’t get his problems. Anyway, he picked himself up with another exaggerated moan, loudly this time, testing the waters. If his dad walked in to yell, Calan would know to be sneaky this morning. If he didn’t, the coast was clear.
However, when Calan stood up, the most unexpected thing happened.
His boxers nearly slipped down his hips!
“What the fuck?” he muttered, grabbing at them before they did. Did… Did he borrow his dad’s? Why the hell would he do that? He didn’t even like borrowing his dad’s shampoo — why in the name of the moon - yes, name of the moon - would he borrow boxers? It was… unsanitary… Just like love.
God damn, he hated love.
Anyway!
As Calan stared at the boxers, he realized something peculiar. He’d gone to bed fully clothed the night before… Day before, really, because he was nocturnal as fuck… and his backpack was in bed with him. Why… were boxers…
He looked at the bed, searching for his backpack, for some sign of… something to tell him what was going on.
Holy. Shit.
That was not his bed.
“WHAT THE FUCK.”
——
It was now around noon, and Calan was wandering around town - NOT HIS TOWN - like a lost, edgy
There was a man living in that house, and he was not home. It was not his father. His father stank of vodka and lived almost exclusively on the couch, and aside from the couch, the bathroom floor. There was no sign of the man, but there were men’s clothes, men’s cologne - really fucking expensive too, ego much, stranger? - and a wallet in the pocket of some very suspicious jeans by the door to the bedroom. The wallet, too, was very suspicious.
Inside the wallet, he found several credit cards, a large hunk of cash, a driver's license, and an ID card. The most peculiar thing about it all was that anything with a name on it read his. His name. Calan Marshall on every item in the wallet - except for the money, of course. The picture looked like an older him, but with ridiculously red hair and some kind of dopey grin that this Calan would never be caught alive with. Yes, alive. Because he was dead inside. Also, he never smiled anyway, and he wouldn’t start with that one.
It didn’t add up. Not at all. I mean, not to mention it wasn’t even his house. Hell, it wasn’t even his city! His… Well, he hadn’t checked anything bigger than the city, actually. Calan even had a different number of piercings now - one on his tongue (which he had played with, and then put back when he realized it was his sun charm) ((why was his sun charm in his fucking tongue)), two on his lip and a whole shit ton in his ears. Calan remembered having more. And where was his epic dragon tattoo?
He didn’t actually have a dragon tattoo. He just liked to tell people he did. And believe. It got awkward when people asked for proof. He had to tell everyone it was on his butt.
Shut UP dad. You don’t GET his LIFE.
GOD;;;
Anyway, Calan was currently flipping his shit as he walked through a city apparently called Manta Carlos. There was that wallet in his pocket and the phone he’d also looted, but couldn’t get into because he didn’t know the long-ass password. His face was a careful mask of edgy in difference, but every time he opened his mouth, it was to yell at some fluffy punk and “ask” them where the hell he was. But he wasn’t weak. He wasn’t going to have a panic attack. He was cool. Chill. Deadly.
In truth, he was losing it inside. He wanted Brooke. He wanted his old town. He wanted the stinky booze smell and the burned out cigarettes on the floor. Most of all, he wanted to know who was responsible for bringing him here. He wanted to know what sicko stole his identity, upped it by 6 years (the card said 19), stuffed him in a new house in a new city, stripped him down, put him in boxers that were way too big, stole his favorite clothes, hid them in a motherfrickin closet, changed his piercings, and dressed everyone on the streets in wacky magic monster costumes.
He wanted to know why there were potion shops on every corner and girls with cat ears running rampant.
He wanted to know where he was, why he was, and who everyone else might be.
He wanted to know why it was 2016, and not 2010.
Calan sighed, running a hand down his face, and slid against a wall into a crouch.
Fuck it all. For the first time in his life, he just wanted to go home.
