Please read at least the third spoiler, but all are recomended if possible.
@Ghost @Kathinja @MARIE
[Mentions of: non-con, alcoholism, drugs, child abuse. Alcohol-related parental death. Attempted suicide.]
What was he doing?
He looked at the drink in his hand, his vision swaying and righting again. He didn’t know what was in the glass - only that it was hot, spicy, strong. Clear, or clearer than his mind, anyway. And it was numbing, which was a good thing.
Alcohol. That’s what it was. He realized why his father liked it so much.
His father.
Nim let the drink slip from his grip. It shattered on the ground, shards of liquor-laced glass exploding across the pavement. He didn’t care.
’Man the fuck up, little bitch. It was just a fuckin’ fist.’
Nim wondered if he should be happy, then.
There would be no more yelling. No more fighting. No more intimidation. Nim wouldn’t have to shield his face anymore, and he wouldn’t have to plaster on concealer if he wasn’t fast enough to block a hit to his cheek. There would be no living in fear anymore. No alcohol stench and money lost on cigarettes.
And there would never again be a night of rage more intense than any other. Those hands would never be on him again.
They’d been on him recently.
Those hands had touched him only days after Mia.
Those hands.... Would never defile him again. Never. Not ever again.
So, Nim thought that maybe, he should be happy.
After all, his father was always wretched. Always.
Maybe that wasn’t true.
...Sometimes...
’I know that I’ve...hurt you, but, kid- Nimble… I… I love you. I do.’
Even if he was a lying bastard, Nim couldn’t have helped but to believe him.
He knew it probably wasn’t true. His father was drunk. His father was violent. His father was volatile. He was nasty and mean and selfish and he didn’t give two shits that his only kid had to grow up completely alone, wedged between a rock and a hard place, a fist and a bottle, a textbook and a computer, a too-hard chest and a dirty goddamn floor for his entire life. His father was disgusting and unable to love. He didn’t mean it. He was a liar.
But on those rare nights when he was sober and pleasant and so far gone into his mind that he wasn’t even aware of his actions anymore… Those nights, sometimes, Nim would hear a faint rapraprap on his door, quiet enough that it wouldn’t rouse him if he was asleep, which he almost never was. Nim would shut his eyes, then, and lay very still, and he would hear his door open and smell permanent alcohol masked by temporary soap and feel his lumpy mattress sag with the weight of the man who sired him. He wouldn’t dare show any signs of waking as his father brushed his hair back and whispered comforting nothings to a boy he thought was unconscious. These nights, Nim would know for a fact that his father didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean to do the things he did. He didn’t want to be this way.
Nim knew his father was fighting against his demons.
But it seemed like the only one getting beaten around was Nim himself.
He loved his father. He tried so hard to love his father. He tried so hard not to leave him. He did. He did.
But he would never be able to forgive him. Even if his father were to do a 180 and be wonderful again, Nim could never forgive him.
...But what did it matter, now?
Nim walked out from beneath the overhang of the bar. Immediately, thick snow began to coat him over, but… honestly…? He couldn’t bring himself to care one bit. He couldn’t care about anything. Not the blaring sirens, not the failed CPR, not his lack of glasses, not the scent of alcohol that enveloped him even in the rain. He didn’t care that grime and vomit was smeared across his palms as he walked, and he didn’t care that it wasn’t his. Nim didn’t even care about the fact that he was shirtless, too-straight scars and bruises of all stages bared for the world to see. He just didn’t. Fucking. Care.
His father was dead.
No tears left his eyes at that thought.
His father was finally… gone. It was over. Done. He was free. He was finally-fricking-free.
The revelation was as bitter as the lingering taste of death on his lips.
He walked slowly. Slowly. Heavily. His mind was blank and lethargic and it showed in his movement. It wasn’t as if he could even see where he was going, either. Somewhere between finding the body and being trampled at the bar, his glasses had slipped away, probably cracked and crumbled beneath some careless boot. Maybe his own boot - though that was wrong, because he wasn’t wearing boots. Mismatched socks, yes, but no shoes.
Nim arrived at a main street - not quite a highway, but a four-lane road that had fast drivers and surprisingly few cars. Maybe not surprising. There was a thunderstorm, after all.
He took a slow step toward the road and flinched as a car zoomed by. It left his vision, and he saw no more.
Nim moved to cross the road. He wasn’t really sure where he was going, but he knew he’d know when he got there. Apparently, his destination was the in the middle of the road, but it was getting dark. Standing in the middle of the road wasn’t safe.
No one would see him in the shadows. He didn’t feel like moving.
Headlights illuminated his body. He didn’t feel like moving.
A screech of brakes. A honking horn. He didn’t feel like moving.
Nim decided he might have liked to stay where he was.
The last thing he felt was incredible pain. Throughout his side and his back, in his arms, his legs, his chest, his everything. For a split second, there was the fire of scraping highway, too.
A sense of detachment, and there were sirens again. Funny how they’d arrived for him twice in only one whole day.
Wait, why did he need sirens?
There was frantic beeping and equally frantic voices. Guilty sobbing - was it guilty? - from someone in the background. Maybe the person who hit him?
He was hit? By what?
He felt wet and sticky and hot and cold at once. A lot of things hurt, but then they kind of stopped hurting. Nim attributed it to shock.
Why was he in shock, again?
There was a lot of rushing, now. And white. And frantic voices, and a lot of, “We’re losing him!” screamed over and over, and pricking things and sharp metal and tubes and stitching and cutting and there was an IV stuck in his arm and things kind of hurt again, but then they kind of stopped again too.
Who were they losing?
He felt awfully tired.
Nim let the darkness claim him once more.
What was he doing?
He looked at the drink in his hand, his vision swaying and righting again. He didn’t know what was in the glass - only that it was hot, spicy, strong. Clear, or clearer than his mind, anyway. And it was numbing, which was a good thing.
Alcohol. That’s what it was. He realized why his father liked it so much.
His father.
Nim let the drink slip from his grip. It shattered on the ground, shards of liquor-laced glass exploding across the pavement. He didn’t care.
’Man the fuck up, little bitch. It was just a fuckin’ fist.’
Nim wondered if he should be happy, then.
There would be no more yelling. No more fighting. No more intimidation. Nim wouldn’t have to shield his face anymore, and he wouldn’t have to plaster on concealer if he wasn’t fast enough to block a hit to his cheek. There would be no living in fear anymore. No alcohol stench and money lost on cigarettes.
And there would never again be a night of rage more intense than any other. Those hands would never be on him again.
They’d been on him recently.
Those hands had touched him only days after Mia.
Those hands.... Would never defile him again. Never. Not ever again.
So, Nim thought that maybe, he should be happy.
After all, his father was always wretched. Always.
Maybe that wasn’t true.
...Sometimes...
’I know that I’ve...hurt you, but, kid- Nimble… I… I love you. I do.’
Even if he was a lying bastard, Nim couldn’t have helped but to believe him.
He knew it probably wasn’t true. His father was drunk. His father was violent. His father was volatile. He was nasty and mean and selfish and he didn’t give two shits that his only kid had to grow up completely alone, wedged between a rock and a hard place, a fist and a bottle, a textbook and a computer, a too-hard chest and a dirty goddamn floor for his entire life. His father was disgusting and unable to love. He didn’t mean it. He was a liar.
But on those rare nights when he was sober and pleasant and so far gone into his mind that he wasn’t even aware of his actions anymore… Those nights, sometimes, Nim would hear a faint rapraprap on his door, quiet enough that it wouldn’t rouse him if he was asleep, which he almost never was. Nim would shut his eyes, then, and lay very still, and he would hear his door open and smell permanent alcohol masked by temporary soap and feel his lumpy mattress sag with the weight of the man who sired him. He wouldn’t dare show any signs of waking as his father brushed his hair back and whispered comforting nothings to a boy he thought was unconscious. These nights, Nim would know for a fact that his father didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean to do the things he did. He didn’t want to be this way.
Nim knew his father was fighting against his demons.
But it seemed like the only one getting beaten around was Nim himself.
He loved his father. He tried so hard to love his father. He tried so hard not to leave him. He did. He did.
But he would never be able to forgive him. Even if his father were to do a 180 and be wonderful again, Nim could never forgive him.
...But what did it matter, now?
Nim walked out from beneath the overhang of the bar. Immediately, thick snow began to coat him over, but… honestly…? He couldn’t bring himself to care one bit. He couldn’t care about anything. Not the blaring sirens, not the failed CPR, not his lack of glasses, not the scent of alcohol that enveloped him even in the rain. He didn’t care that grime and vomit was smeared across his palms as he walked, and he didn’t care that it wasn’t his. Nim didn’t even care about the fact that he was shirtless, too-straight scars and bruises of all stages bared for the world to see. He just didn’t. Fucking. Care.
His father was dead.
No tears left his eyes at that thought.
His father was finally… gone. It was over. Done. He was free. He was finally-fricking-free.
The revelation was as bitter as the lingering taste of death on his lips.
He walked slowly. Slowly. Heavily. His mind was blank and lethargic and it showed in his movement. It wasn’t as if he could even see where he was going, either. Somewhere between finding the body and being trampled at the bar, his glasses had slipped away, probably cracked and crumbled beneath some careless boot. Maybe his own boot - though that was wrong, because he wasn’t wearing boots. Mismatched socks, yes, but no shoes.
Nim arrived at a main street - not quite a highway, but a four-lane road that had fast drivers and surprisingly few cars. Maybe not surprising. There was a thunderstorm, after all.
He took a slow step toward the road and flinched as a car zoomed by. It left his vision, and he saw no more.
Nim moved to cross the road. He wasn’t really sure where he was going, but he knew he’d know when he got there. Apparently, his destination was the in the middle of the road, but it was getting dark. Standing in the middle of the road wasn’t safe.
No one would see him in the shadows. He didn’t feel like moving.
Headlights illuminated his body. He didn’t feel like moving.
A screech of brakes. A honking horn. He didn’t feel like moving.
Nim decided he might have liked to stay where he was.
The last thing he felt was incredible pain. Throughout his side and his back, in his arms, his legs, his chest, his everything. For a split second, there was the fire of scraping highway, too.
A sense of detachment, and there were sirens again. Funny how they’d arrived for him twice in only one whole day.
Wait, why did he need sirens?
There was frantic beeping and equally frantic voices. Guilty sobbing - was it guilty? - from someone in the background. Maybe the person who hit him?
He was hit? By what?
He felt wet and sticky and hot and cold at once. A lot of things hurt, but then they kind of stopped hurting. Nim attributed it to shock.
Why was he in shock, again?
There was a lot of rushing, now. And white. And frantic voices, and a lot of, “We’re losing him!” screamed over and over, and pricking things and sharp metal and tubes and stitching and cutting and there was an IV stuck in his arm and things kind of hurt again, but then they kind of stopped again too.
Who were they losing?
He felt awfully tired.
Nim let the darkness claim him once more.
Shortly after Mia moved out of their apartment, Nim found himself in a bar. He drank himself stupid before, in his inebriated logic, he went to his old home with his father. It was calm for a moment, but his father was both high and drunk, and the night ended in sexual abuse.
Immediately, Nim distanced himself from everything, completely anguished that this had happened once again. He turned off his phone for several days and did not show for his classes, not alerting any people of his whereabouts. About a week after disappearing completely, Nim returned to classes, but something had changed terribly. He cut every tie he had left and pushed away those he couldn’t cut. He broke up with Jeff through text message and held no restraint in his words, desperate to remove any attachments in his life. Nim was determined to be completely alone.
On New Year’s Eve - early New Year’s morning, really - Nim once again went to his father’s home. He wanted answers, something to make sense of what his father had done, but instead Nim found his father dead. The years of substance abuse finally caught up to him and he had a seizure in their home. Nim found him shortly after he stopped seizing and attempted to resuscitate him, but called 911 after several failed attempts. The doctors were unable to do anything and instead rushed him to the hospital, though they knew it was all too late.
With his father gone, Nim wasn’t really sure what to do. It was as though everything was over, and he didn’t know how to take it. Rather than feeling relief or sadness, Nim simply reverted to a state of intense apathy. He left his house in nothing more than he had been wearing before - sweatpants and a pair of mismatched socks - and eventually found himself at a bar.
At the bar, Nim helped himself to a variety of alcoholic beverages, completely disregarding the odd stares of others, as well as the dancers who paid him no mind. After drinking himself into a stupor on top of his already terrible mental state, Nim left the bar and went on a walk.
Eventually, Nim found himself at the edge of a road. It was not a highway, but it was a main road, with four lanes and few streetside lamps. Drunk, uncaring and with all of his issues resurfacing so suddenly, Nim walked out into the middle of the street, not really caring what may happen. He sat cross-legged in the middle of the pavement.
After several minutes of sitting around, a car came hurdling towards him. Nim did not feel like moving, and eventually decided he might like staying where he was; in other words, he was alright if the car hit him. He wanted it to. As the road was snow-slick and it was poorly lit outside, the driver of the car did not have time to stop. Thus, Nim was hit full-on, though it was not as bad as it could have been due to the driver attempting to slow down.
He proceeded to fade in and out of consciousness for a bit. Meanwhile, the driver of the car had called an ambulance. Nim’s wounds were extensive and he had suffered broken bones, internal damage and a severe concussion. He had also lost a considerable amount of blood. The doctors attempted to stabilize Nim, and he was vaguely aware of this until he blacked out in the middle of the emergency room.
After many hours spent working feverently, the doctors were able to stabilize Nim and cast his broken bones, etc. As far as his physical wounds went, he would make a significant recovery, though they were unsure if it would be a full one. However, Nim was in a coma. They were unsure when, or if, he would awaken.
The driver of the car was not convicted of crime, due to his own testimony and that of a witness. [[Let’s just pretend this is accurate.]] Investigators concluded that the accident was a possible suicide attempt, but could not be sure unless Nim confirmed it himself. As there was no one the doctors knew of that could make the decision, they chose to keep Nim alive and monitor the coma rather than pulling the plug. There was a good chance of him awaking, they believed, if time was given.
After one week, visitations were opened, though Nim remained in his coma. Flowers were allowed to be left in the room and ordinary visiting hours applied.
Immediately, Nim distanced himself from everything, completely anguished that this had happened once again. He turned off his phone for several days and did not show for his classes, not alerting any people of his whereabouts. About a week after disappearing completely, Nim returned to classes, but something had changed terribly. He cut every tie he had left and pushed away those he couldn’t cut. He broke up with Jeff through text message and held no restraint in his words, desperate to remove any attachments in his life. Nim was determined to be completely alone.
On New Year’s Eve - early New Year’s morning, really - Nim once again went to his father’s home. He wanted answers, something to make sense of what his father had done, but instead Nim found his father dead. The years of substance abuse finally caught up to him and he had a seizure in their home. Nim found him shortly after he stopped seizing and attempted to resuscitate him, but called 911 after several failed attempts. The doctors were unable to do anything and instead rushed him to the hospital, though they knew it was all too late.
With his father gone, Nim wasn’t really sure what to do. It was as though everything was over, and he didn’t know how to take it. Rather than feeling relief or sadness, Nim simply reverted to a state of intense apathy. He left his house in nothing more than he had been wearing before - sweatpants and a pair of mismatched socks - and eventually found himself at a bar.
At the bar, Nim helped himself to a variety of alcoholic beverages, completely disregarding the odd stares of others, as well as the dancers who paid him no mind. After drinking himself into a stupor on top of his already terrible mental state, Nim left the bar and went on a walk.
Eventually, Nim found himself at the edge of a road. It was not a highway, but it was a main road, with four lanes and few streetside lamps. Drunk, uncaring and with all of his issues resurfacing so suddenly, Nim walked out into the middle of the street, not really caring what may happen. He sat cross-legged in the middle of the pavement.
After several minutes of sitting around, a car came hurdling towards him. Nim did not feel like moving, and eventually decided he might like staying where he was; in other words, he was alright if the car hit him. He wanted it to. As the road was snow-slick and it was poorly lit outside, the driver of the car did not have time to stop. Thus, Nim was hit full-on, though it was not as bad as it could have been due to the driver attempting to slow down.
He proceeded to fade in and out of consciousness for a bit. Meanwhile, the driver of the car had called an ambulance. Nim’s wounds were extensive and he had suffered broken bones, internal damage and a severe concussion. He had also lost a considerable amount of blood. The doctors attempted to stabilize Nim, and he was vaguely aware of this until he blacked out in the middle of the emergency room.
After many hours spent working feverently, the doctors were able to stabilize Nim and cast his broken bones, etc. As far as his physical wounds went, he would make a significant recovery, though they were unsure if it would be a full one. However, Nim was in a coma. They were unsure when, or if, he would awaken.
The driver of the car was not convicted of crime, due to his own testimony and that of a witness. [[Let’s just pretend this is accurate.]] Investigators concluded that the accident was a possible suicide attempt, but could not be sure unless Nim confirmed it himself. As there was no one the doctors knew of that could make the decision, they chose to keep Nim alive and monitor the coma rather than pulling the plug. There was a good chance of him awaking, they believed, if time was given.
After one week, visitations were opened, though Nim remained in his coma. Flowers were allowed to be left in the room and ordinary visiting hours applied.
To make a long and sensitive story short, Nim disappeared for a while, his father died suddenly, and Nim himself was hit by a car. He is currently residing in the Manta Carlos hospital, unresponsive and in a coma.
Visitors were allowed in 1 week after he arrived, as the doctors determined him stable enough to accept. His close friends were contacted about the accident, but the specific occurrences were kept under wraps; they were only told that Nim was hit by a car.
The coma will last 3 in-character weeks. I will be posting a thread with Nim in the hospital; obviously, he won’t be able to respond. If you’d like a character to visit him, just reply to that thread with the character and their actions. The thread will be linked here once posted; otherwise, PM me for a link.
Nim will be able to hear most things that go on in his hospital room, despite being in a coma. This is not terribly rare in coma patients. He may be missing pieces here and there, and some things may be jumbled or misheard, but Nim will remember various happenings from the hospital room.
Visitors were allowed in 1 week after he arrived, as the doctors determined him stable enough to accept. His close friends were contacted about the accident, but the specific occurrences were kept under wraps; they were only told that Nim was hit by a car.
The coma will last 3 in-character weeks. I will be posting a thread with Nim in the hospital; obviously, he won’t be able to respond. If you’d like a character to visit him, just reply to that thread with the character and their actions. The thread will be linked here once posted; otherwise, PM me for a link.
Nim will be able to hear most things that go on in his hospital room, despite being in a coma. This is not terribly rare in coma patients. He may be missing pieces here and there, and some things may be jumbled or misheard, but Nim will remember various happenings from the hospital room.
@Ghost @Kathinja @MARIE