[The borrowed memories should be beginning to fade now, paling like a dream upon waking - or perhaps, more accurately, a nightmare. The human psyche isn't equipped to retain non-native memories for long. It's too alien, to slip into another's skin, however briefly.
Gene, too, has curled up on the ground, shaking. One of the twisted benefits of surviving all that trauma is that one develops the ability to con oneself into thinking it's normal, to become numb to the daily injustices. Living them again, all at once, as prepared for someone else, is liable to shatter that wall of spiteful strength, the part that says despite it all, 'fuck you, I'm still standing'.
He's not sure he'll ever be able to stand again.
The enormity of what he's done crashes into him like a wave, swamping him in pain and regret.] I did it again, [he says, half to himself.] I said I didn't want to hurt you anymore, and what's the first thing I do?
[He tries to laugh, because it's funny, in an awful way, even if only to him. It comes out as a choking sob instead. It's a more accurate reflection of his emotions. And he's ashamed. Ashamed of his actions, ashamed of the hurt he's caused, ashamed of the tears streaming down his face with no conscious effort or sign of stopping. He looks like a broken toy someone's thrown away - because isn't that what he is? A puppet dancing to someone else's tune, discarded when they have no more use for him? Without direction, he descends into destructive cycles because he's never known any other way to act, until he's finally run himself out of energy, out of motivation, and out of options. ]
I was going to make a joke until I realized that he doesn't know HOW TO DO THAT
Gene, too, has curled up on the ground, shaking. One of the twisted benefits of surviving all that trauma is that one develops the ability to con oneself into thinking it's normal, to become numb to the daily injustices. Living them again, all at once, as prepared for someone else, is liable to shatter that wall of spiteful strength, the part that says despite it all, 'fuck you, I'm still standing'.
He's not sure he'll ever be able to stand again.
The enormity of what he's done crashes into him like a wave, swamping him in pain and regret.] I did it again, [he says, half to himself.] I said I didn't want to hurt you anymore, and what's the first thing I do?
[He tries to laugh, because it's funny, in an awful way, even if only to him. It comes out as a choking sob instead. It's a more accurate reflection of his emotions. And he's ashamed. Ashamed of his actions, ashamed of the hurt he's caused, ashamed of the tears streaming down his face with no conscious effort or sign of stopping. He looks like a broken toy someone's thrown away - because isn't that what he is? A puppet dancing to someone else's tune, discarded when they have no more use for him? Without direction, he descends into destructive cycles because he's never known any other way to act, until he's finally run himself out of energy, out of motivation, and out of options. ]