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[Open post | The End of Something ]
Aug. 5th, 2020 10:38 pmWhat: Things are fine until they're not.
Where: Umbrella Academy House.
When: S2, episode 10.
Warnings: Mentions of blood, violence, murder, trauma and PTSD.
Who: Five + your muse
☂☂☂
"Herb, we need a favor. A briefcase. Get back home, where we belong."
"Take your pick."
And like that, it's all over.
Almost over, they still need to go back to their time but things had slowed down from a mad rush against the clock to cleaning the mess of bodies left behind and saying goodbyes. The Handler is dead, the last of the Swedes gone, and the Temps Commission is no longer breathing down their necks. From all the possible outcomes it's one of the best.
So Five can't understand why he finds it's so hard to breathe.
The rest of his family is waiting inside of what's left of Sissy's house, talking or recovering, he imagines. He's at the barn, staring at the red stain on the ground left behind by the Handler's body, now gone, retrieved by the Commission. The sun is setting, there's an eerie kind of light inside, filtering through the many bullet holes on the wood walls, melting what's left of the snow.
There had been more bodies, more blood splattered, his whole family gone for the third time. They don't know, can't remember, but Five's not granted that mercy. It was pure luck that he was still alive after the Handler gunned them down, his chest and stomach burning, lying in a pool of his own blood but still alive, alive, alive, alive...it gave them a chance Five didn't even know if it would work at all. Back then, surrounded by the still-warm corpses of his siblings, it felt like the universe was laughing at him.
Seeing them get killed again was one time too many.
He couldn't get the image out of his head when the nuclear blast killed them seven days ago and he can't get it out of his head now. The snow feels cold against his knees when he falls to the ground, hands gripping at his head, pulling at his hair, eyes closed shut and gritted teeth. As if that would stop the ringing sounds of bullets and screams in his mind.
Where: Umbrella Academy House.
When: S2, episode 10.
Warnings: Mentions of blood, violence, murder, trauma and PTSD.
Who: Five + your muse
☂☂☂
"Herb, we need a favor. A briefcase. Get back home, where we belong."
"Take your pick."
And like that, it's all over.
Almost over, they still need to go back to their time but things had slowed down from a mad rush against the clock to cleaning the mess of bodies left behind and saying goodbyes. The Handler is dead, the last of the Swedes gone, and the Temps Commission is no longer breathing down their necks. From all the possible outcomes it's one of the best.
So Five can't understand why he finds it's so hard to breathe.
The rest of his family is waiting inside of what's left of Sissy's house, talking or recovering, he imagines. He's at the barn, staring at the red stain on the ground left behind by the Handler's body, now gone, retrieved by the Commission. The sun is setting, there's an eerie kind of light inside, filtering through the many bullet holes on the wood walls, melting what's left of the snow.
There had been more bodies, more blood splattered, his whole family gone for the third time. They don't know, can't remember, but Five's not granted that mercy. It was pure luck that he was still alive after the Handler gunned them down, his chest and stomach burning, lying in a pool of his own blood but still alive, alive, alive, alive...it gave them a chance Five didn't even know if it would work at all. Back then, surrounded by the still-warm corpses of his siblings, it felt like the universe was laughing at him.
Seeing them get killed again was one time too many.
He couldn't get the image out of his head when the nuclear blast killed them seven days ago and he can't get it out of his head now. The snow feels cold against his knees when he falls to the ground, hands gripping at his head, pulling at his hair, eyes closed shut and gritted teeth. As if that would stop the ringing sounds of bullets and screams in his mind.
