Very Wee Hours and into Morning - Closed to Raylan Givens and Doc Holliday
Malcolm had fallen asleep on the floor of the screened in porch, his empty glass nearby. The alcohol didn't do anything to silence the noise inside him. Not the voices that spoke to his worst fears and insecurities, not the buzzing that made him feel like his whole body was full of bees. But it did knock him the fuck out, eventually. He hadn't slept beyond nodding off for a few minutes here and there since he'd arrived and between being off his medication and sleep deprivation, he hadn't had much longer to function even a little bit if it weren't for the two cowboys who'd taken him in.
Hell, if it weren't for Raylan, he might have gone over the edge of those lighthouse stairs and been done with it.
It was well into the wee hours of the morning, by the time he started stirring in his sleep. At first, it was innocuous; a little tossing and turning. A little mumbling. Mumbling became words, spoken louder and louder. "No, don't. NO!" His arms lashing out, fighting something that wasn't there. He hit his glass into the wall beside it with one hand, but didn't wake when he cut himself. He rolled to his feet and ran, screaming, into the house, crashing into the kitchen as he fell over a chair in his path and still not awake as he continued to fight with whatever he imagined knocked him over. He left a path of blood drops from the porch to the kitchen. The scene, overall, looked worse than it probably was. It didn't help that he was still howling bloody murder.
Afternoon of Day 12 - OTA
At least, he thought it was afternoon. The rain had been drizzling on uniformly for what must have been hours by the time he found a raincoat in the house he'd chosen to shelter in and he put it on, venturing out into the grey to walk into town. He couldn't sit in one place. He needed... something. Something he knew wasn't there. But he was still going to look for it because he couldn't do nothing. [Catch him anywhere around town.]
Malcolm Bright - Day 12 Closed and OTA
Malcolm had fallen asleep on the floor of the screened in porch, his empty glass nearby. The alcohol didn't do anything to silence the noise inside him. Not the voices that spoke to his worst fears and insecurities, not the buzzing that made him feel like his whole body was full of bees. But it did knock him the fuck out, eventually. He hadn't slept beyond nodding off for a few minutes here and there since he'd arrived and between being off his medication and sleep deprivation, he hadn't had much longer to function even a little bit if it weren't for the two cowboys who'd taken him in.
Hell, if it weren't for Raylan, he might have gone over the edge of those lighthouse stairs and been done with it.
It was well into the wee hours of the morning, by the time he started stirring in his sleep. At first, it was innocuous; a little tossing and turning. A little mumbling. Mumbling became words, spoken louder and louder. "No, don't. NO!" His arms lashing out, fighting something that wasn't there. He hit his glass into the wall beside it with one hand, but didn't wake when he cut himself. He rolled to his feet and ran, screaming, into the house, crashing into the kitchen as he fell over a chair in his path and still not awake as he continued to fight with whatever he imagined knocked him over. He left a path of blood drops from the porch to the kitchen. The scene, overall, looked worse than it probably was. It didn't help that he was still howling bloody murder.
Afternoon of Day 12 - OTA
At least, he thought it was afternoon. The rain had been drizzling on uniformly for what must have been hours by the time he found a raincoat in the house he'd chosen to shelter in and he put it on, venturing out into the grey to walk into town. He couldn't sit in one place. He needed... something. Something he knew wasn't there. But he was still going to look for it because he couldn't do nothing. [Catch him anywhere around town.]