the toll of perfection (mickey)

[demos]

i want to shelter you

Silence is a perfect thing. It is unbroken, and unquestioning. Some saw silence as uncomfortable, as distinctly foreign. Some even associated it with some misplaced sense of danger. This was ridiculous of course. There was nothing safer than silence. Silence couldn't argue, couldn't scream or shout or do any of those annoying things. And Silence couldn't accuse you, bring to light all the things you knew you had done wrong. Silence is perfect, because Silence is nothing at all. It is solitude, it is secrecy, yet it is nothing. And perhaps, that was why Alisander found it so appealing, why he found himself almost constantly in search of it. How could anyone not desire the simple pleasure of silence? There were those that felt the constant need to speak, to be heard, and to hear others. The way Alisander saw it, if one embraced silence - there was so much more to hear, to see, to learn. Noise encased the ignorant in a narrow-minded world. Then again, perhaps all of this was simply a rationale. Maybe all of this was his way of saying to himself "I dislike the rambunctious noise of college life". But did it really matter? A preference was a preference, and simply put - nothing more. An identity was really made up of preferences, of preferences and history and weaknesses. Some might add strength to that list, but Alisander never did. Strengths were really just what remained when your weaknesses were taken away. And did a strength even really form someone? Or did their weaknesses? Were we defined by what we could do, or what we had failed to do? Alisander had always believed it to be the latter option.

The young man in question raised his head. He had been sitting in the library, a lone quiet corner tucked away. The library was a quiet unassuming place, one where he could hide out and pretend for a moment he was exactly where he wanted to be. It was where he could be alone with his thoughts, alone with his memories, alone with all that remained of Phillipa. Phillipa, Alisander's sister, had always thought him silly for these desires – teasing him gently and urging him to find some social interaction or another. She was the social sister, the "pleasant" sister, the charming one. She was called things like "sweet" and "big-hearted". Alisander had always agreed, had a long list of his sister’s perfect qualities. They all had flaws of course. Alisander was anything but blind to his own faults. But that didn't keep him from abstaining from judgement on others, though he assumed they passed judgement on him. It was natural, instinctual in every way. Life was a selfish thing, focused on survival and the betterment on one's self. He rolled his neck, stretching. His eyes were tightly closed. He had no intention of leaving until some noisy idiots ruined his peace.

He knew the idiots in question would arrive soon enough. They always did, in pairs or with professors, always squealing and whining. They could see no concept bigger than themselves. His nose wrinkled with distaste. He knew he had been quite the same as a child, and as a teenager, but he had shed this stage of his life quickly. It had never fit naturally to him, not after Phillipa’s “death”. He turned his head, glancing around. Silence still encased him, each moment beautiful. Alisander closed his eyes again. But what did any of this matter? He was and would forever be happy in his solitude.

[MICHAELANGELO DONATELLO GRACE]

the toll of perfection ! [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

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tag ! momo && alisander demos ;; word count ! 749 ;; setting ! Academy library ;; outfit ! slacks, button-down shirt, dress shoes, glasses ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

Michaelangelo was not a cop because he was pretty sure he’d end up as a very poor cop. The schizophrenia would screw with him enough that he’d decided pursuit of the career would be a bad choice at best. His paranoia would make it near-impossible for him to trust any partner he had, for one. Sure, he was smart enough to be a cop. He was good at puzzles, examining the pieces and seeing how they fit together, but the actual aspect of dealing with people would be troublesome for him. In addition, he would be a complete failure at writing the reports himself. So, he followed an old adage: those who can’t do, teach. He could be a cop, so he taught future cops how to be cops. Well, he didn’t go that far. He wasn’t teaching at any police academy, after all. He just taught them about law in general, and how the criminal justice system worked, because he’d also learned that being educated in a formal setting would probably drive him even more crazy. He rubbed at his forehead as he walked, still feeling the file in his hand though it was safely locked away. A buddy of his at the precinct had let him take a look at it, mostly because it wasn’t the sort of case you would go blabbing to a reporter. Though he hadn’t bothered to do the research, Michaelangelo was pretty sure the press had made a big deal about it back when it had happened, which was quite a while ago if he remembered the dates correctly, which he did. He remember the date the girl had gone missing. He remembered the date the case had been declared cold and shoved into some box probably never to be opened again. He remembered the date she’d been declared dead. He also remembered the questions he’d left over, and the fact that he taught the brother of the girl who had disappeared years and years ago. It explained the boy’s heated persistence, something his teacher rather appreciated, especially now that he understood the cause for it. If one of his own sisters were to go missing, he’d chase the cops for information just as much. He wouldn’t leave any stone unturned. He’d be pissed if there were no information found and the case was closed prematurely. He’d continue the investigation himself, as Demos seemed to be doing. Not bad. In general, he approved. He rarely properly approved of his students. By no means would he admit he had his favorites. He did, like he supposed anyone did, but he also refused to let that influence his grading. If anything, he was sometimes even harsher on those favorites just to make sure he wasn’t going easy on them. That, he just covered up the names of the papers he was grading. That one tended to be easier and, thereby, more common. He just paper-clipped little note cards over the top right corner, where he demanded the names would be. He utterly refused to grade a paper that was formatted incorrectly, simply because he liked having the details right. Besides, it wasn’t a very good sign when a student was unable to follow simple directions. He gave everyone one pass. They were allowed to turn in a single paper a second time due to formatting issues, and then he started docking them points. Of course, he generally didn’t dock major points—that would be cruel—but he wanted his students to listen. He even bothered repeating the formatting instructions when he assigned big papers. And yet, there was someone, every time, who just wouldn’t learn. It drove him up the wall. Ah, but there was the boy. He sat down across from him, rapping his pen roughly on the tabletop to get his attention and waited for the face to have open eyes. He knew people could pay attention with their eyes closed, but he couldn’t be sure whether the boy was asleep or not.He’d known plenty of people who could sleep sitting, or even standing, up. So he waited for the eyes to open and then began, “So your sister’s missing.” He lifted an eyebrow, watching carefully for any reaction the student might, wondering if it’d be unwelcome that the teacher was interfering in the business. If it was unwelcome, he’d just do the investigating on his own to help his curiosity, until he was distracted enough to forget about it.

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notes ! Let’s give this another try xD ;;

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[demos]

i want to shelter you

He had let his eyes fall closed, allowed himself to be absorbed by the silence, by a single moment of solitude. Alisander’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of soft approaching footsteps. A moment later the footsteps paused, perhaps pensive. Alisander prayed they would continue on, leave him alone. At times, he could deal with the social demands of a school life, that others expected of him. But other days, days like today, he needed his solitude. He needed some semblance of stillness, of a break from every day of life. He stared straight ahead, his eyes on the bookshelves. They never changed, really. They were constant. He drew comfort from that – from all the little consistencies. One needed to find those things, the things that could give comfort. Otherwise the ice would slip in, section one off from the rest of humanity. They would be left wandering alone. Alisander was bitter, angry, but he wasn’t depressed – wasn’t stupid. He knew he couldn’t allow himself to become lost, to lose all sense of reality. He couldn’t lose himself, the way he had allowed himself to lose Phillipa. She reminded him each and every day, exactly what was important in life.

They used to go to the zoo. Phillipa loved the giraffes. She always snapped pictures, bought a postcard, a pin, something. She had a little box, her little box of treasures, and half of her precious items were giraffe related. He’d always thought it funny, in a way. He’d liked the big things – the bears and tigers, anything with fangs. He used to say if he became an animal he’d be a grizzly bear. She laughed at him, teased him, but all in good fun. She used to say that grizzly bears were fat. Did he want to be fat? He’d say that giraffes were gangly and awkward. They went back and forth like this, every single time. He never tired of it, never. He remembered, when she’d gotten married, she’d given him her special box. She’d told him to hold on to it, until she got moved in. She’d gotten moved in, but for some reason never asked for it back. And when the bruises started appearing, the excuses, he’d come to value that box. Even having been seventeen, he’d come to believe that if that box was safe and sound, Phillipa would be too. He’d been a fool, an utter fool.

His fingers curled into a fist. He’d brought that box with him. It was the only thing he refused to change, refused to let differ. Because that little hope still remained – that if the box was safe, so was she. In another box though, oh that box, he kept all of his research. He kept files, photographs, analyses, everything there possibly could be. And it had gotten him nowhere, but he didn’t stop working. The footsteps approached again, now at the desk. He could see a body in the corner of his eye. He hoped, if he was unresponsive, the person would leave. He slid into the seat across from him, where Alisander was forced to acknowledge him. Alisander raised himself, his face set in its usual stormy expression. The man sitting across from him was one who Alisander actually usually enjoyed – namely his criminal studies teacher, Mr. Grace. He wasn’t sure exactly what the other man would want. He stared at Mr. Grace, waiting for the other man to speak, to state his intentions.

He did speak, and Alisander’s face contorted from anger to surprise then to guarded suspicion. His teeth clenched. Though the question had been somewhat innocent, he still felt as if his privacy had been violated. “She’s dead, actually.” What did it matter if he believed differently? All the official documents said she was dead. They’d buried an empty casket. There was a tombstone with her name on it. Believing otherwise just concerned people, made them watch him more carefully than he cared to be watched. “Though if you mean Naia, last time I heard she was just fine.” Naia, the remaining sister. She would be twenty-four now, just a few years younger than Phillipa would have been – no – then Phillipa was. Alisander held Mr. Grace’s stare, not bothering with a greeting. It was a form of a challenge, waiting for the next move to be made. Would he drop it? Would he press? Would he challenge what so many believed so easily? Had he noticed the too-specific questions in class?

[MICHAELANGELO DONATELLO GRACE]

the toll of perfection ! [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

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tag ! momo && alisander demos ;; word count ! 850 ;; setting ! Academy library ;; outfit ! slacks, button-down shirt, dress shoes, glasses ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

Michaelangelo had a thing about his title being considered correctly. He wasn’t “Mr. Grace,” oh, no. He’d correct anyone who called him that immediately. He didn’t teach high school students or anyone beneath them. God, no, he refused to teach those little snobs. Why was he being so cynical about children today? He had no clue. Maybe it was because of the girl who’d gone missing, but then, she’d been a woman when it had happened. Maybe he was just being cynical about the incompetence of people in general. Either way, he was fairly aware that he was a competent instructor. He wasn’t a teacher. He was a professor. And anyone who referred to him as “Mr. Grace” rather than “Professor Grace” was bound to get a glare worthy of an erupting volcano. But then, he also had a terrible temper that could be incited by several things and generally wasn’t unless he was having a bad day anyway. Today wasn’t a bad day, not really. Rather, it was the sort of day that hadn’t really decided yet which way it wished to tilt, and a had a distinct feeling it would hinge on the discussion they would be having, these two men seated at this rounded little table in the school library. It was ridiculous to let an entire day’s mood depend on a single conversation, but he also believed this particular conversation had enough weight in general to be worthy of the honor. He watched the emotions race across the student’s face. Anger came first, and very reasonably. Most people would be rather irritated if their personal business was invaded by a near-stranger without their permission. He wasn’t about the blame the kid for that (though ‘kid’ was probably not a very appropriate term, considering there was probably less than a decade between their ages). Then came surprise, as was equally appropriate. Firstly, he’d skipped the greeting and other niceties. Secondly, he’d gone and investigated on his own into something that he’d mostly been guessing it, and it had taken enough motivation and determination that someone else probably wouldn’t have bothered. Finding the information alone would have been surprising if he didn’t know himself well enough. Surprise and anger made sense to him, intellectually. He knew where they might be coming from even if he didn’t know the details, even if he didn’t know if his reasoning was the one that Demos happened to be following. And then came the suspicion. It was an emotion with which he was intimately familiar, one he had experienced time and again and would as long as he was schizophrenic, which meant until his death. He would also be suspicious and always be cautious because it was sometimes really hard to tell the difference between reality and what his mind was coming up with. It had become second nature to him to question everything around him. On the first day of school, he made sure that there were just as many students in the classroom as there were on his roster, and he asked everyone to pair up (he also insisted all his classes have an even number of students for the very same reason, though it sucked when kids dropped out). It wasn’t obsessive compulsive disorder. He didn’t have obsessive compulsive order. He was far too messy for that, and he didn’t think that OCD could be misdiagnosed as schizophrenia. Would definitely be something interesting to look up, though. He was in a library. But now, he needed to focus before his thoughts ran away completely with him. The fact that Demos was speaking to him helped significantly, because it gave him something to focus on, and something was generally better than nothing when it came to that. “No, I mean Phillipa,” he continued, still watching the boy’s face, mostly out of curiosity for further reactions he could elicit. It was probably a little unpleasant of him, considering how close to actual manipulation it was. He hadn’t come here intending to mess with the boy anyway. He’d come here to see if there was a mystery for him to participate in. An investigation that two civilians would need to further because the police had made up its mind on the topic. But he wasn’t convinced. Maybe it was stupid that he wasn’t convinced, but he also knew that it was easy to fake a death. That it was easy to just disappear. When you were doing it temporarily, at least. Most people were found eventually. “And I mean they never found her body. Maybe she ran for it. Or maybe someone chased her off.” He, for one, was insanely curious. Of course, you couldn’t really sit on a park bench in the US without leaving some sort of paper trail, but there was so much wilderness here in Canada that things were quite different. Maybe she’d left the country. Maybe she hadn’t. They wouldn’t know if they sat around and did nothing. Considering the questions he asked in class, however, Demos didn’t seem to be sitting around and doing nothing.

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notes ! sorry it wasn’t up last night >< ;;

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[demos]

i want to shelter you

Alisander shifted, his head down. His curls were shaggy, a bit longer than he usually liked them. They were in near danger of being too long, of falling in his eyes. He would have hated that, such a disreputable appearance. That long shaggy hair, if he let it get long – the next step would be too-black dye. Then came tattoos and piercings. At least in his mind, this was a logical sequence of events. He’d become an emo, one of those kids who dressed like they hated themselves. It drove him crazy, that style. He knew it shouldn’t, but it did. He just couldn’t understand it. Those kids, the ones that wore their hair over their eyes, had rings in their noses and lips and just about everywhere else, they always seemed to have this look about them. It was as if they didn’t expect the world to love them, and was punishing everyone for it. There was this aggression, this anger. As if everyone was to blame for their problems. It was attention seeking, that was the root of it all. And that was what he hated. Sure, some of them had legitimate problems – a legitimate reason to be angry. But then again, so did he. And he didn’t dress like a criminal. He had more than enough reason to be angry. His sister was dead. People had committed suicide over less, gotten into hardcore drugs. But he was fine. A little quiet perhaps, a little withdrawn, but he was fine. Perhaps it was a little heartless, a little judgmental. But there it was – the plain opinion of Mr. Alisander Demitri Demos. They all had their biases, didn’t they? It could have been much worse. He could have been a racist (he wasn’t), or sexist (again not). So he disapproved of a certain style choice, that wasn’t really so bad.

He ran his hand through his hair, staring down at the pages of his book. He wished he could lose himself in the words, that Professor Grace would vanish – or perhaps transform into some wonderful character. But such a thing was entirely unrealistic. He flipped the page, only half-reading the words. After the suspicion faded, a certain exhaustion overtook him. He hated these conversations, the concerned family friends and adults. It drove him crazy. He’d answered the questions again and again and again. Some had been from police officers, others from guidance counselors, even a few morbid students just overtaken by curiosity. He had rehearsed answers now. At one point, he’d been insistent. He’d fought, told them all that she was alive – that she had to be. They’d whispered words behind their hands, like “denial” and “depression” and “child”. He’d grown tired of it all, of all the patronizing. So he’d manned up, and he’d left. He’d flown across the country, to a town with people like him – a school for people like him. It was a school where people wouldn’t whisper behind their hands about something they knew nothing about. Possibly, even better, it was a school without his mother over his shoulder – trying to smile and talk about marriage. Because that was all they did now – try to smile. He looked up, closing the book gently. He had to face it, perhaps just this one last time. He’d face it and slip away as soon as possible. If he got lucky Nell or Lisa or Riley would call – give him something to do, some way to pretend the conversation had never happened. “You’re mistaken. She had nothing to run from and no enemies.” He wouldn’t voice his opinions, his suspicions. He’d long learned not to. He had no proof, nothing at all. And to say something, it almost felt like he would be betraying her. And a part of him was afraid, afraid of Zachary.

“She drowned. She was wearing heavy clothing. She must have slipped. It’s a deep lake.” He’d heard every excuse that had ever been made, again and again. They said the lake was too deep, too big, they just couldn’t find her. It was winter. She could have become hypothermic. It was winter, she was in her heaviest clothes, they would have pulled her down. The dock was icy. He relayed them almost mechanically, not pausing to think. There were certain answers that were expected. And even if they weren’t – it had been nearly three years, three years in January. She wasn’t coming back. If she was alive, she would have come to find him. He’d begun, in pieces, to put it behind him. He would box up his investigations, his foolish hope. He’d stopped adding to it, even if he hadn’t been able to quite box it up. He stacked his books, shaking his head. “Sometimes an accident is just an accident, nothing sinister.”

[MICHAELANGELO DONATELLO GRACE]

the toll of perfection ! [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

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tag ! momo && alisander demos ;; word count ! 1 046 ;; setting ! Academy library ;; outfit ! slacks, button-down shirt, dress shoes, glasses ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b]

Michaelangelo was not the sort to be meticulous about his appearance. Far from it, actually. Sure, he wore the suits and fancier clothes that were generally expected of his profession. He was expected to look professional. And so he would. Otherwise, though, he had no qualms about wearing ripped-up jeans and faded t-shirts, if that was what he happened to grab from his closet. He didn’t have anyone to impress. He didn’t have anyone he wanted looking at him. He didn’t need to dress up for anyone else, so why should he care? He wasn’t on the prowl for a date or a mate. He wasn’t one for one-night stands and he didn’t really crave sex. From what he’d seen and what he understood, that was the whole point of nice clothes. They were meant to attract attention. They were meant to make people look at you and appreciate your physical form, your sense of style, and all that other pizazz he didn’t really care about. Why should he? Why should he care? Why should he worry if he was a little disheveled or if his hair was all over the place? He stayed clean because he felt better that way, because hygiene was important to health, but clothes was an additional, unnecessary step to worry about. So he didn’t. End mental rant. He ran a hand through the aforementioned hair, caring just as little that he might be messing it up. It wasn’t like he fit into any one style or stereotype anyway. He was too lazy to want to go along with anything. He wasn’t goth. That was just too much black for him. He liked a little color in his wardrobe. Besides, he didn’t care for eyeliner. Why on earth would he wear make-up? It was like flushing 30 dollars down the tube whenever you washed it off. Not worth it. Besides, there was that one general thing called social acceptance. If he showed u wearing make-up, he had a feeling his would go down even more and he was antisocial enough as it was. Why alienate even more people? The only appropriate time he saw for something like that was Halloween, and he rarely bothered dressing up for that either. So why dress up for a normal occasion? Besides, some of those stereotypes were just plain ridiculous. Like those kids who wore their hair in their face on purpose, who tried to make it seem like they were so much better than the world because the world despised them. The world despised them because they were overly dramatic and forget that sometimes average was a good thing. Average was easier to survive with, in the world that liked to trod on the extraordinary and segregated those it thought weren’t good enough. Oh, and heaven forbid if you were ever a mixture of any of the above. People as a group were stupid. People as a system were near-intolerable. People as individuals could sometimes simulate intelligence. And that, ladies and gentlemen, were the mental ravings of a schizophrenic professor who happened to have a particularly cynical view of the world as a whole. He sometimes wished aliens would take over the human race already because he sort of expected that they would at least be nicer to the plant and each other. Oh, if only. The suspicion and cynicism warred as Alisander spoke. If the boy was any bit as smart as he seemed, then Michaelangelo didn’t believe what the boy was saying. Nor did he believe that he believed what he was saying. Which meant there was something hiding. Maybe it was the boy not providing all the information he had. Maybe it was they were both missing a piece of information about the girl who’d gone missing. Something had happened at that lake, and this criminal justice professor wanted to know what it was, and why they had never found the body. Maybe there wasn’t one. That was what he was liable to believed currently. Maybe there was no body. Maybe it was a faked death, for one reason or another. Maybe there was a body, but no one knew where it was, so the police was trying to cover up a mistake they’d made. Either way, he wasn’t even close to believing this bullshit, and he didn’t think that Alisander was doing anything more than a parrot act. “So you’re telling me she didn’t know how to swim? Besides, any smart girl would have pulled off some of that heavy clothing to survive. Life’s a bit more important to an individual than a sweat that cost 300 dollars.” He watched the expression on the other’s face, trying to get the slightest hints as to whether he was correct. Correct that this wasn’t an accident. Correct that something sinister had indeed happened. Of course, it was very possible that Alisander had killed the girl, and that was why she wasn’t found. But who would ask questions about procedure after the fact to preserve a hidden body when no one had found it in years? Michaelangelo was more likely to think that Alisander wanted this girl found and he was trying to find a way to get there. He was looking for help but cautious as to how much he wanted anyone to know. That, Michaelangelo could understand, but he also understood the burning mystery that just wouldn’t leave him alone, and if Alisander wasn’t going to help him solve this, then he’d have to do it on his own. So why not just ask. “Sometimes, an accident is an accident indeed, but sometimes an accident really isn’t an accident, and something sinister really did happen.” Though sinister was not his favorite word to use in this case. “You don’t honestly believe that this was an accident.” That wasn’t a question either. He wanted to provoke some truth, and so he was making an assumption and watching the boy’s face, just waiting for that reaction. He pushed his glasses further up on his nose, more a habit than because it let him see better in this particular instance. He wanted to see the face and he wanted to know what was going to happen with it.

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notes ! sorry it took me a while to get back to you >< ;;

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