paradisalost | (no subject)

[it's not a very nice place, Zelman's head.

the room is large, but still very much a room. the walls are all old, chipping plaster and peeling wallpaper and an odd rust, here and there. there's warping from water and old, dark stains from what's probably (most likely) blood. but that's all if you really look at it--the biggest and easiest thing to notice is that the walls are plastered in pictures and papers, clippings and photographs. taped up, tacked on, strung up in a few places, they show everything. at eye level, they're a strange mix of things about Earth and things about Paradisa, and sometimes things that wouldn't make sense to anyone. many of the photographs are out of focus, a lot of the writing has bled together.

that's not the worrying thing. what's worrying is what's written over them and under them and around them. every thought, every observation, every connection has been mapped out with marker or string or blood (only on bad or very very very good days) until the entire thing is like some convoluted artistic nightmare; scribbles and writing are layered on top of each other. lines are drawn and then more pictures are pasted over. many of the pictures with people in them have been X'd out or torn apart. the floor is littered with old paper, half-burned scraps, and ashes. it's somewhere between genius and an absolute mess.

looking up, the room just keeps going. the walls go up and up and up, plastered for what seems like miles. there might be a ceiling, but from here it just looks like the tiny flicker of a candle's flame, burning strangely clear despite the distance. is it really a ceiling...? the air is heavy, but the place feels... empty. it feels angry and arrogant and... unimportant. none of these things are important. all of these memories are useless, trash. uncared for.

and then there's the strange, oppressive feeling that someone, or something, doesn't want you here. you do not belong here, in this place so empty of sentimentality, so devoid of comfort. there's no joy to be found, here. just millions of empty memories and the scribbles of someone about as loving as a mechanical clock.]

[if you decide to venture into Zelman's room, he'll be there--a version of him anyway, barefoot and without a hat, flickering in and out a little as if he's composed more of flame than flesh. he's lying around on the floor, on his side, nearer to the far wall. his back is to the door. he's curled up a little, one arm protectively over a small box of newspaper clippings and photographs and stray pieces of scribbled-on paper. it's not much compared to the rest of the room, but one immediately gets the feeling that these things are important. precious. much more significant to him than anything else.

the contents of the box are spilled over a little onto the floor in front of him, but he doesn't seem to care. he's gazing absently at nothing, absolutely still except for the fingernail he keeps scraping across the floor. it makes a sound like a wire being tightened. again and again, a constant sharp scraping that is probably the only thing keeping him awake.

he looks a little annoyed, a little vacant. but mostly? bored out of his mind, no pun intended.]

[[ooc: gah, length. inner!Zelman is not a very nice person (just like his room!) but if you can handle that, feel free to look around or try to talk to him or whatever floats your boat.]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ for his part, he seems to be in a pretty okay mood. he doesn't usually need to trek around in people's minds to get a sense of what they're like; he doesn't particularly want to. but some people's heads are ugly and dark enough to be interesting. ]

It's me. [ a little wave. ] Don't roll out the red carpet just yet.

[his not coming in at least does wonders to improve his disposition. he'll sit up now, between Midnighter and the box.]

The one with the grin. I remember.

Would it be any less fucked up if it were literal?

[he glances up at his burning ceiling, still pretty tense.]

[ he'll probably spoil that in a little while. :( ]

Probably not. It's interesting to see what symbols Paradisa decides to associate with us, anyway.

Are you sulking?

I'm bored. [...] And thinking.

[always thinking. he never stops thinking. the papers flutter a little, a couple of them changing.]

[ he glances at that. ]

Hell of a place to be bored. Your own head.

I don't care about most of it. They're just things to pass the time.

[he starts tapping at the floor, distractedly. he has a thing or two against sitting still, it would seem.]

[ he cocks his head. ]

Seems kind of a waste,that your head is filled up with shit you don't actually want.

Things pile up. I can't remember the last time there was anything better to fill it with.

[--he looks up.] That's not true. That's a generalization. Exaggeration. A lot of it's up there. [up near his strange flame of a ceiling.]

[ he glances up ]

Away from prying hands, I guess.

[ speaking of, he ambles on in, hands in his coat pockets as he looks at the walls. ]

Gotta tell you, a shrink would have a field day inside here.

[it would be incorrect to say that Zelman tenses up. rather, the room tenses up, a shuddering whisper passing through it. it belongs to someone who is both Zelman and not Zelman. which is weird as fuck.

oh, and Zelman turns into wisps of smoke, rematerializing a lot closer and standing properly.]

Prying eyes. Most of them are dead.

[he tilts his head back, looking at something up there...] Not by my hand. Not usually. Time kills better than anyone.

[ well, that's interesting. he gives zelman a little wave when he materialises closer. ]

Are you always like this?

[his eyes shift back to the intruder.]

There are good days and bad days.

It's usually cleaner. I wasn't expecting company.

Pretty rude of me, I know.

Ever tried professional help?

Get out.

[this exact face. B|]

[ he chuckles a bit. what an asshole. ]

And suddenly testy.

You want to try me?

[he can make it worse. a lot worse.]

Honestly, I'm debating it. You know, if I want to be that asshole who picks a fight with a centuries-old vampire in his own head.

[ he just. :( hasn't had an actual fight in ages. he's sad. :( ]

[and for the first time since this guy shows up, Zelman smiles. but it's not a good smile by any stretch of the imagination.]

It'd just push you out. That's boring.

But come find me outside if you want. That could be fun.

[ are you seriously smiling creepily at him zelman? you are too kind. :( he shrugs ]

Very boring.

I'm going to do that. Please don't make me get my hopes up for nothing. It's worse than being dateless on prom night.

[he is the kindest. as clearly evidenced.]

Make sure you show. I don't like being stood up, either.

[he reaches out to drag his finger over Midnighter's chest, but it kind of burns then he does. :( a subtle, rumbling sound from up above (a part of Zelman and, yet, not a part of Zelman) seems to think he should go now.]