needlebomb | inbox.

if that's how you want to take it, sure.
but i don't write things with the intent to share them. it's all personal.
if that's a dealbreaker for you, then so be it.
if you change your mind and want to show me what you've done, let me know.

so it's ok to ask for someone else's journal but not offer your own
i get it. we'll see if i come around to the idea of letting u in my head, then

when did u start ur journal anyway?

i didn't ask to read your journal. i asked to see your art.
big difference.

i've had it for as long as i can remember. started in the boy's home. just wanted to keep a log of all the important stuff i was forgetting.
when did you start yours?

long time ago.
i've kept three

one from before, one from after
i don't have the first one anymore
but i arrived with the second one
so i've been adding to it too.

gonna need another real soon

have you written about me?

yeah

have u written about me?

that's private.

[ hypocrite. ]

what do you mean by "one from after"?

bitch.

that's private.

how is it private?
you brought it up.

it's private bc i say so

[And you were a little bitch just now, so.]

you want an answer, gimme something in return
barter with me, info style
otherwise, tough luck ever finding out

friendship isn't supposed to be transactional, you know.

yeah but i feel like im offering up a lot and not getting much back

two way street.
but fine, after is after death
im a dead kid from the 90s
i haunt shit and make kids cry

happy?

i'm not trying to be withholding.
i've told you more about my life than i've told anyone in quite some time.
letting you in as much as i have has been a pretty big deal for me. sorry if that doesn't feel like enough for you.

[ dot dot dot. ]

are you fucking with me?

does it sound like i'm fucking with you?

it sounds like you're pissed at me for not letting you read my diary, so you're making shit up to embarrass me.
that's what it sounds like.

u don't believe in ghosts?
out of everything possible in the world
this is me fucking with you?

i think american youth of the 1980s are only going to survive in a future stacked against them if they move into it with a tight grip on a healthy amount of skepticism.

prove it.

how the fuck am i supposed to do that, genius?
recite a ghostly oath?

you really want me to prove it?
i can, if you do
but just think about what you're asking
hate for you to not like what happens

go ahead.
skinny blond dudes with mommy issues haven't scared me before.
you're not gonna be the first.

[We'll see about that, skinny little street rat. Tate doesn't respond simply because he doesn't see the point. There's nothing he can do via text; but there are other alternatives coming to mind. He's half annoyed he has to get up and get to it, but there's pride on the line. And a little bit of pleasure to come out of this, since he so rarely gets to freak anyone out anymore. He pulls on his sweater and takes the quickest route to the Down.

He's not fast enough with it to startle Marcus in any way should he knock on the door, so he skips that. He just straight on enters the motel room, staying out of sight in the process. He lingers like a transparent shadow against the wall and watches Marcus as he's laid out on the bed. He tilts his head for a second, then reaches sidelong to flick off the light switch. Subtle, possibly explainable, but this is just the start.]

[ By this point, Marcus figures Tate has just - ghosted him, forgive the pun. Once Tate's silently, invisibly infiltrating his room, Marcus has mostly forgotten about the conversation they had a good half hour ago; he figured the mommy issue thing might have crossed a line, and rather than apologize for saying it, he just lets things die. There'll always be time to talk to Tate later.

He's wearing his new sweater when Tate arrives. Wrapped up in it like it's keeping him warm, eyes only half-open as he lays in bed, knees curled up and attention largely focused on his phone. The light goes out and Marcus doesn't move, doesn't think anything of it - a hotel like this, he's only surprised the lights haven't gone out sooner. It does cause him to sit up, though, sighing as he looks at the curtains over the window, wondering if it's worth going over there and opening them up. He clearly decides it's not, but still takes the time to fish out a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with a match, his hand cupped around the flame. ]

[Tate approaches the bedside while the lights are off, having dismissed the idea of playing with them further. He watches Marcus impassively for a second, leaning in to blow out the flame of his match before he can get his cigarette to light. He smiles to himself, sight unseen, and concentrates a bit to manifest a cool chill to the air; the lights flicker again and the radio across the room rumbles on with a cacophony of static. The bulb tv too; static rising on its surface as it shudders on and off in quick succession.

While he leaves Marcus to react to those how he wishes, he walks to the other side of the bed and stretches himself out on it. Settles right against the bedding, arms tucked behind his head, grinning as he waits for the moment to show himself. In the meanwhile, he watches Marcus to see his responses. To gauge his fear level.]

[ The shit Marcus has been through, the shit that he's seen, have given him something of a steel spine. His matchstick fizzles out and he just feels-- annoyed, rather than suspicious, looking up at the closed curtains again and wondering, briefly, if the window is open. It's not - so he blames it on the shitty, dirty vent high above his bed, off-center in his ceiling, next to a smoke alarm that hasn't worked since before he moved in. He gets out another match, cups it around his hand, and lights his cigarette again.

The radio whirs to life while the TV attempts to do the same, and that's when Marcus's reaction becomes a little more concrete. Other than the distant blue from outside and the incomplete white from the TV, the only real light source in the room, by this point, is the little glow at the end of Marcus's cigarette, lighting him up in a sickly-warm orange just long enough to see the suspicious, curious frown on his face. He stands up from the edge of the bed and heads over to the TV, clicking old, thick dials to try to shut the power off. It doesn't work, and that doesn't make sense, and Marcus takes another long, long drag.

He heads back to bed and sits back down again, unknowingly close to Tate, almost skin to skin. He watches the radio, listens to it try to produce any kind of legible sound, and when he grabs his phone from beside him, it's pretty obvious that things are clicking into place. He lazily smokes with one hand while he taps out a message to Tate with the other. ]

is this you?

Yeah. Boo.

[Tate answers without even having to pull out his phone - he sees Marcus type with a tilt of his head, following the words as they're spelled out with a sickly little smile. He likes that he's got a bit of an edge here, reappearing with a sudden heft of weight against the mattress and his head still inclined towards Marcus and nearly resting on him. He's shifted more onto his side to better face him, arm tucked under his head and his expression a mix of passive excitement.

He doesn't sit up or otherwise move, but the TV screen stops flickering and everything settles back to normal. With a few flickers of the bulb next to the bed, for good measure. It's always a bit of a gamble 'coming out' as dead to someone, so he's curious how Marcus is gonna take it.]

Did I scare ya?

[ Marcus gets kinda spooked, jumping slightly and clutching at his phone, looking down at Tate with wide-eyed alarm. He doesn't make a noise - just stares at him like a goat that's about to faint - but when he realizes that it's just Tate, realizes there was some truth to the bizarre shit he told him over the phone, it kind of calms him down, oddly enough. He exhales, breathes through his nose, and looks far more annoyed about being scared than anything else. Not that he was. ]

No.

[ In fact, he says that he wasn't, so. That proves it. Marcus goes straight back to his cigarette, squaring his shoulders and acting composed, like it's still more important to him that Tate thinks he's unphazed than it is to act impressed or afraid in any way. ]

Startled me, maybe, but. Anyone would get startled by your ugly mug.

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