Mutilated Lips

[Skraal]

((Jacob Lang continued from Valentin Takes a Bath))

Jacob gritted his teeth as he trudged through the snow, barely even noticing the sight of the approaching cabin. The conversation from before still weighed on him, and not in a good way. He had been talked into a corner yet again, forced to leave despite his best efforts to disrupt the proceedings. It wasn't the first time, either. Ever since he got here, the same pattern had repeated over and over again. Every single encounter with another human being in this place had ended with him being the one on the retreat. Until now, he had been able to excuse that fact by bringing up the same reasoning again and again. He was smaller, weaker and less well armed than the people he was talking to; obviously people would be more confident when dealing with someone they could easily beat in a fight, and with no consequences for doing it either. The situation with Valentin was different, though. There he was, with a guy who was naked and vulnerable, with no weapon in sight, and yet Jacob still found himself to be the first person to run out of things to say. As much as he hated to admit it, it was becoming clear that he just wasn't as smart as he thought himself to be.

He groaned in frustration, kicking forward and watching lumps of white snow fly up into the air and then fall to the ground. Unsurprisingly, it didn't make him feel any better. Why was he so useless? The fact that in this place he had no rules to abuse, nor authorities whose skirts to hide behind was not a new or shocking revelation to him. What was upsetting was the final realization setting in that he just wasn't quick-thinking or charismatic enough to maintain his usual hobby without those crutches. Talking shit in the real world rather than behind the shield of internet anonymity required far more than he was able to give. At least not here.

Another kick went out, sending a splatter of snow against the moss-covered cabin wall, the sound a little more satisfying than before, but not by much. He approached the door, practically throwing the door open, his emotions overwhelming any sort of reasonable fear of someone already being there. Thankfully, there wasn't - or at least there didn't seem to be. The loud noise of the door slamming shut reverberated through the small building, with the lack of a reaction seeming to back up the impression that Jacob was alone. At least he had that going for him. The last thing he wanted was to run into another person right now.

Nevertheless, the relief did little to improve his mood as frustration continued to build. Everything he did seemed to fill his classmates with bemusement rather than anger, aside from the incident with Spike. That was the worst part. There had only been one encounter where he really seemed to get what he wanted, and even then, he had fucked it up. Hubris had caused him to turn a perfectly okay prank into the worst mistake of his life, and the worst part was that nobody else seemed to have recognized it. He had killed a man, and still, nobody seemed to view him as more than an annoyance. He had thought that he would have been relieved to know this information, but somehow, that made it even worse. He had done something bad, something really, really bad, and yet it was like nobody even believed it was real. Was he so weak, so ineffectual, that is seemed impossible to others that he had done it? It was all so frustrating. Rather than make him feel better, the unwillingness of his classmates to call him out on his behaviour only made the feelings of guilt worse. His leg shot out again, causing a nearby lamp to fall to the floor with a crash, the damage finally bringing with it the slightest feeling of catharsis.

Emboldened, he walked forward to a nearby table, throwing one of its accompanying chairs to the ground. At least there was something in this goddamn place that he was in control over. The remaining chairs soon followed, and with a decent amount of effort, the table was also flipped onto its side, sending its contents clattering away from the no longer horizontal surface. The clock on the adjacent wall was his next victim, pulled off its peg and battered repeatedly into the wall while splinters of glass, wood and metal flew off with every blow. Jacob paused for a moment, his hands sore from the reverberated feedback of slamming a relatively sturdy object into an immobile target. Mildly annoyed, he let what remained of the clock fall from his hands as he walked a few steps forward to a set of shelves.

His fingers flew as each object was pulled from the shelf and tossed in whatever direction seemed convenient at the time. Books, picture frames, a snowglobe - all were in turn ripped from their position. The sound of crashing glass as that last one hit the ground caused Jacob to felt a brief sense of regret at the thought of destroying what were somebody's once valued possessions (even if now they were all dusty and mossy and gross), but he quickly shoved it back down. He was a piece of shit, anyway, breaking stuff was par for the course for someone like that. He wasn't even the type of asshole who was strong enough to be called a bully, he was a pathetic worm who continually picked fights that he stood no chance of winning. The frustration boiling within him only increased in intensity as he found himself unable to reach the highest shelf of the set. After a few embarrassingly short hops, he turned to kicking the piece of furniture, receiving for his troubles a sore foot and the realization that this particular piece of furniture was bolted to the wall.

Jacob limped over to the next area, knocking over a tin of paint on the way. The teal-coloured puddle expanded behind him as he came upon a small set of a couch and armchairs nestled around a weirdly smudged coffee table and what appeared to be a fireplace. The table was easily tipped over, and the armchairs, while taking a decent amount of effort to move, soon found themselves following suit. The sofa, however, was a different beast. Try as he might, he just couldn't get it to move, though it was impossible to say whether it was bolted to the floor or if Jacob just wasn't strong enough to lift it. The reasonable move would be to leave it be, but combination of his current bad mood and the adrenaline currently pumping through his system meant that reasonable moves received not even the slightest of considerations. In a move that surprised even himself, he found himself pulling out the ballistic knife from his jacket pocket and beginning to slash and stab through the cushions, the sound of tearing leather along with the feverish grunting of a teenage boy filling the air as he continued his work.

Finally, after all was said and done, Jacob found himself sitting on the destroyed remains of the couch cushions, exhausted. He looked around, surveying the destruction he had caused. A couple near-inaudibly muttered swear words forced their way out from behind his clenched teeth as he turned forward again, dropping the knife beside him and putting his head in his hands. The rush from before rapidly wore off, leaving him with only a deep sense of shame for company. Why did he suck so goddamn much? It was like he was defective in every single way possible. He couldn't survive by himself, and the thought of making allies was itself a cruel joke. Chaos and destruction was all he was good for, and not even really the cool kind of chaos and destruction, more like the shitty 'derailing people's conversations' deal along with 'unhinged temper tantrums'. Just once, he wanted to feel like a winner, a person who could be taken seriously rather than treated like a mosquito waiting to be swatted. He had no idea how to possibly accomplish such a thing, but even if he couldn't make himself succeed, at the very least he had the power to make others fail.

Maybe that would finally make someone give a shit about him.

((Jacob Lang continued in Pine Needle Tea Party))