[ Wolf, uniform, hat, the Yukon? What was this all about? It was crazy talk; and Geoffrey should know all about crazy talk. But he was beginning to doubt that this was Ray's way of messing with him, because the genuine concern came across so blatantly that Geoffrey immediately felt awful for not knowing anything about what he was talking about, let alone thinking he could possibly make it up to crank his chain.
He was worried about Geoff, and Geoffrey in turn was worried about himself.
He had very clear memories of his own life; of the Rose, and the Swan and the stage, of Ellen and Oliver and reams of Shakespeare knowledge, more than any reasonable human being could be expected to know. But what if all of that was him going crazy? What if he was having some sort of existential crisis, and he'd used the works of Shakespeare as a crutch to create some vast falsehood about his entire life? He was the drunk one, after all; Ray was sober, he knew Geoffrey, had come and picked him up from the drunk tank and taken him home, given him fresh clothes to put on, let him use his shower.
It wasn't like this was his first brush with insanity...unless it was. Could he have dreamed up everything he thought had happened to him in a night? Hamlet, Insanity, Destitution, Oliver and Hamlet again? Macbeth?
Had he imagined it all? And why couldn't he remember any of this life that Ray was talking about? The consulate? Log cabins? What was happening to him? ]
I--
[ He thrust his coffee on the table and stood up abruptly, needing to put space between himself and Ray. Quickly he crossed the room, bringing his hands to his head, making a whining noise like he could somehow drown out his thoughts, and as he reached the wall he span, and froze like a rabbit in headlights, staring back at the other man. ]
Ray, I--
[ God, he was terrified, more scared than he'd ever been, and all because of a stupid game and a simple question. It ought to have been easy, it should have helped him to remember who Ray was, and everything would be just fine after that, but now he was just more scared, inescapably frightened. He stared at Ray for a few more seconds, then jolted like he'd been electrocuted, went to the nearest door - the bedroom door - stepped through it and closed it behind him. Once safely on the other side he pressed up against it, holding it shut, and just tried to breathe.
And slowly he slid down, and sat on the floor with his back against the door, and wrapped his arms around his legs, tucking his chin in against his knees. He pressed the balls of his palms against his eyes. Though he was speaking to Ray, his voice hardly carried through the flimsy door. He sounded as though he were on the verge of tears, possibly more afraid than he'd ever been. God, he didn't want to go back to the asylum...assuming he'd ever actually been institutionalised in the first place. He was just getting his life back. If it was his life at all. Nothing was making any sense. ]
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He was worried about Geoff, and Geoffrey in turn was worried about himself.
He had very clear memories of his own life; of the Rose, and the Swan and the stage, of Ellen and Oliver and reams of Shakespeare knowledge, more than any reasonable human being could be expected to know. But what if all of that was him going crazy? What if he was having some sort of existential crisis, and he'd used the works of Shakespeare as a crutch to create some vast falsehood about his entire life? He was the drunk one, after all; Ray was sober, he knew Geoffrey, had come and picked him up from the drunk tank and taken him home, given him fresh clothes to put on, let him use his shower.
It wasn't like this was his first brush with insanity...unless it was. Could he have dreamed up everything he thought had happened to him in a night? Hamlet, Insanity, Destitution, Oliver and Hamlet again? Macbeth?
Had he imagined it all? And why couldn't he remember any of this life that Ray was talking about? The consulate? Log cabins? What was happening to him? ]
I--
[ He thrust his coffee on the table and stood up abruptly, needing to put space between himself and Ray. Quickly he crossed the room, bringing his hands to his head, making a whining noise like he could somehow drown out his thoughts, and as he reached the wall he span, and froze like a rabbit in headlights, staring back at the other man. ]
Ray, I--
[ God, he was terrified, more scared than he'd ever been, and all because of a stupid game and a simple question. It ought to have been easy, it should have helped him to remember who Ray was, and everything would be just fine after that, but now he was just more scared, inescapably frightened. He stared at Ray for a few more seconds, then jolted like he'd been electrocuted, went to the nearest door - the bedroom door - stepped through it and closed it behind him. Once safely on the other side he pressed up against it, holding it shut, and just tried to breathe.
And slowly he slid down, and sat on the floor with his back against the door, and wrapped his arms around his legs, tucking his chin in against his knees. He pressed the balls of his palms against his eyes. Though he was speaking to Ray, his voice hardly carried through the flimsy door. He sounded as though he were on the verge of tears, possibly more afraid than he'd ever been. God, he didn't want to go back to the asylum...assuming he'd ever actually been institutionalised in the first place. He was just getting his life back. If it was his life at all. Nothing was making any sense. ]
I don't know who I am.