It is happening slowly, every second of every day, in the Animus or out. He knows it’s happening, and maybe that is the worst part about it all. Knowing. Knowing that Altair doubted himself more than anyone could truly guess. Knowing that Ezio was almost taken over by his sudden rise in power. Because now he knows these things in a way that he barely understands, and he finds himself wanting to climb to the rooftops and wondering about heaven and hell or simply watch people pass beneath him.
But then he becomes confused, because he also knows that nothing is true, none of it is true.
Not the phantom Templars that run at him with eyes full of hate and swords and spears to run him through, and not the shadow-black horses that come crashing through the walls, screaming, with rolling eyes and foaming mouths and sharps hooves ready to run him over and crush him into the ground. If he didn’t know he was going crazy, then he would throw himself to the side to avoid the apparitions and that would be so much more satisfying than having to stand still, every muscle locked in fear while his instincts scream at him to run move dodge before you get trampled impaled-
He sees enemies everywhere. And the most frightening thing to him is when they aren’t in his mind anymore. When Lucy tells him to get in the Animus, her aura flashes red because her goal is to pick more out of his brain and Desmond’s goal is to keep from getting crazier and these things are no longer compatible.
They want him to lose is mind.
They want to use him. To kill him.
Desmond has to remind himself (frequently, tugging his hood over his hood to hide the frantic whispering movement of his lips) that Lucy and Rebecca and Shaun are the reason he is still alive. They saved him, his paranoia is irrational. So he hides it; he smiles and laughs and shows Shaun how to properly mix a martini, and sometimes just acting normal makes him feel normal, and for a few seconds or minutes or hours he can pretend that he is normal and hasn’t gone batshit quite yet.
But then he slips. A shadow dances in the corner of his mind and he jumps, instinct triggering his eagle vision, and then there is red all around and sweat on his brow and his hands shake with adrenaline. Or Rebecca will punch him playfully in the shoulder and he bites his tongue and curls his fingers into fists and has to strive against everything he is not to sweep her legs out from under her. Or Lucy steadies him as he climbs out of the Animus, weak and tired and lost, and he moves to drive the heel of his palm into her chest before he remembers suddenly that there is no hidden blade on his wrist and he changes the motion into an awkward-thankful pat on her shoulder or arm.
And sometimes they notice and that’s the worst of all- when they look at him like that, like they’re doing right now, with eyes full of confused pity. They don’t understand. He doesn’t want their pity, he doesn’t deserve it. They’re red, but he knows that’s a lie and it’s not them that’s wrong, it’s him, and they are all better people than subject seventeen is.
He doubts himself. He feels dirty and bloody.
He feels like Templars are stabbing him and horses are screaming.
He isn’t losing his mind. He’s already lost it. He just doesn’t know it yet.
A Perfect Circle [3/3]
It is happening slowly, every second of every day, in the Animus or out. He knows it’s happening, and maybe that is the worst part about it all. Knowing. Knowing that Altair doubted himself more than anyone could truly guess. Knowing that Ezio was almost taken over by his sudden rise in power. Because now he knows these things in a way that he barely understands, and he finds himself wanting to climb to the rooftops and wondering about heaven and hell or simply watch people pass beneath him.
But then he becomes confused, because he also knows that nothing is true, none of it is true.
Not the phantom Templars that run at him with eyes full of hate and swords and spears to run him through, and not the shadow-black horses that come crashing through the walls, screaming, with rolling eyes and foaming mouths and sharps hooves ready to run him over and crush him into the ground. If he didn’t know he was going crazy, then he would throw himself to the side to avoid the apparitions and that would be so much more satisfying than having to stand still, every muscle locked in fear while his instincts scream at him to run move dodge before you get trampled impaled-
He sees enemies everywhere. And the most frightening thing to him is when they aren’t in his mind anymore. When Lucy tells him to get in the Animus, her aura flashes red because her goal is to pick more out of his brain and Desmond’s goal is to keep from getting crazier and these things are no longer compatible.
They want him to lose is mind.
They want to use him. To kill him.
Desmond has to remind himself (frequently, tugging his hood over his hood to hide the frantic whispering movement of his lips) that Lucy and Rebecca and Shaun are the reason he is still alive. They saved him, his paranoia is irrational. So he hides it; he smiles and laughs and shows Shaun how to properly mix a martini, and sometimes just acting normal makes him feel normal, and for a few seconds or minutes or hours he can pretend that he is normal and hasn’t gone batshit quite yet.
But then he slips. A shadow dances in the corner of his mind and he jumps, instinct triggering his eagle vision, and then there is red all around and sweat on his brow and his hands shake with adrenaline. Or Rebecca will punch him playfully in the shoulder and he bites his tongue and curls his fingers into fists and has to strive against everything he is not to sweep her legs out from under her. Or Lucy steadies him as he climbs out of the Animus, weak and tired and lost, and he moves to drive the heel of his palm into her chest before he remembers suddenly that there is no hidden blade on his wrist and he changes the motion into an awkward-thankful pat on her shoulder or arm.
And sometimes they notice and that’s the worst of all- when they look at him like that, like they’re doing right now, with eyes full of confused pity. They don’t understand. He doesn’t want their pity, he doesn’t deserve it. They’re red, but he knows that’s a lie and it’s not them that’s wrong, it’s him, and they are all better people than subject seventeen is.
He doubts himself. He feels dirty and bloody.
He feels like Templars are stabbing him and horses are screaming.
He isn’t losing his mind. He’s already lost it. He just doesn’t know it yet.