Posts : 3627 Join date : 2011-11-22 Age : 18 Location : burning in the underworld
Subject: the return of a broken soldier || james Sun Nov 17, 2013 5:39 pm
no one does it better
Two months, three days and seventeen hours; that's how long it had been since James Liam Carter had stood at the entrance to the mythical camp, and now he was doing it again, he wasn't sure whether he was ready. He had spent the last month or so back in London, staying with his mother despite his distaste towards her. He didn't really want to stay with her after all that happened in the past, although it would be a lie to say that the sixteen year old hadn't missed her and that it wasn't comforting to see her.
But the British boy was back in America, deciding that maybe it was best that he returned to his home. He had needed to sort his head out, that was for sure; his mind had started to become a little more distorted as the year had passed from when he had killed the gang-member, and he'd started to get a little messed up. Slowly, for James, everything started to merge together and he just became so angry. So angry at everything. So angry at nothing. He never knew whether he wanted to stay in bed and ignore the world, or go out and ruthlessly punch anyone he could. So he sort-of did both for a good part of the year, and he hadn't been able to find a way out.
And then, nearing the end of the summer, James had started to mend himself; the shadows that haunted his nightmares had started to sew themselves back together and he was starting to become the teenager he used to be once more. He started to laugh more - well, laugh less at the pain at people and more with joy - he had started to try and be a relatively nice person. He had started to get better.
And then it had happened. The accident. The one thing he could never have dreamed over happened, yet now always seemed to plague his dreams. James woke in a cold sweat in the middle of the night at times, his mind replaying and replaying what had happened, ever though it had blurred most of the traumatic event out. What he did remember though was the warmth and stickiness of his own blood, and the sickening black that washed over him as his blood slowly began to fight itself. Feeling yourself die and mutate was nothing that James could ever explain, yet it was the worst feeling imaginable, and it was followed by the girl-he-loved carving through his flesh. This was enough to drive him back again, and his poorly repaired mind was weak enough to snap once more.
And it had, and James had slowly been dragged back to desolation and misery at the loss of his limb and sanity, and he had done the last clever thing he could and got out of there, even if it meant leaving things and people behind. As soon as he had got to his grandparents' home in Miami, he had finally cracked, but had got far enough that he had the help that he needed. Over the last few months he had tried to repair himself, and was nearly finished now, and hence why he stood back in the woodland.
Popping the collar of his bomber jacket up to protect his neck against the cold, James ran a hand through his hair-sprayed curls, his blue eyes looking down at the cabins and seeing very little life; it was the middle of Winter, after all, and pretty early. Slinging a rucksack over his shoulder with his only hand, James gulped once as he let the anxiousness try to disappear from his mind. He had once been top-dog in this crap hole, and was ready to be that again. This place was everything to his right now, and he hoped that it could help him get better.
So, as the sixteen year old strolled back to his cabin as if he had never left, there was still one less thought that hadn't crossed his mind; the possibility that perhaps it wasn't he that had messed with his mind, but maybe camp. Maybe it was Camp that was making James the monster he was when he was broken, and if he cracked again, maybe it would make him fall harder that he ever had...
...maybe James would shatter and take everyone with him.