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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Mar 17, 2012 22:20:56 GMT -5
For someone who was over ten years a detective inspector, Lestrade sure went on a whole fucking ton of calls. This time, it was some stupid call about disorderly conduct at a local store. He barely cared that he was taking his sweet time getting to the place; he didn’t bother putting his sirens on, even. It’s not that he thought those sort of problems were below him, exactly, but they were certainly bellow his ability.
He had the feeling that the fact that he’d so often gone on petty calls like this one in the last few months since he’d been in New York was some sort of teasing from the American officers. They rarely cared what he did, or how he did it, as long as he got what he was supposed to do done. they certainly found his accent amusing enough. Though New York City was diverse, certainly, the people of California had been considerably more welcoming to their force than the New Yorkers were to theirs. He couldn’t really remember any reasons for New Yorkers to so hate the Irish, so he decided it was just a really unfortunately mean bunch of people he’d been landed with.
While he drove to the store, he rather wondered if he should just move away again. Why had he moved so far away, anyway? He’d wanted to get away from California, yes, but going literally all the way across the country was a bit dramatic. Yes, if he moved to, say, Washington, then he could see his daughter more often, yeah…? Whatever, he was already at the store, so he forced himself to think about the job rather than his family at the moment. Like he always had done.
He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting when he got there. Perhaps some citizens fighting over something stupid like clothes, or some people being stupidly racist, or some other generally stupid as people were? But, instead, he saw a young man looking like the world was ending in his head.
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Post by GUY "PSYCHE" ANANKE on Mar 18, 2012 15:48:21 GMT -5
Guy hated grocery shopping. Hated it. There were so many germs, so many people, sneezing, coughing, babies, animals, bugs...nothing inside a grocery store was clean. He always planned his trips when the store was mostly empty, lessening the chances of making unwanted human contact. And, for the last dozen or so trips, nothing bad had happened.
Guy should have known that his luck was running out.
Normally, Guy was able to focus only on himself, keep his OCD tendencies restricted to his personal space. But when he saw that man with a smear of...something on his face, Guy couldn't help himself. It started off innocent, him offering a baby wipe to the man while informing him of the mess. The man brushed him off, ignoring his help. Guy pressed on, rambling facts about how whatever the smear was could make him ill, cause an infection, cause skin irritation, offering another wipe. This time, the man smacked Guy's hand away and told him to "Fuck off."
Guy immediately went to work, cleaning his hand vigorously. The man sneered at him, starting to spew off insults about Guy being "Some kind of freak". Hand cleaned, Guy offered another wet wipe, still rambling shakily about the benefits of keeping a clean face. That's when the man pulled out his cell phone and dialed three numbers. Guy didn't notice, he was sweating now, his hands shaking, gesturing with the wet wipe.
"Please, just clean your face. Please."
"There isn't anything wrong with my face." The man snapped, grabbing Guy's wrist and moving it away a bit forcefully.
What little bit of composure Guy had held onto gave way to hysterical panic. Touch wasn't good, prolonged touch was especially bad. Wheezing thinly, Guy hunched over on himself, and started to scramble to open his bag. He had alcohol in it, if he could get to it. Alcohol would keep him clean, get those germs off of him.
What if what was on the man's face was on his hands? What if the man didn't wash his hands? Guy had a cut on his hand, what if it got infected, diseased? What if the man gave him some incurable illness? What if Guy died? What if...What if...
Crying and shaking, folded in on himself, Guy scrubbed at his wrist where the man touched him with the tiny alcohol swabs he carried about.
The rest of the room faded out, the small crowd gathering, the man who stared at him with an expression that was a horrible mixture of amusement and horror, and the cop who arrived on the scene.
Guy didn't care about any of them. He just needed to be clean. He had to be clean. He couldn't get sick.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Mar 20, 2012 17:34:08 GMT -5
A young man, standing within a now circle of people, scrubbing his arms frantically with what looks like alcohol preps so quickly his wrists were visibly red from friction. Lestrade pushed his way through the crowd, telling them to go away, but none of them were really listening; they were all too amused by what looked like the mentally unstable man they were laughing at.
“Officer, this retard was fucking trying to attack me!” The guy who had called the station in the first place complained as soon as he saw Lestrade. He was dirty, ugly, the type of person one expected to start a fight. Yet, this didn’t really seem like a fight. After all, the man he’d called about looked a whole lot more posh and a whole lot more like he was the one who was attacked.
“Right,” Lestrade said, trying not to let his distaste towards the complainer, “No need to swear, yeah?”
He walked over to the young man who was visibly crying, his voice hitching with each breath as he sucked in what could have appeared to have been his last.
“Sir, if you could,” Lestrade said loudly, trying not to sound too strict. Really, don’t judge a book by its cover of course, but he was pretty sure that the guy who’d called was the one who had started the fight, or… whatever this was. “Tell me what happened yourself?” He looked at the young man, trying to make eye contact, but was fairly sure it wouldn’t work; the guy was in a complete panic. Lestrade might have to take him in simply to calm him down.
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Post by GUY "PSYCHE" ANANKE on Mar 27, 2012 19:39:53 GMT -5
Guy couldn't focus on anything. His hands were shaking, scrambling to clean himself, his lungs had frozen up, and his head spun with panic. His nails scratched at his satchel, tremoring too much to actually get into it; his hand slipped, nail scratching over the skin on the back of his wrist, drawing blood, making Guy even worse.
Blood. Blood that was supposed to be inside his body. Open wound. Means infection. Easy access for bacteria. Gang green, fever, delirium. Death.
Guy felt light headed, sick. Everything was going so wrong. His head jerked up and swiveled around, trying to find an exit, a bathroom, anything. He had to get out, he had to get clean. Clean and safe and better and not what he was which was in danger and dirty.
There wasn't a way out, there was nothing he could do. Sobbing, Guy beat his chest with one hand. Three times. Over and over. The other hand clutched at his hair, pulling and tugging harshly.
onetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothree
His breath whistled between his clenched teeth. He needed...he needed...be good, be perfect. Find order. Need order. Find it. Find it.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Mar 28, 2012 18:13:21 GMT -5
Lestrade had seen a lot of very strange people in his career. Came with the job, he supposed. Still, he would never get out of his head that image of the half-naked yodeler who donned metal breast plates to match her dirty (very dirty) blonde Viking braised. On the other hand, he was pretty sure that the guy freaking out in front of him was less high on cocaine and a lot higher on adrenaline.
Lestrade tried speaking again, but the man showed absolutely no indication that he heard. He began to rapidly hit his chest in some kind of beat, and it was the rather primeval action that scared about a fourth of the onlookers away.
“Alright, alright,” Lestrade tried to say, but he was very sure his attempts would be fruitless. And so he was forced to go the less-pleasant strategy.
“I am arresting you under disorderly conduct. You’ve the right to stay silent and anything you say may be presented as evidence,” Lestrade said – well, sort of sighed – simply out of protocol than any actual intention of placing charged against the guy. Still, he was becoming a bit of a danger to the public, and so he was pretty sure the best thing to do would just to bring the guy back to the station until he calmed down.
While talking, Lestrade carefully but forcefully tried to grab the man’s arms. He wasn’t using handcuffs, he decided there was no need against that, but arms were important, they were controlling, and though the man was flailing quite wildly, he managed to grab a firm hold onto the man’s arm.
“Come on, then,” he grunted, trying to get the guy to just leave with him.
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Post by GUY "PSYCHE" ANANKE on Mar 30, 2012 18:30:15 GMT -5
Guy's world had slowly collapsed onto him, the edges starting to blur black. He needed to breath. His lungs weren't cooperating but Guy knew that he needed to make them work. What if he fainted? He could hit his head. He could get hurt. He had to breath. Guy sucked in a breath, made himself expand to accept it; his chest hurt, fighting the movement. It wanted to stay seized, stuck, frozen. Tight. But he needed air. A particularly hard punch caused his chest to jerk then release, gulping air to deal with the pain.
There would be a bruise there tomorrow. Guy didn't care.
The police officer grabbed Guy's hands and the sound that was wrenched from his throat wasn't human. Animalistic and scared, Guy yanked at his arms, trying to pull back. "Please...please don't touch me." He wheezed between sobs. "I don't want to die. P-please...I don't want to die."
The hands on his wrists wasn't helping anything, it made it worse. The skin on skin burn, the slick sweat manacling his wrists. It was a death sentence.
"Don't wanna die." Guy cried, sagging down, still pulling weakly at his arms. "Don't wanna die..."
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Mar 30, 2012 19:59:48 GMT -5
Lestrade felt something small and primeval clench in his chest when the man made a truly terrible noise in the back of his throat, a cross between a sob and a gasp and an expression of utter pain. It wasn’t as if Lestrade hadn’t seen men like this before, of course he had, many times, but it was rare they were so hysterical in such a public place. There was of course the option that the man was high, but he didn’t really look it to Lestrade, of what little he could tell.
Lestrade could feel the man shudder and shake as he held tight to his wrist, and grabbed the other one, ignoring the man’s pulling back. The other guy was strong, granted, but Lestrade was strong enough to continue holding on.
“Don’t wanna die, Don’t wanna die,” the man began gasping. Lestrade tried not to let go; he couldn’t. He didn’t want to use handcuff, he really didn’t. But it looked like the probability of them being necessary was increasing by the second.
Lestrade glanced at the people around them. About half who half originally been there were gone, but a lot of those people had been replaced by others. Damn peoples’ curiosities.
Lestrade suddenly remembered the nights of endless songs, lullabies; soft voices that calmed him as a child, a voice he’d used for Dolores when she was upset over the trivialities of a child’s world. He’d never used it on anyone over twenty before (besides Sherlock). It wouldn’t hurt to try.
“Alright, come on, calm down,” Lestrade soothed, keeping his grip on the man tight. However he moved his thumbs, rubbing the inside of the man’s wrists; he remembered something about blood flow and hormones. Or maybe that was carsickness. “You’re alright, come on now, no need to cry now is there?” He wasn’t quite sure if that man heard him or not, but it was the tone that mattered, really. The sound. The man was slightly taller than Lestrade, and Lestrade looked up, trying to catch the man’s eye.
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Post by GUY "PSYCHE" ANANKE on Apr 11, 2012 3:03:07 GMT -5
“Alright, come on, calm down." Guy vaguely registered the words, the man rubbing his wrists taking his attention away from his tone. The skin on skin friction was agitating, he was rubbing it in. All the germs, the risk, the filth, was being rubbed right into his wrists. His tender wrists; the skin was so thin there, the veins so close to the surface. Danger zone.
Guy yanked his arms hard, grinding out between wheezing gasps "Don't fucking touch me!"
“You’re alright, come on now, no need to cry now is there?” That voice. It was a voice Guy heard many times before; the voice that people used when they were sure that he was mentally disabled and that his mental capacity was equal to a five year old. The voice that cut through the hysteria and riled Guy up. It wasn't enough to make him focus and calm down, it was just enough to distract him with anger instead of helplessness.
"Don't...talk to me like that..." Guy snapped, yanking again. "There's every reason to cry."
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 11, 2012 20:25:41 GMT -5
"Don't fucking touch me!"
Well, at least there was some indication that the guy actually heard him, if not in an albeit rude way. He didn't let go, though, that would be counter productive. He gripped looser though, only tight enough to keep holding on, and stopped moving his thumbs; obviously that wasn't working. But he still needed to do something about this very disturbed man, and quick, because things always go out of hand when ignorant people saw a perfect window to taunt someone weaker.
"Don't...talk to me like that...There's every reason to cry."
And there was his way out. That was perfect. Anger was easier for Lestrade to deal with than hysterics anyway, and so... "Are there?" He said, his voice reverting back to his normal and at the moment very crisp tone. He pulled slightly let go of one of the man's wrists, though kept firm on the other, and motioned with his now free hand for the man to come with him. Bathrooms were quiet, they were good. And he was a policeman, so he had the ability to kick people out if he so fancied. "Well, come on then, let's just go over there and you can tell me what they are." If said softer, that could have easily been taken as degrading, like his previous words, but Lestrade said it with an uplifted tone, looking quite serious.
People, whether they knew it or not, liked to communicate. Or rather, it was a human need. And so getting the man to communicate was key, even if it was through... listing reasons of why the world sucked, or whatever the younger man was alluding to.
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Post by GUY "PSYCHE" ANANKE on Apr 24, 2012 19:59:38 GMT -5
"Are there? Well, come on then, let's just go over there and you can tell me what they are."
Guy wanted to get angry at the man, to get angry and fight back. He hated it when people treated him like this. But his lungs were burning and he couldn't stop crying. Guy knew that when he got upset in any way he cried. When he got angry, he cried, sad, he cried, anxious, he cried. His body only knew how to deal with emotions in one way. It was frustrating and pathetic. Guy forced himself to take deep breaths to try and center himself while the cop pulled him along to the bathroom. Using his now free hand, Guy wiped at his face and grabbed at his wet wipes to try and clean himself while they moved.
In the bathroom, Guy yanked at his arm and managed to get out of his grasp. Stumbling to the sink, Guy wiped the edge of it down quickly. One wipe, two, and a third were used before Guy felt safe enough to lean on the edge of the sink. Using another wipe, he twisted the hot water knob to high, letting it run until it was steaming, and shoved both hands under it, groaning quietly in pain. He pulled them out a moment later, the skin bright red and inflamed.
There. They were clean.
((ooc: Sorry for the delay and for how short it is))
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on May 13, 2012 8:43:54 GMT -5
The man looked slightly indignant, but followed Lestrade into the bathroom (though, he didn't have much of a choice). With the hand Lestrade had released from his grip, the man fumbled for what looked like wet wipes, and Lestrade could smell their strong antiseptic. As he noted from the corner of his eye how the man tried to clean himself with them, he deduced: panic disorder, severe OCD.
Before they went in, the man who had called in the first place started to follow them. "Stay where you are, sir," Lestrade shouted at him severely; he didn't need an idiot to make things even worse.
Once they were inside the private quiet of the bathroom (no one else was in) Lestrade quietly clicked the lock to the door closed. Suddenly, the younger man wrenched his way free of Lestrade's hold and started to scrub the sink frantically with more wipes coming out of nowhere. Yeah, definately OCD. Lestrade leaned against the wall, arms crossed, frowning. He'd let the man clean up before he intervened. Well, he would have, had the man not turned on boiling hot water and shoved his hands under, making them red and probably soon swollen.
"Hey, hey!" Lestrade cried out, but the man had already finished, his hands burned. Lestrade leaned forward and turned off the hot, turned on the cold. He didn't expect the man to comply and just put his hands under the tap, but it was worth a chance.
"So, want to tell me what's happening?" Lestrade asked over the splashes of cold water in the sink, his voice disapproving. There was a good reason he wasn't on psych; he was simply awful at it.
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Post by GUY "PSYCHE" ANANKE on May 16, 2012 23:33:26 GMT -5
Guy's hands were red and tight, but not blistered which was good. Guy made soft, pained noises under his breath. When the detective switched on the cold water, Guy slid his hands under it briefly, soothing the agitated skin momentarily. He stepped back, shaking his hand briskly to dry them, and looked at the cop, much calmer than before.
"So, want to tell me what's happening?"
"That...That man had something on his face and I offered him a wet wipe and he...he...didn't...slapped my...I had to....clean...wasn't..." Guy trailed off, mumbling the story lowly. The officer wasn't going to have to do his job and arrest him because that guy was still pressing charges of something.
He added in a quiet, almost scared voice, "I didn't do anything wrong."
Guy didn't want to go to jail. He didn't do anything wrong and jail would be dirty and full of dirty people who would see him as a human pinata and who knows what they would do to him just because they could and who was going to stop them because the cops wouldn't he'd just be fresh bait to so many violent angry criminals and Guy couldn't do that.
He couldn't survive that.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Jun 10, 2012 19:53:26 GMT -5
OOC: Sorry for the wait. I didn't realize it was my turn. [/sub][/i][/b] The man took pained breaths, whines, nearly, as if he was physically hurting. Well, considering he'd just mildly burned a good portion of the skin on his hands, he probably was. Lestrade looked at the floor as he waited for a response. The tiles were a sea green and white checker pattern, shiny and glazed. Fairly clean. Clinical. "That..." the guy started, and Lestrade looked back up at him. "That man had something on his face and I offered him a wet wipe and he...he...didn't...slapped my...I had to....clean...wasn't..." He trailed off, looking... embarrassed? Perhaps that wasn't the right word, this was more than embarrassment, but Lestrade couldn't place anything better on it. "I didn't do anything wrong," he added quietly. The echo of the empty bathroom amplified the whisper that Lestrade may not have heard otherwise. The man looked scared, as if the thought of doing something wrong terrified him. He'd offered a stranger to clean his face? That was certainly... strange. And clean, he said he had to be clean, as if the insinuation that he was dirty was a crime. He'd scrubbed his hands before frantically. An inability to deal with the concept of germs or dirt? Well, it was seemed straightforward enough. "I assume you have OCD," Lestrade said quietly, evenly, head bowed but kept eyes trained on the other man. Like the man's whisper before, everything seemed louder inside the walls of the bathroom. He pushed his back away from the wall and stood a bit straighter. "Look," Lestrade said, admittance laced in his voice, "I don't plan on charging you for this, but I don't really deal with this sort of thing." He paused. It wasn't in his nature to bypass rules. The system was his, and to forget about it was unforgivable. But sometimes it was. "I can probably get you off fine. What's your name?" |
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