[Glimpse, TW: Suicidal Ideation] Tight Rope

The world was in pieces, and he thought to reach toward it. Cracks sealed and snapped back to focus like shattering on rewind, and the sudden howl of whipping traffic was enough to make the Dancer jump. It took another beat to register why the vehicle felt the need to scream their horn at him. Breaking into a cold sweat as his tracked his surroundings, he found he was walking along the edge of the freeway's overpass.

Backing onto the raised concrete, he pinned his back against the rail, wiping his face as he suffocated the noise and regulated his breathing. A small scream boiled in the back of his throat, keeping his jaw clenched as he forced his eyes open again to take a sweep of basic landmarks that were dark and distant.


He wasn't outside the Wards. He had his phone. No emergency.

Mitchell sagged against the rail, not bothering to reflect on what the trigger was this time. He really couldn't bring himself to try anymore; it was always something asinine and minor where it was like his mind was made of the shittiest glass that broke apart from the slightest pressure. He smelled like fire, and it looked like a cigarette had been put out on his arm, along with someone's makeup smeared on his shirt. No blood or surprise inebriation, despite the dull numbness still painting his mood from blasting through all his serotonin with the last involuntary bender. Should he call Cailleagh? He didn't want to force her to drop her shift again and scare her, navigating her own anxiety by offering that he was spending the night with other people—it was mostly true. He wasn't sure what would happen if he ended up being the trigger for one of his closer friend's ED.

The other two options gave him even longer pause, and decided he didn't think it was fair or worth the stress. He was in good shape, and he would walk back, and call a Lyft when he wasn't on the goddamn highway. The police might even pick him up, but it was Vegas. He chuckled at the thought despite himself, still leaning against the rail and feeling the rush of air from the street far below the overpass... He didn't have to go home, either?

The Spring courtier shrugged to himself, following the thread of freedom as he kicked off his shoes and casually grasped the thin rung and folded his body into a weightless handstand, watching the traffic and flashing light patterns against the black, starless blanket of a polluted sky. Another vehicle slowed for a moment, the driver clearly watching him to either gawk or worry, before speeding off.


The metal wobbled wildly as he vaulted to his feet, muscle snapping with supernatural balance, fire blooming through the sinew contorted to accommodate en point. It sounded like bending a glowstick; the Dancer detached as he watched everything catch and twitch in micro corrections to maintain something that was supposed to be impossible. Humming tunelessly to himself, he angled his position to vault along the unstable line out of a focused curiosity; losing the logic in the pattern and feeling better for it. 


The rail grated from the landing as concrete wiggled free, the Fairest holding Arabesque as he softly grimaced in rote disgust, silently chastising flaws here and there as his hand desperately snapped. This time a sedan completely slowed, a woman shouting from the driver's side as a younger man in the back rolled down his window and asked if he needed some help. Mitchell said something close enough to 'I'm good' as he gestured a thumbs up, moving to pirouette and fix the standard.


A door slammed as a man got out of his car and bolted towards the rail, someone screaming as the Dancer jumped again. The image was beautifully surreal as he landed a herculean maneuver, still balanced on the line as he lost a toenail. Mitchell tilted his head, flexing the foot as someone somewhere tried to coax him down, and not having the energy to explain or placate them. Frankly, he felt calm and more normal than he had felt in weeks, taking the little challenge as a personal victory. A few dots of light lit up in his periphery as some decided to film, torn between jeering that the jumper wasn't cool and the prank wasn't funny, or joining in the bystander trying their best to grasp the Fairest's ankle and pull him down.

The touch forced Mitchell's attention as his head swiveled, the sudden leverage throwing him from precarious balance. A spark of malice ignited the split second decision as he kicked off, letting the idiot feel gutted and responsible as he disappeared over the edge to a cacophony of gasps and shocked screams.

Things were unraveling behind him, and he wondered if he should just let reality take its course and stop burdening everything.

Reflecting on how much damage that would do on the other side of the tracks, guilt won out as his mien split, fractal patterns and wings of cutting shard ripping through his skin as he shifted to light and air. The landing wasn't as daring or interesting as before, drifting vaguely downwards as cars drove harmlessly through the weightless and ephemeral. Carr even stayed there for another minute, just watching traffic drive straight at him, feeling his heart clench with instinct before the shadow passed again and again.

Sirens sounded from above to finally jog him into continuing back towards the Strip.

All right.

Maybe he should call someone.