[Silco was deaf to Richard's calls to calm him, and he fought as if his very life depended on it. Almost automatically, as soon the weight and hold relented and his hands were free, he launched himself out of the chair with a rare but no less panicked agility. Richard moved one direction and Silco shot off in the other and over the arm of the couch before half making it over the back and tumbling to the floor on the other side of it. He disappeared from sight.
And he didn't rise again, his back pressed against the back of the couch once he had recovered from his fall and fingers touched and clawed at his own throat to remove the phantom of fingers. His efforts scratched at the knife wound that he had created in his previous struggled on his neck, causing it to bleed anew, covering his left hand with blood in short order.
He breathed hard, his chest heaving even as he let his the back of his rest against the couch as the familiarity of the office - the bookshelves - swam into his vision. He shuddered and pressed his hands to his face, smearing blood over the left side of it as he forced calm again. It wasn't the Pilt, the cannery, the Tower. It was his office and he was not under attack.
Once he had calmed enough to have a one or two reasonable thoughts amid the clutter of panic, he began to tremble and he had to slide his hands into his hair and grip it to focus himself with thousand pinpricks of pain. Treacherous shame threatened to spread through his veins, but he tapped into his anger instead as it was easier to manage, easier to use as a coping mechanism.
He forced out a shuddering breath, coming back fully to the room.] ...richard?
no subject
And he didn't rise again, his back pressed against the back of the couch once he had recovered from his fall and fingers touched and clawed at his own throat to remove the phantom of fingers. His efforts scratched at the knife wound that he had created in his previous struggled on his neck, causing it to bleed anew, covering his left hand with blood in short order.
He breathed hard, his chest heaving even as he let his the back of his rest against the couch as the familiarity of the office - the bookshelves - swam into his vision. He shuddered and pressed his hands to his face, smearing blood over the left side of it as he forced calm again. It wasn't the Pilt, the cannery, the Tower. It was his office and he was not under attack.
Once he had calmed enough to have a one or two reasonable thoughts amid the clutter of panic, he began to tremble and he had to slide his hands into his hair and grip it to focus himself with thousand pinpricks of pain. Treacherous shame threatened to spread through his veins, but he tapped into his anger instead as it was easier to manage, easier to use as a coping mechanism.
He forced out a shuddering breath, coming back fully to the room.] ...richard?