[The problem with being something inhuman with a natural instinct to connect telepathically but never having a chance to really do it on a regular basis with someone like yourself is that the ability is so often undisciplined. Connecting and communicating with their sisters was so much different than what they were doing. Never before had he had to be mindful of his own thoughts, and so often, those thoughts were left to fester and spiral into the worst memories unabated. It was only himself that got hurt, and didn't he deserve that pain?
And yet, when it was someone else, even literally another version of himself, who was suddenly hit with the force of that pain, who radiated so much horror and agony just before trying to break the connection, it was enough to break through the difficulty he had verbalizing what he needed to say.
Except that all he could say was to scream, his own hands flying up to cover his head, not unlike the way the other moved in front of him, and then rip his consciousness away as if it were as lethal as a shot from his gun. The feedback loop of pain and misery in those few short seconds was immense, more than he could handle, and the knowledge that he had caused it, had shattered what little glimpses of actual reassurance and hope he'd tried to give the other before his own pain had taken over without his consent, only compounded it with guilt and a flare of self-loathing that he only felt in some of his worst moments.
It didn't matter that the man in front of him was himself, that he very well may have been on the same fated road he had walked and was destined to suffer those same horrifying events. It was another person, and he had caused that. He had dumped all of the trauma that he'd been carrying into his head, and it was unforgivable!
If words had been difficult a moment before, they were impossible, now, and what had started off as a mild panic attack had suddenly flared into full force. He needed to make it right, he had to stop him before he did something rash, but he was terrified of acting and making it worse. He backpedaled, wanting to run, his arms still curled around his head as if he were trying to bundle up the mental connection he'd already severed and pin it back down into his own skull. And then he took a staggering step forward, wanting to reach out, to calm the other man, to undo what he'd done, but was too terrified of making it worse.
All he could do was sob; short, wailing bursts of sound, like he wanted to form words but couldn't. His mind wanted to reach out, with speech just outside of his capabilities, but he refused to let it, instead trying to take himself in, make it smaller, rip the ability to do so out of his own head and throw it away so he couldn't hurt anyone else like them again, terrified of himself in an entirely new way that had never once occurred to him until now. And yet the words still formed in his mind, screaming out despite not being allowed to connect, just wanting to be heard.]
I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, don't go, I'm sorry!
lol damnit, I don't have a better icon for this tag then basically the same one you used!
And yet, when it was someone else, even literally another version of himself, who was suddenly hit with the force of that pain, who radiated so much horror and agony just before trying to break the connection, it was enough to break through the difficulty he had verbalizing what he needed to say.
Except that all he could say was to scream, his own hands flying up to cover his head, not unlike the way the other moved in front of him, and then rip his consciousness away as if it were as lethal as a shot from his gun. The feedback loop of pain and misery in those few short seconds was immense, more than he could handle, and the knowledge that he had caused it, had shattered what little glimpses of actual reassurance and hope he'd tried to give the other before his own pain had taken over without his consent, only compounded it with guilt and a flare of self-loathing that he only felt in some of his worst moments.
It didn't matter that the man in front of him was himself, that he very well may have been on the same fated road he had walked and was destined to suffer those same horrifying events. It was another person, and he had caused that. He had dumped all of the trauma that he'd been carrying into his head, and it was unforgivable!
If words had been difficult a moment before, they were impossible, now, and what had started off as a mild panic attack had suddenly flared into full force. He needed to make it right, he had to stop him before he did something rash, but he was terrified of acting and making it worse. He backpedaled, wanting to run, his arms still curled around his head as if he were trying to bundle up the mental connection he'd already severed and pin it back down into his own skull. And then he took a staggering step forward, wanting to reach out, to calm the other man, to undo what he'd done, but was too terrified of making it worse.
All he could do was sob; short, wailing bursts of sound, like he wanted to form words but couldn't. His mind wanted to reach out, with speech just outside of his capabilities, but he refused to let it, instead trying to take himself in, make it smaller, rip the ability to do so out of his own head and throw it away so he couldn't hurt anyone else like them again, terrified of himself in an entirely new way that had never once occurred to him until now. And yet the words still formed in his mind, screaming out despite not being allowed to connect, just wanting to be heard.]
I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, don't go, I'm sorry!