>Third Person Sample: "Right." His fingers curl around the bar, leaving him white knuckled and nearly breathless. The rapid kick of his heart-- not just panic but exhaustion-- is making everything tinge with that haze of unreality. He closes his eyes, swallowing hard but his throat is dry and his mouth doesn't seem to be producing the proper amount of saliva anymore. Still, out of more habit than anything, he licks his lips and gives Erik an affirmative nod.
Dead--undead-- or not he's still so uncomfortable with the thought of clobbering it... back to dead.
Turning he heads toward the closest room first; the hallway bathroom, inside there's a few soaps, candles, a uncomfortably dry sponge but nothing of note. Down the hall the smaller of the two bedrooms look like it used to be for a child of some sort and Charles isn't entirely sure how long he can stand to be in there-- it's collected, proper, bed still mussed from the last time someone slept in it. An ache thuds in his chest, and while he knows they don't have time to mourn people they didn't even know, it's still upsetting. The back of his hand traces against his mouth as he eases back out into the hallway. Pressed into one of the walls he sucks in a deep breath, closes his eyes and reminds himself that there's nothing they could do about it.
He doesn't even finish collecting himself before he's moved on to the next room. The master bedroom is much like the child's-- however the bed is made and there's a pair of slippers tucked near the bathroom door. Charles feels his heart nearly leap out of his chest at a flash of movement, but it's just the bathroom curtain slipping into a stagnant pool of water. Turning back toward the hall he almost calls out before he thinks better of making that much noise and instead brushes his fingers against his temple,
Clear.
He was grateful to be allowed to shower first; the right easily belonged to Erik-- the man had done far more work than he had between the two of them, his own ability rendered rather useless in the wasteland of moving dead bodies. He pops the cupboard under the sink open, grabbing a cleaning glove so he can unplug the tub, noting the slight drip of the faucet that had lead to the standing water. It takes him nearly an hour to scrub the tub clean enough that he doesn't feel threatened by getting into it. Once he ripped the glove off, letting the tub drain once more he tossed it into the sink as he paused for the first time in forever to look at himself.
The lines of his face, deeper with exhaustion and lack of food, bright blues accented by deep red rings fading into his cheek bones. He still looked alive-- still flushed with some kind of color-- but not as much as he had been. He looked more tired than he could ever remember being, his hair was dusty and slightly matted and he had to wonder at what point it had become so easy to ignore. He picked at his clothes for a second before he tore his gaze away-- he didn't care to look at himself, not like that, not anymore. He yanked at the handle to get the water flowing again-- it sputtered a bit, but it did flow to life-- and he didn't even wait for it to warm up. He stripped his clothes with surprising quickness, only fumbling on the occasional button. He pulled them in with him, though, dropping them on the floor to clean after he finally rinsed his body.
He scrubbed, every little bit of skin even where it hurt, he had never felt the desire to be clean so painfully. The water running with the grime and blood stuck to bits of his skin. Breathing a heavy sigh he just ducked under the water-- making an effort to rake his fingers through his hair and clean it. Grabbing soap he scrubbed hard, waking over skin till some of it turned a sore pink-- because he just needed to be clean again, to feel more human because of it.
Once he was clean, and had scrubbed his clothes to his best of his ability. Trying to get the mess stuck to them off with simple hand soap. Eventually he gave in, too tired to fight with the fabric anymore, and threw the clothing back on. It was wet but he didn't care to risk being caught in a state of undress.
Sample 2
Dead--undead-- or not he's still so uncomfortable with the thought of clobbering it... back to dead.
Turning he heads toward the closest room first; the hallway bathroom, inside there's a few soaps, candles, a uncomfortably dry sponge but nothing of note. Down the hall the smaller of the two bedrooms look like it used to be for a child of some sort and Charles isn't entirely sure how long he can stand to be in there-- it's collected, proper, bed still mussed from the last time someone slept in it. An ache thuds in his chest, and while he knows they don't have time to mourn people they didn't even know, it's still upsetting. The back of his hand traces against his mouth as he eases back out into the hallway. Pressed into one of the walls he sucks in a deep breath, closes his eyes and reminds himself that there's nothing they could do about it.
He doesn't even finish collecting himself before he's moved on to the next room. The master bedroom is much like the child's-- however the bed is made and there's a pair of slippers tucked near the bathroom door. Charles feels his heart nearly leap out of his chest at a flash of movement, but it's just the bathroom curtain slipping into a stagnant pool of water. Turning back toward the hall he almost calls out before he thinks better of making that much noise and instead brushes his fingers against his temple,
Clear.
He was grateful to be allowed to shower first; the right easily belonged to Erik-- the man had done far more work than he had between the two of them, his own ability rendered rather useless in the wasteland of moving dead bodies. He pops the cupboard under the sink open, grabbing a cleaning glove so he can unplug the tub, noting the slight drip of the faucet that had lead to the standing water. It takes him nearly an hour to scrub the tub clean enough that he doesn't feel threatened by getting into it. Once he ripped the glove off, letting the tub drain once more he tossed it into the sink as he paused for the first time in forever to look at himself.
The lines of his face, deeper with exhaustion and lack of food, bright blues accented by deep red rings fading into his cheek bones. He still looked alive-- still flushed with some kind of color-- but not as much as he had been. He looked more tired than he could ever remember being, his hair was dusty and slightly matted and he had to wonder at what point it had become so easy to ignore. He picked at his clothes for a second before he tore his gaze away-- he didn't care to look at himself, not like that, not anymore. He yanked at the handle to get the water flowing again-- it sputtered a bit, but it did flow to life-- and he didn't even wait for it to warm up. He stripped his clothes with surprising quickness, only fumbling on the occasional button. He pulled them in with him, though, dropping them on the floor to clean after he finally rinsed his body.
He scrubbed, every little bit of skin even where it hurt, he had never felt the desire to be clean so painfully. The water running with the grime and blood stuck to bits of his skin. Breathing a heavy sigh he just ducked under the water-- making an effort to rake his fingers through his hair and clean it. Grabbing soap he scrubbed hard, waking over skin till some of it turned a sore pink-- because he just needed to be clean again, to feel more human because of it.
Once he was clean, and had scrubbed his clothes to his best of his ability. Trying to get the mess stuck to them off with simple hand soap. Eventually he gave in, too tired to fight with the fabric anymore, and threw the clothing back on. It was wet but he didn't care to risk being caught in a state of undress.
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