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 Posted: Thu Dec 10, 2015 9:06 am
october
Gathering his things. (Amazing how even the spartan basement room could house so much.) Finding his list, ticking off boxes, diving between that which stayed and that which would be taken. Soap, toothpaste, toothbrush, shaving cream, razor, comb, candles, tools, pillow, towels, phone, charger, snacks, clothes, uruz. Almost like a sleepover or a camping trip, but lonelier.
Impulse check the phone. Twitter is quiet. Two minutes later, check again. Willing someone to say something to take his mind off of it. Two minutes, four minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes. Tick tick tick, like the clock, like his tapping foot. Like waiting for the call at a doctor's office to come in. Have a seat. What's the problem today? I dunno, Doc, but it hurts. It numbs. It burns cold and white. It doesn't feel like anything at all. I walk and it feels like I'm not moving. Like the world's a little slower today. Like the air's turned to water and I forgot I'm supposed to be drowning. Always was slow like that. Always was stubborn like that.
Joking to try and shrug it off. When I said get a vacation home on a tropical island, this isn't quite what I had in mind.
Knocking on the door. Forgetting he didn't have to anymore. Automatic: sorry. Always sorry.
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Posted: Fri Jan 01, 2016 3:06 pm
november
What does it say on your calendar today, Dawson Kimberly Grace? It's Thanksgiving. It's National You Did The Right Thing Day. It's International You ******** Up Day. It's Thanksgiving. It's a morning of empty tables and empty rooms and a long moment of silence for those who couldn't be there. It's a heave of a sigh and a prayer for mom, dad, JD, and Caly, and then it's a forced smile for the party at the Hawthorn's later.
(The Hawthorn's, Jesus ******** Christ, what a year.)
It's Thanksgiving. Give thanks that they can't see you now, trembling with the weight of it.
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Posted: Wed Jan 13, 2016 10:05 am
december
"Some of them are a little skittish after the incident—"
"Well, yeah, who can blame 'em?"
"—but the kinds we keep here are domestic by nature, so if there something you're looking for in particular—"
Syn grows bored and tunes the rest of the conversation out. At the wedding she wants nothing more than to mark the talking tree with her claws, or to taste someone's Fear, or to crush something for any reason and no reason at all. It wasn't a completely destructive impulse: she simply didn't want either of them to be dull when the fighting once again reached their doorstep. And that was what peace did. It was fine to want to build a chapel as it was at least physical work, but then more insidious things began to take root. It made one complacent. It made one get a minipet for fun.
< Not again, > she murmurs when he picks the pup with the scars, the bent back ears, the wary red eyes, because she wonders if he's also restless, if he too isn't also seeking something to fulfill himself with, another cause to sit in his claustrophobic heart for protection. Another ghoul, to boot.
He picks its carrier up and immediately begins to babble at it on the walk back, and Syn cannot roll her metaphysical eyes harder. He is clinging to normalcy, supposing the world owes him nostalgia. She knows those memories of the hay and the horse and the honey and the disgusting wet dogs permeating it all. But it is a weak thing. It is one more thing to break a piece of his heart into, and when it dies, he will regret it. But she supposes that is the life of one who subsists off others—a strangely positive parasite of a crusader whom will happily dump the creature in a stocking and laugh as it peaks its head out and call it his present, but whom will never stop to ask himself why it's necessary to.
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