11-26-2008, 04:28 AM
[html]
I found this song ridiculously appropriate for this thread. :| Private for Laruku, dated for the night of November 30th.
It had only taken a few hours. Ahren had gone to the city, walking in a dream. It’s all right, that familiar voice soothed. You know the way. He had smoked the whole way, and his throat was raw by the time his feet touched concrete. From there, something else had moved him. Through the abandoned streets, across broken pavement and past broken windows, following no direct trail. By the time he reached the hospital, he had nearly forgotten his purpose. It took a millisecond to recall this.
It was not until he had gathered everything that the weight had hit him. Ahren had sunk to the ground, buried his face in his hands and broke down. He laughed until he was crying, cried until he was choking, and then there was nothing left.
It took him fifteen minutes to regain his composure, to sling his bag over his shoulder and to leave. Ahren followed his own trail back, in a paralyzed, robotic walk. Then, as he had finished another cigarette (how many was it now? Did it matter?) something like an epiphany had hit him. Not five minutes after this, he had found Iskata. Not ten minutes after this he was walking along, no longer laughing, no longer crying because he could not stand the sound.
It was at this point he reached the cabin. It was dark, and it was snowing. The cold no longer bothered him. Neither did the smell of kerosene, buried in that bag. There wasn’t much, but it would be enough. He advanced to the building, opened the door, and shut it behind him. It was dark in here was well, but that was all right. The fire had been reduced to embers, wavering with each passing breath. He stood there, hand on the door, feet bolted to the floor.
It had only taken a few hours. Ahren had gone to the city, walking in a dream. It’s all right, that familiar voice soothed. You know the way. He had smoked the whole way, and his throat was raw by the time his feet touched concrete. From there, something else had moved him. Through the abandoned streets, across broken pavement and past broken windows, following no direct trail. By the time he reached the hospital, he had nearly forgotten his purpose. It took a millisecond to recall this.
It was not until he had gathered everything that the weight had hit him. Ahren had sunk to the ground, buried his face in his hands and broke down. He laughed until he was crying, cried until he was choking, and then there was nothing left.
It took him fifteen minutes to regain his composure, to sling his bag over his shoulder and to leave. Ahren followed his own trail back, in a paralyzed, robotic walk. Then, as he had finished another cigarette (how many was it now? Did it matter?) something like an epiphany had hit him. Not five minutes after this, he had found Iskata. Not ten minutes after this he was walking along, no longer laughing, no longer crying because he could not stand the sound.
It was at this point he reached the cabin. It was dark, and it was snowing. The cold no longer bothered him. Neither did the smell of kerosene, buried in that bag. There wasn’t much, but it would be enough. He advanced to the building, opened the door, and shut it behind him. It was dark in here was well, but that was all right. The fire had been reduced to embers, wavering with each passing breath. He stood there, hand on the door, feet bolted to the floor.