salvation à la mode

Jefferson Soul · 07-08-2010, 08:57 PM

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Geneva @ Splash Zone. <3

Where had he been, those many days? Each time he returned to the Valley, it felt like ages and ages had passed since he'd left. And where was he going, he wondered each time he left and each time he returned, for the trips he made were to nowhere in particular. No destinations were set and he met no one, for indeed Jefferson had learned to make his scarred and ugly face scarce when his mind raged so horribly inside. Jefferson desired no companionship, both in and out of the packlands, and for many weeks he had strayed here and there alone. The cyclops was not happy with his newfound solitary life, though the pack still depended on him and Geneva was still there with him. In fact, he was more miserable than he had been in years.

He wondered for some time if his voice would perhaps disappear forever from lack of use. He'd muttered no more than short, brief commands in recent weeks, months maybe, he couldn't remember. There had been a fight with Geneva, she'd cornered him or something, there had been shouting and tears... but the cyclops was quick to flatten the memory and discard it, refusing to acknowledge it was the reason for his mood. The Valley had seen little of him since, and the green-eyed girl even less so. Perhaps they had seen each other in passing, it was hard to remember. Jefferson had pushed her from his thoughts, tired of the ache and questions in his mind. The ranch house grew hotter beneath the heat of dead summer, but the weather was hardly reason for his absence even there—Jefferson had simply begun sleeping outside, here, there, anywhere. Away from her. Away from the problems she'd made for him, away from the scowls and scars and disfigurements they now permanently shared with one another. All that he had found so endearing in her, all that she had promised him forever when she claimed to love him with glittering olive eyes, had been stolen away like the children she'd claimed to have been carrying and lost at the fall.

Not once did she thank him. A grimace crossed his scars at that time, and Jefferson shook himself out of his memories. He straightened the sling over his shoulder and released a long, drawn-out sigh. The Patriarch had wandered the coastline for some time, it seemed, for the sea-filled potholes that neared the edge of the territory suddenly lay before him. Not a soul had been seen in his wanderings, allowing the cyclops the privacy in his own thoughts and his feet the opportunity to wander without hesitation. The day had been humid, but with the dusk the air had cooled considerably, and the sunset painted brilliant violets and pinks into the sky. It was meaningless to him, he realized, as it had never been before. The dips and holes in the coast held the sea, calmed in their traps, separated hues of the colorful sky as if the coast itself was the sky's palette. He couldn't bring himself to appreciate it.

Jefferson weaved through the puddles, the damp sand soft beneath his feet. Finally he stopped, the coolest of sea breezes blowing past, and raised his snout to the canvas of colors the heavens beheld. The cyclops released a quiet, sad howl into the sky—not one quite loud enough to echo the packlands, but a despairing sound that reverberated over the empty ocean instead. The point, he realized, was hollow—it was as if he simply needed to acknowledge he was still capable of sound and emotion.

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