time is so vicious

Jefferson Soul · 05-10-2011, 09:48 PM

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Alaine!

Even on the Shattered Coast, in all its ragged tranquility, it poured an incessant downfall upon him.

He would not go as far as to say it matched the storm in his heart, the whirlwind in his mind — no, he was not that poetic, not that sentimental. Jefferson blurred his anxieties with numbness, pushed his worries to the back of his consciousness as if they would simply fade into the darkness and never resurface, but such logic had never worked before. He was a man of terror, both external and internal. Never did his anxieties cease, for his family, for his pack, for those around him. Never would his fears for Geneva simply subside, as if they meant absolutely nothing, as if they had no worth. Where had she gone? Why had she left him behind, as if someone else could break through his walls as she? Did she not understand that no one else had, or might ever, come to embrace him?

No, that was the way it was supposed to be. He was a man of terror, after all, a scarred monster of pain and torment. The rushing waves pulled and pushed at his body, seated cross-legged at its edge, the foam caressing his muscles, his scars just as she had, but with an unfamiliar frigid touch he unconsciously grew numb against. Still the rain poured, showering from a dark, overcast sky as it had most of the day, and yet the male had ventured out and not returned nonetheless. Perhaps he needed that numbness, that freedom from the Valley. A chance to forget the memories that lurked there, or the pictures of her face in his mind, or the flashing images that relived the axe swinging down, watching bone disconnect from bone, watching red as his arm suddenly left him as well.

The wet, soggy sleeve pushed with the ocean as it brushed up against and around him, then pulled as it slipped away. It twitched some in the breeze, limp and listless, but he paid no mind. The storm in his mind threatened once more, but he thought back of earlier days, when the Valley knew peace and comfort, when Iskata had ruled and none had been his responsibility. Of a time when his now severed arm had been his 'good' one, and the 'bad' arm had been safely locked away in a sling across his chest; now all that remained was the scarred, morbid thing, hanging at his other side, as limp as its partner's empty sleeve.

And all he knew, all he forced himself to knew then, was the rain.

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