08-27-2008, 12:55 AM
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Private.
Someone had come into the shed, someone who had smelled like the sea and the sun. It had been Kaena, he supposed, because he remembered her eyes. He didn’t know exactly what he had told her, or what she had told him, but he remembered laughing. He had been laughing a lot, as if he had taken the demon from Laruku and swallowed him whole. Maybe he had, back in the wilderness, in the rain and the never-ending rise and fall of the tides.
Then there had been noise. That noise had been indistinguishable, fury and pain, and it had been muffled by the white noise in his skull. Eventually, it had quieted down. It was only then that the second noise had begun, that soft, maddening sobbing. It crawled along the wood like rats and dug into his skin because, vaguely, he knew he was responsible. He was responsible for a lot of things, and this he knew. Pulling himself up to the wall, her found the source and leaned against it, eyes shut and hair falling limply in his face. “Sleepy hands are creeping to the end of the clock,” he sang quietly, voice hoarse and broken. “, play a lullaby in ragtime.”
Someone had come into the shed, someone who had smelled like the sea and the sun. It had been Kaena, he supposed, because he remembered her eyes. He didn’t know exactly what he had told her, or what she had told him, but he remembered laughing. He had been laughing a lot, as if he had taken the demon from Laruku and swallowed him whole. Maybe he had, back in the wilderness, in the rain and the never-ending rise and fall of the tides.
Then there had been noise. That noise had been indistinguishable, fury and pain, and it had been muffled by the white noise in his skull. Eventually, it had quieted down. It was only then that the second noise had begun, that soft, maddening sobbing. It crawled along the wood like rats and dug into his skin because, vaguely, he knew he was responsible. He was responsible for a lot of things, and this he knew. Pulling himself up to the wall, her found the source and leaned against it, eyes shut and hair falling limply in his face. “Sleepy hands are creeping to the end of the clock,” he sang quietly, voice hoarse and broken. “, play a lullaby in ragtime.”