The words feel heavy, condemning, even if he knows Allison doesn't mean them to be. But they sit heavy in his mind. Living in California seems like eons ago, even though for her it's only been, what? A few days? A week?
He wanders toward the door and out into the hall, his bare feet slapping against the damp tile. He doesn't want to feel the cold of it, doesn't want to feel the sinking in his chest, the static in his mind, the sharp, needle-like tines the grief has slowly begun pressing deep into his heart. They suffocate him, winding their way up along his throat, gripping at the back of his tongue, making speech and breathing feel nigh impossible.
But he moves with the ease of a man sleep walking, feet slowly moving one out in front of the other, passing corridors with chipped paint, old drawings, the ghosts of laughter and pain from children who wanted nothing more than to be loved by someone. Anyone.
When he makes it to the main sitting room, he runs fingertips along the dusty backs of couches, display cases, books. Years and years he spent here, poring over texts for assignments, reading between the lines to try and discover himself in their pages, to crack the code to mastering his ability. When he finally comes back from his memories, he's standing in front of the liquor cabinet, all but facing it down, man to man. He opens the delicate glass door and the assortment has thinned over the years, but still ample: ornate decanters and old, vintage bottles with wax seals intact. He plucks one decanter up, crystal shaped like a swan, and uncorks it to smell the amber liquid within.
Sherry, perhaps? Scotch. The smell is so acidic it burns his nose in a way that makes him cough. Plucking a glass from the shelf, he starts to pour. A finger, first, then another, and another. Until the glass itself is almost full to the brim. He stares down at it for a long time, the smell strong and familiar, like an old, dangerous friend.
"Shit."
He could drink it, feel numb again, let the alcohol wash away the deeply cut hurt. But for how long? How long until the alcohol isn't enough, until there's one thing after another and he's back to where he started?
He suddenly, violently, throws the decanter on the ground, the crystal shattering, the sharp, tangy alcohol splattering all over the floor. The glass is next, swiped clean off the cabinet before he goes reaching for another decanter to shatter.
"God damn it." There another goes before he finally sinks to the floor, his back against the cabinet, his head buried deep into his arms.
no subject
The words feel heavy, condemning, even if he knows Allison doesn't mean them to be. But they sit heavy in his mind. Living in California seems like eons ago, even though for her it's only been, what? A few days? A week?
He wanders toward the door and out into the hall, his bare feet slapping against the damp tile. He doesn't want to feel the cold of it, doesn't want to feel the sinking in his chest, the static in his mind, the sharp, needle-like tines the grief has slowly begun pressing deep into his heart. They suffocate him, winding their way up along his throat, gripping at the back of his tongue, making speech and breathing feel nigh impossible.
But he moves with the ease of a man sleep walking, feet slowly moving one out in front of the other, passing corridors with chipped paint, old drawings, the ghosts of laughter and pain from children who wanted nothing more than to be loved by someone. Anyone.
When he makes it to the main sitting room, he runs fingertips along the dusty backs of couches, display cases, books. Years and years he spent here, poring over texts for assignments, reading between the lines to try and discover himself in their pages, to crack the code to mastering his ability. When he finally comes back from his memories, he's standing in front of the liquor cabinet, all but facing it down, man to man. He opens the delicate glass door and the assortment has thinned over the years, but still ample: ornate decanters and old, vintage bottles with wax seals intact. He plucks one decanter up, crystal shaped like a swan, and uncorks it to smell the amber liquid within.
Sherry, perhaps? Scotch. The smell is so acidic it burns his nose in a way that makes him cough. Plucking a glass from the shelf, he starts to pour. A finger, first, then another, and another. Until the glass itself is almost full to the brim. He stares down at it for a long time, the smell strong and familiar, like an old, dangerous friend.
"Shit."
He could drink it, feel numb again, let the alcohol wash away the deeply cut hurt. But for how long? How long until the alcohol isn't enough, until there's one thing after another and he's back to where he started?
He suddenly, violently, throws the decanter on the ground, the crystal shattering, the sharp, tangy alcohol splattering all over the floor. The glass is next, swiped clean off the cabinet before he goes reaching for another decanter to shatter.
"God damn it." There another goes before he finally sinks to the floor, his back against the cabinet, his head buried deep into his arms.