(no subject)
He gets up in the morning, makes himself some coffee. He hates coffee, really. It gives him stomach aches and he can't stand the smell of it. But he drinks it anyway. He's always so tired, it's the only thing that keeps him awake until he can get to work. Mumbled, half-asleep conversations with the kid and the girl, they never seem nearly as tired as he is. He can't understand it. He sleeps more than either of them...
Time for work. He makes coffee for people. God how he hates coffee, god how he hates the smell of it. The smell makes him sick, he's sick, sick of it. Was this what he wanted from life? He never wanted anything from life. He never figured he would live this long. If anything, all he wanted from life was out. Does he still feel that way? Sometimes. Sometimes, though his father is gone, the monster is gone, he still wants out. He wants to run, run as far as his body will take him...though he knows that isn't far at all.
The day is long, the shop is busier now that things have calmed down again. He makes coffee. He gets tips. He looks no one in the face, no one in the eye. Can they tell he's broken, just by looking at him? This tiny thing of skin and bones, red-eyed demon boy.
He's so tired, reeking of coffee.
Coffee.
He has to be sick but he holds it back. Years of practice. Wait until the shop is empty. They won't give you tips if you puke, boy. Worthless waste, piece of filth. He barely makes it, but it's long enough.
Home again. Finally away, away from people, away from coffee. There's dinner, but he doesn't eat it. He can't. He's too tired, too sick. He crawls into bed and soon is asleep, to be lost in horrible dreams.
They say that tomorrow is another day...another day that will be exactly like this one.
Time for work. He makes coffee for people. God how he hates coffee, god how he hates the smell of it. The smell makes him sick, he's sick, sick of it. Was this what he wanted from life? He never wanted anything from life. He never figured he would live this long. If anything, all he wanted from life was out. Does he still feel that way? Sometimes. Sometimes, though his father is gone, the monster is gone, he still wants out. He wants to run, run as far as his body will take him...though he knows that isn't far at all.
The day is long, the shop is busier now that things have calmed down again. He makes coffee. He gets tips. He looks no one in the face, no one in the eye. Can they tell he's broken, just by looking at him? This tiny thing of skin and bones, red-eyed demon boy.
He's so tired, reeking of coffee.
Coffee.
He has to be sick but he holds it back. Years of practice. Wait until the shop is empty. They won't give you tips if you puke, boy. Worthless waste, piece of filth. He barely makes it, but it's long enough.
Home again. Finally away, away from people, away from coffee. There's dinner, but he doesn't eat it. He can't. He's too tired, too sick. He crawls into bed and soon is asleep, to be lost in horrible dreams.
They say that tomorrow is another day...another day that will be exactly like this one.