Intro Post - Henry Townshend
The noise and bustle of the subway is at once, unnerving and refreshing to Henry. It had been months since the horrific events had transpired, but he couldn't help thinking about how monstrous this place had appeared to him then. The crowd helps, it wasn't there there before. It reminds that it is over, and things were only going to get better from there.
Besides, he had things to do; a new roll of film to get developed, and various other, less exciting chores ahead of him. Now was not the time to torment himself with the particulars of the past. Henry boards the train, silent amongst the sea of chatter and noise from a variety of cellphones and music players. He manages to quickly grab a seat before they are all taken. He slides his messenger bag off his shoulder, and grabs his journal. It's the one he had written in constantly during those days. He liked to read it, try to figure out what exactly might have happened. He wasn't sure if it was at all real sometimes. Sometimes, he'd just rather think he was crazy than deal with the fact that any of this had actually happened.
The lights kept flickering on and off in the subway. As the minutes pass, it only seems to get worse. Henry, oddly enough, finds it amusing. Lights on; people milling about, talking to each other, one guy getting suspiciously close to an old woman's purse, and then the lights would go out, and nothing except crowd noise and the occasional flicker from the outside. Lights come back on, and two people sitting close to Henry are talking now, something about sports and France and Germany, and then again, the world went dark and noisy. The lights came back on, and Henry opens for his journal, then the lights went back out and-
Henry wakes up in a sitting position, head lowered, shoulders rounded. His orange notebook is still clutched in his grasp. His eyes adjust back to the light slowly, as he looks around. The cold air was an abrupt change from the hot, muggy bus moments earlier. There is a city in the distance, that looked to him like shots he had seen once from wars in third world countries. Over his shoulder was a wall made of the same, hard dirt. And the ground around him wasn't exactly fertile looking. Is this a dream? Am I back in the nightmare world again? Or is this something new?
"What the hell...?"
Besides, he had things to do; a new roll of film to get developed, and various other, less exciting chores ahead of him. Now was not the time to torment himself with the particulars of the past. Henry boards the train, silent amongst the sea of chatter and noise from a variety of cellphones and music players. He manages to quickly grab a seat before they are all taken. He slides his messenger bag off his shoulder, and grabs his journal. It's the one he had written in constantly during those days. He liked to read it, try to figure out what exactly might have happened. He wasn't sure if it was at all real sometimes. Sometimes, he'd just rather think he was crazy than deal with the fact that any of this had actually happened.
The lights kept flickering on and off in the subway. As the minutes pass, it only seems to get worse. Henry, oddly enough, finds it amusing. Lights on; people milling about, talking to each other, one guy getting suspiciously close to an old woman's purse, and then the lights would go out, and nothing except crowd noise and the occasional flicker from the outside. Lights come back on, and two people sitting close to Henry are talking now, something about sports and France and Germany, and then again, the world went dark and noisy. The lights came back on, and Henry opens for his journal, then the lights went back out and-
Henry wakes up in a sitting position, head lowered, shoulders rounded. His orange notebook is still clutched in his grasp. His eyes adjust back to the light slowly, as he looks around. The cold air was an abrupt change from the hot, muggy bus moments earlier. There is a city in the distance, that looked to him like shots he had seen once from wars in third world countries. Over his shoulder was a wall made of the same, hard dirt. And the ground around him wasn't exactly fertile looking. Is this a dream? Am I back in the nightmare world again? Or is this something new?
"What the hell...?"