(no subject)

Aug 02, 2006 21:52

He'd missed his birthday. Danny had.

Sam had, on one of the first nights she'd been in the apartments, drawn out a makeshift calendar on the floor with an almost dried-out marker that she'd found. It counted from the day they'd entered this place to the date that was today, or would be today if today were today which it wasn't. If today were today, it would be August second. Danny's birthday was July thirty-first.

Sam was sick. Sick of sitting in one place and thinking about gardening and talking and eating and sleeping and waking up and doing it all over again. Sick of not knowing where Danny was and having no one care enough to to help her find him (and even if this wasn't true, it felt true, and it hurt). A month. He'd been gone a month.

Sam wanted her best friend. Sam missed her best friend. And she was just tired of holding it all in.

There is a skinny and very pale goth girl all curled up and crying on the roof, face pressed into her knees. She's probably setting off your damsel in distress buttons, if you've got any. Have at.

sam manson, !location: roof

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