Moaning Mitchell
Who: Mitchell and Alice
What: meeting
When: tonight
Where: the streets
Rating: M for mopey
Status: Incomplete
Mitchell had been wandering the town, moping, ever since he'd arrived. It just wasn't right. He'd lived, he'd died, he'd finally come to terms with dying again, and it was supposed to be over, he was meant to be resting in peace. But this wasn't peace, this was Canada, and he still had no bloody idea why he was here.
What he did know was that wandering around moping was getting really old.
But where was he to go? He didn't sleep, he didn't need anything, he couldn't work. Half the people (which, all right, was a larger proportion than usual) couldn't see him and didn't know he was there. And those who did, he'd avoided, because what could he say to them? How could he explain? It wasn't like they'd want or should want to know him. Now he understood how Annie had felt, all that long time in her house before he and George had moved in. At least it had been her house. At least it had been a familiar environment, and she could do the familiar things, like, like clean and make tea and pin threatening raw chickens to walls.
He'd thought he'd had a long time to think before he'd asked George to stake him, but he'd had no idea. Now, deader than ever, as a ghost with no purpose and no friends, Mitchell had all the time to think, and he didn't like it. He thought, and he dwelled, and he turned things over and over in his head, and he moped. It had been bad enough, being tormented by everything he'd done, everything he was when he'd thought there was some way to end it.
Eternity stretched out in front of Mitchell, an eternity stuck in his own head, and he didn't like the prospect at all.
What: meeting
When: tonight
Where: the streets
Rating: M for mopey
Status: Incomplete
Mitchell had been wandering the town, moping, ever since he'd arrived. It just wasn't right. He'd lived, he'd died, he'd finally come to terms with dying again, and it was supposed to be over, he was meant to be resting in peace. But this wasn't peace, this was Canada, and he still had no bloody idea why he was here.
What he did know was that wandering around moping was getting really old.
But where was he to go? He didn't sleep, he didn't need anything, he couldn't work. Half the people (which, all right, was a larger proportion than usual) couldn't see him and didn't know he was there. And those who did, he'd avoided, because what could he say to them? How could he explain? It wasn't like they'd want or should want to know him. Now he understood how Annie had felt, all that long time in her house before he and George had moved in. At least it had been her house. At least it had been a familiar environment, and she could do the familiar things, like, like clean and make tea and pin threatening raw chickens to walls.
He'd thought he'd had a long time to think before he'd asked George to stake him, but he'd had no idea. Now, deader than ever, as a ghost with no purpose and no friends, Mitchell had all the time to think, and he didn't like it. He thought, and he dwelled, and he turned things over and over in his head, and he moped. It had been bad enough, being tormented by everything he'd done, everything he was when he'd thought there was some way to end it.
Eternity stretched out in front of Mitchell, an eternity stuck in his own head, and he didn't like the prospect at all.