(no subject)
Who: Charles and OPEN!
What: Charles' introduction. :)
When: Early evening.
Where: The streets between the bar and the hotel.
Why: 'cause, um... yay, it's Charles?
Rating: PG13 to be safe for possible language.
Status: Incomplete; open.
Something was odd this evening, and it wasn't the way that the setting sun exploded the sky into autumn tye-dye.
In fact, ever since Charles had first got the plane into Canada, into this town that he had never heard of, something wasn't right. But it went back even further than that. The war had ended and Charles returned to Boston to find no homecoming celebration, no family waiting for him. His family's house wasn't even there. He had to search endlessly to find a payphone and, after dialing the operator and spelling his name for the fourth time, couldn't understand why there wasn't a single Winchester listed in Boston. Even more frightening was whenever he had heard the date and time. 2008. Where the hell did the time go? It couldn't have possibly taken over 50 years to come home from Korea. It made no form of logical sense. It just wasn't possible.
Charles had to clean out a better portion of his account, but he was still able to buy tickets for the next flight to Canada. Flying was once a novelty, and now? Every Tom, Dick and Mary was in line, chattering to one another about terrorism and war. Draft dodgers fled to Canada before, but it wasn't the fear of the war zone that drove him to make the arrangements. Something else, that something odd...
All that Charles wanted was a bottle of Cognac that he could crawl inside and drown -- forget the fact that everyone he loved, everyone that he hated, everyone that he ever knew and every politician his family had paid for were now long dead. At least being drunk would prove to himself that, yes, Charles Emerson Winchester, you are still alive.
The bar served Cognac but it was much more pricey than Charles could ever remember and -- even worse -- it was far too expensive for his taste. So instead he opted for something that almost made him miss the taste of the sill swill from the Swamp: draft beer, Molson. It tasted terrible, but it did the trick.
Charles nearly tripped over himself as he left the bar, taking slow and staggering steps down the street. His light-blue Oxford shirt was beginning to untuck itself; the two topmost buttons were left undone as were the buttons at each cuff. Blue eyes remained focused on the pavement ahead of him, unawares to what was going on. He was lost in his own train of thought: not one of death and loss or war and confusion... well, a different sort of confusion.
"...Where the hell is my room?" Charles slurred to himself, flicking blues around to his surroundings. He should have paid more attention in the cab ride from the hotel to the bar. He pushed both Oxford sleeves up around his elbows, one hand passing back over brown hair (or lack thereof) as he tried to find something of familiarity. But Charles wouldn't even find himself familiar right now, had he a mirror to look in. He was disheveled, the only money left in his pockets was loose change and the smell of cheap beer was thick on him -- one of the fellow patrons at the bar spilled the better half of her drink into the seat of Charles' pants. It just wasn't his day, year, decade, whatever.
What: Charles' introduction. :)
When: Early evening.
Where: The streets between the bar and the hotel.
Why: 'cause, um... yay, it's Charles?
Rating: PG13 to be safe for possible language.
Status: Incomplete; open.
Something was odd this evening, and it wasn't the way that the setting sun exploded the sky into autumn tye-dye.
In fact, ever since Charles had first got the plane into Canada, into this town that he had never heard of, something wasn't right. But it went back even further than that. The war had ended and Charles returned to Boston to find no homecoming celebration, no family waiting for him. His family's house wasn't even there. He had to search endlessly to find a payphone and, after dialing the operator and spelling his name for the fourth time, couldn't understand why there wasn't a single Winchester listed in Boston. Even more frightening was whenever he had heard the date and time. 2008. Where the hell did the time go? It couldn't have possibly taken over 50 years to come home from Korea. It made no form of logical sense. It just wasn't possible.
Charles had to clean out a better portion of his account, but he was still able to buy tickets for the next flight to Canada. Flying was once a novelty, and now? Every Tom, Dick and Mary was in line, chattering to one another about terrorism and war. Draft dodgers fled to Canada before, but it wasn't the fear of the war zone that drove him to make the arrangements. Something else, that something odd...
All that Charles wanted was a bottle of Cognac that he could crawl inside and drown -- forget the fact that everyone he loved, everyone that he hated, everyone that he ever knew and every politician his family had paid for were now long dead. At least being drunk would prove to himself that, yes, Charles Emerson Winchester, you are still alive.
The bar served Cognac but it was much more pricey than Charles could ever remember and -- even worse -- it was far too expensive for his taste. So instead he opted for something that almost made him miss the taste of the sill swill from the Swamp: draft beer, Molson. It tasted terrible, but it did the trick.
Charles nearly tripped over himself as he left the bar, taking slow and staggering steps down the street. His light-blue Oxford shirt was beginning to untuck itself; the two topmost buttons were left undone as were the buttons at each cuff. Blue eyes remained focused on the pavement ahead of him, unawares to what was going on. He was lost in his own train of thought: not one of death and loss or war and confusion... well, a different sort of confusion.
"...Where the hell is my room?" Charles slurred to himself, flicking blues around to his surroundings. He should have paid more attention in the cab ride from the hotel to the bar. He pushed both Oxford sleeves up around his elbows, one hand passing back over brown hair (or lack thereof) as he tried to find something of familiarity. But Charles wouldn't even find himself familiar right now, had he a mirror to look in. He was disheveled, the only money left in his pockets was loose change and the smell of cheap beer was thick on him -- one of the fellow patrons at the bar spilled the better half of her drink into the seat of Charles' pants. It just wasn't his day, year, decade, whatever.