Don't be cross, it's sick what I want
*Fake.
They're all fucking fake, complete with fake laughs and fake smiles. The only thing real is the money and the excess. It's sickening, watching people that don't care, people who seem to give fuck all about anything but dancing as people are killed en masse. While these idiots are here, without a care in the world, he's sitting in a corner, afraid.
These days he feels safest with his back flush against a wall and his wand at his hip. Sleeping is terrifying, as is breathing. Breathe too hard, too loudly, and they might hear him, catch on to his scent. Can't stay in one place too long, because they'll find him and probably kill him without hesitation. Justice and fairness doesn't exist anymore. Davey wonders if it ever really did.
It's maddening, being on the run in the dead of summer. Days are longer, nights are shorter. Every makeshift hideout is hot and damp and smells of armpits. He slept by every mosquito infested river, and lay awake in every scummy inn around the UK, and nothing feels safe. At the beginning, every false sense of security was met with too many near misses. Now, nearly two months later, he's certain the Ministry has lost his trail. At least, that's what he's certain of today.
And now he's here, hiding out in Fiona's home for the fourth day in a row. The company is shit, but he's becoming far too comfortable with the nonstop hedonism.
It was easy, using again. It started out as quick, sporadic fixes. Nothing more than a cheap perk up to counter episodes of deep depression when he could do nothing more than stare at the moths takings up residence in his tiny tavern hideaways. It took his mind off guilt and anger, and destructive scenarios of what Ministry pigs might have done to his family, or his friends, or Emmeline.
Davey lights a cigarette, but his body is jonesing for more. This particular come down has been agonizingly long, and all he wants is some fucking speed. He wanted to see how long he could function without it.
It's been thirty-nine hours and twenty seven minutes. He's counted.*
They're all fucking fake, complete with fake laughs and fake smiles. The only thing real is the money and the excess. It's sickening, watching people that don't care, people who seem to give fuck all about anything but dancing as people are killed en masse. While these idiots are here, without a care in the world, he's sitting in a corner, afraid.
These days he feels safest with his back flush against a wall and his wand at his hip. Sleeping is terrifying, as is breathing. Breathe too hard, too loudly, and they might hear him, catch on to his scent. Can't stay in one place too long, because they'll find him and probably kill him without hesitation. Justice and fairness doesn't exist anymore. Davey wonders if it ever really did.
It's maddening, being on the run in the dead of summer. Days are longer, nights are shorter. Every makeshift hideout is hot and damp and smells of armpits. He slept by every mosquito infested river, and lay awake in every scummy inn around the UK, and nothing feels safe. At the beginning, every false sense of security was met with too many near misses. Now, nearly two months later, he's certain the Ministry has lost his trail. At least, that's what he's certain of today.
And now he's here, hiding out in Fiona's home for the fourth day in a row. The company is shit, but he's becoming far too comfortable with the nonstop hedonism.
It was easy, using again. It started out as quick, sporadic fixes. Nothing more than a cheap perk up to counter episodes of deep depression when he could do nothing more than stare at the moths takings up residence in his tiny tavern hideaways. It took his mind off guilt and anger, and destructive scenarios of what Ministry pigs might have done to his family, or his friends, or Emmeline.
Davey lights a cigarette, but his body is jonesing for more. This particular come down has been agonizingly long, and all he wants is some fucking speed. He wanted to see how long he could function without it.
It's been thirty-nine hours and twenty seven minutes. He's counted.*