Gravedigger [Complete]

[loopmein]

Characters: Odd Thomas, James Sunderland.
Content: Weary but restless, Odd Thomas decides to spend some quality time beneath Cassiopeia upon the cathedral rooftop after writing.
Location: Rooftop of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Time of Day: Midnight.
Warnings: Spoilers and Silent Hill. Discussions of Heaven and Hell, and possible use of synonyms for

Comments

[captainpillows]

Another argument over nothing. Foolish enough to keep on, to keep his pride, James had earned himself yet another night, pillow tossed out after him, door slammed in his face. He never tried to get back in. Just gave it as a lost cause and wandered the halls of the Cathedral or wherever until he literally gave in to exhaustion. He knew his way around by now

[loopmein]

Without having to turn to look at who or what might’ve joined beside him, Odd already knew who it was. Everyone else was usually asleep this time of night, but Sunderland, he assumed, had shared the same symptom of restlessness-and Odd couldn’t wonder why.

There was blood on his hands, too. So much of it, it seemed. The things he’d seen, things that no one should have to live with, forever burned into his mind. Some nights he wondered how he could even sleep at all.

But as his hard-drinking, poker-playing grandmother had always told him, Never let them see you’re upset. Not that he could magically get rid of the dark rings under his eyes, or the tired look on his face. Even after the gallons of coffee and energy drinks he’d drank, Odd carried a weary air about him that seemed consistent nowadays.

The rain helped. It was cool and dribbled down his face, prickling his skin and telling him Look up. Look up at me. Yet he wasn’t sure where such words came from, or if they were just some sort of delusion

[captainpillows]

Pregnant silence was filled by the light sound of the wind, grumbling away through the buildings. Up here, it was almost always windy.

James stood for a few moments more, waiting it out.

"Yeah." At last he answered at last, finally allowing himself to settle onto the damp rooftop, his weary form deflating and sinking as he sat, almost lifeless, his head hung to one side.

Now looking down.

Then a slight harmonic hum, some mixture of amusement and dissonance.

"If you reveal your secrets to the wind you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees."

It was sort of an unsettling tone from him, voice low with grief and seriousness. Far from the usual bewilderment or childish anger. Not to mention it was entirely out of place.

Out of nowhere. And he lacks an explanation.

Here, hanging on what seemed to be, his own end. At least in the moonlight washing his features even more pale and sickly than usual.

Much like her.

[loopmein]

The silence was abrupt, if not welcome. If he wanted to, he could take the time to trace all of the veiled constellations in the night sky; a small gift of comfort, feeling closer, closer, to-

Secrets.

Odd blinked from his hazy stupor. Finally, he tore his gaze from the cloudy void and blinked at Sunderland, more surly than Odd was used to seeing the man.

Wait. Little Ozzie said stuff like that all the time.

“Is it Shakespeare?”

No, Odd for once took the time to actually read Shakespeare a couple years ago (he had a lot of time to just sit and read lately as well. He’d found himself taken with Macbeth in particular). That sounded more like a Chinese proverb or something. Oh well, Odd was too tired to correct himself.