The Loneliest Evening [CLOSED]
Characters: Odd Thomas, Garnet til Alexandros XVII, and later on Kaylee Frye.
Content: Odd Thomas finally gets his crab bite healed. But at what cost?
Location: St. Patrick’s Cathedral; Odd’s Room.
Time of day: Backdated to take place not long after this wonderful incident.
Warnings: Violent aftermath and trauma.
Taking into considering on what Odd Thomas had been through, any damage done to the man’s psyche was right there on the table. Sure, he had endured plenty during his stay in Manhattan. Chased throughout the city by an army of crab parasites, stabbed by church pews, had a building fall on top of him, punctured by a pipe through his lung, and far as he knew he still had very little feeling in his right arm to speak of. Not that it registered now to his comatose mind.
Who would’ve thought that his end would have been so soon?
It’s not the end.
Oh. Right.
At a glance, there did not seem to be much left of the man, Odd Thomas. The healing done by Boriane had done quite a favor on Odd’s condition, but there was only so little that she could do in terms of the parasite bite in his chest. The man lay there on the bloody mattress in the bedroom, tangled in damp sheets, covered in his own sweat and blood from the ceaselessly bleeding and puss from the wound that wouldn’t heal no matter what. His scraped up face from being ground by a cheese grater (not that Odd had any recollection of that) no longer left a mark as a reminder.
However, Odd Thomas was still dying. Not by his body, but by what the bite was consuming of him, swallowing what little there was left of the man. His shallow breath proved to be the only indicator that he was even still alive. Fallen deep into a coma, feverish, too sick to even vomit; what had him now was surely killing him. And at a much faster rate than the bite wound had once been murdering his friend, James Sunderland, during a time that felt like lifetimes ago.
Odd does not dream in his coma. He is not even hanging out in the same rooftop where he sits eating ice cream and engaging in a casual, refreshing conversation with one of the most questionable friends he’d had in this entire damn city. And yet he misses him. He misses them all. They’re gone now. He doesn’t even have the city sunset in his mind’s eye to comfort him.
Where he is now, it’s very cold and dark-and he is very much alone. And in his silent solitude he is terrified.
Content: Odd Thomas finally gets his crab bite healed. But at what cost?
Location: St. Patrick’s Cathedral; Odd’s Room.
Time of day: Backdated to take place not long after this wonderful incident.
Warnings: Violent aftermath and trauma.
Taking into considering on what Odd Thomas had been through, any damage done to the man’s psyche was right there on the table. Sure, he had endured plenty during his stay in Manhattan. Chased throughout the city by an army of crab parasites, stabbed by church pews, had a building fall on top of him, punctured by a pipe through his lung, and far as he knew he still had very little feeling in his right arm to speak of. Not that it registered now to his comatose mind.
Who would’ve thought that his end would have been so soon?
It’s not the end.
Oh. Right.
At a glance, there did not seem to be much left of the man, Odd Thomas. The healing done by Boriane had done quite a favor on Odd’s condition, but there was only so little that she could do in terms of the parasite bite in his chest. The man lay there on the bloody mattress in the bedroom, tangled in damp sheets, covered in his own sweat and blood from the ceaselessly bleeding and puss from the wound that wouldn’t heal no matter what. His scraped up face from being ground by a cheese grater (not that Odd had any recollection of that) no longer left a mark as a reminder.
However, Odd Thomas was still dying. Not by his body, but by what the bite was consuming of him, swallowing what little there was left of the man. His shallow breath proved to be the only indicator that he was even still alive. Fallen deep into a coma, feverish, too sick to even vomit; what had him now was surely killing him. And at a much faster rate than the bite wound had once been murdering his friend, James Sunderland, during a time that felt like lifetimes ago.
Odd does not dream in his coma. He is not even hanging out in the same rooftop where he sits eating ice cream and engaging in a casual, refreshing conversation with one of the most questionable friends he’d had in this entire damn city. And yet he misses him. He misses them all. They’re gone now. He doesn’t even have the city sunset in his mind’s eye to comfort him.
Where he is now, it’s very cold and dark-and he is very much alone. And in his silent solitude he is terrified.