Keeping open weary eyes
Sunday, June 13
The Whitechapel, Front Desk
Sometimes it seems that I've spent half my life traveling under the open sky, sleeping under trees, in rocky overhangs, in clefts gouged from the rocky ground with the heel of a boot. It's always an adjustment, coming back to civilization, and the lack of continuity from settlement to settlement doesn't help matters much. Some places have running water and clean sheets. Others... well, let's just say that dysentery might actually be the least of your worries.
Still, I'm guardedly happy for the chance to sleep in an actual bed again. Weakness of the flesh, I know. Even the availability of luxury has a tendency to erode discipline, though I've generally found the benefits of the occasional indulgence to be worth the cost.
I deserve it. I haven't lost my focus in a decade and a half.
When I tie Memory out front of the Whitechapel, I leave her mouth no more than three inches from the rail. After a moment's thought, I hobble her as well. I'd bloody blindfold her too, but she tends not to take it well. "There, there, girl," I murmur, rubbing her ear. She snorts and rolls her dark eyes at me, but it's all she can do. "Be good."
I make my way into the building, adjusting my habit as I go. "Hello?"
(Open)