[four]

Sep 21, 2009 10:20

An entire, quiet week. Gabriel went to work, he came home, avoided his drone wife, read at the library, stopped for a glass of wine or four at the pub, came home to his drone wife blandly berating him for missing dinner and then heating up food anyway.

Each night she wanted to 'make love'. He would have been fine with that except for the whole butcher-knife incident during being locked in a bedroom with her and the other since-unseen 'other woman'. Instead, he told her he had a migraine and she ended up in a righteous snit, going to sleep on the other side of the bed with her back to him. This was awesome. The insomnia was not.

After two or three hours of fitful sleep, he'd slip out of bed and downstairs to either walk the looping streets, or he'd sit wrapped in a blanket on the couch and listen to the voices on the phone, staring out through the plate glass window into the always-perfect moonlit night. The voices were the only thing that anchored him to some sort of convoluted reality. Even so, the blandness and the feeling of being caged in some sort of social and/or psychological experiment was making him feel like he was going mad.

Sunday was a breaking point, albeit a small one. Gabriel didn't come home until very late, having decided to drink himself into near oblivion at the pub. He stumbled home, finding the wife in bed. The thought of food made him feel like he'd lose all the wine he'd drank. He went upstairs, changed into his usual pajama pants, and slipped into bed, lying on his back.

Where have you been? The tone was icy.

"Out, I have a migraine. Good night, dear." This was apparently a mistake because the next thing he knew, the drone had rolled atop him, pinning him with strength he didn't realize she had.

I think you are lying to me, dear. I think you don't love me anymore. I think you need to prove to me that you love me. I think you should do this now.

Thinking of the knife and the possibilities behind it, he gave in. For a day and a half afterwards, he took several hot showers, scrubbing until his skin was red. Geh.

On Friday evening while going through the mail, he'd found a large envelope with the address precicely written on it. There was no return address, like most of the post they received. Inside was a short letter informing him that he would receive a gift within the next day or so in recognition of his past accomplishment (whatever that was). It was signed by The Mayor of Mayfield. Right. He'd tossed it into the pile with the bills and forgot about it. Until Monday morning.

Staring at himself in the mirror, shirtless, he gaped. Old scars, running up and down his arms, over his chest, crawling up his neck, all sizes and flavors. Burns, wounds, surgical scars, all familiar. A roadmap of his prior life. So this is my 'gift'. Jesus Christ. At least he could cover nearly all of them with clothing.

And yet, it was truly a gift. It was a constant reminder of who he was, is, would always be. It brought him back to the question: What is this all about?

No answers.

[now you can has voice/action/insanity/whatever]

I received a 'gift'. It makes me wonder, yet again, why we're here and what this is all about.

And if perhaps maybe we're dead and this is Hell.

four, fourfoldroots, miss_enma_ai, braided_icarus, serverofshota, ohmytenth, bustydefense, novicexpert, gift, 1dashingrogue

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