[week 16, day 2, midmorning // dream] and now i wonder
((ooc: contains.. vague blood and violence. idk, man. won't be replying for another 5-6 hours.))
It's a series of snippets, flashes of a memory-- or memories, as the case seems to be --of a life, or of several lives. The colors are bright and solid, vibrant and lively.
There's two boys, the oldest being barely 8 or 9 years old with a ponytail that reaches midback, held up with a red ribbon. The younger is crouched down, bright russet hair standing up messily as he fiddles with something on the ground. The older sibling-- their faces are not visible, but there's the odd feeling that they're related somehow --cocks his head and leans over the younger one.
When he looks up, they both laugh at a silent, untold joke, and trot off towards a falsely colored bright pink house. The younger boy has a jar in one hand, his other one holding his brother's hand as he tugs him up the beaten down yellow dirt road.
Their backs are turned, but they're smiling.
He's older now, the boy with the long hair. 10? 11? It's hard to tell. He has his books in his arms, a schoolbag slung over his shoulder. His eyes are the same bright russet as his hair, the same as his younger brother's. He walks over the threshold of the front door. The inside is just as brightly colored as the outside, just as flat and solid and vibrant, so vibrant, like a clown has gone and put his make-up on everything, lit up all the lights, turned the sun on indefinitely.
The boy stops in front of a bright orange door, glances at the bright yellow handle, and looks down to the trail of bright red trickling out from under the door. Horror flashes through for all of a moment.
The boy with the spiked hair is walking away now, following a yellow and purple ball-- it's equally rotund arms are grasping a pink umbrella topped with an orange orb --down a gray cobblestone path. The red ribbon tied around his neck flashes, trails in the breeze, and he turns back briefly to look at his older brother. His hair is held up with a black hair tie.
A door closes. No longer is it a bright, playful orange, but a dull muted brown.
The boy is there again-- no, man. How old is he? 15, perhaps? 16? The one who answers the door looks 16. Or 17. His hair is as long as it has always been, and his eyes are still as brown.
His brother's eyes are a bright, glowing yellow. He holds out a hand, wraps his fingers around his older brother's wrist, slips down to hold his hand. Comfort and warmth, the feeling of normalcy.
And then they are running, running, running down a yellow brick road that fades into black, past the pastel-colored stores and houses and large violet orbs that cry at him and wave their appendages around. The giant yellow and purple ball is rolling after them.
Desperation.
Something flashes, and for all of a second, everything is white.
A young man with long hair, holding an empty glove in his hand. A blot of red on the ground, a splatter of color on his boots. His expression is.. curious. Blank. Owlish, even.
But there's an underlying hint of despair.
The ponytail falls into the blot, rippling the surface, soaking in the dark red blood.
He steps over the puddle and continues walking down the gray cobblestone road, glove clenched in his hand.
Keep walking.
[the screen jolts with a screech and a chitter, and all that's on screen is a close up of an acorn.]
Hey now, be careful with that.
[tiny little paws pick up the acorn, and the squirrel chitters at the screen, flicks its tail, and darts up the nearby tree.
there's a sigh, and Mana shows up on screen, picking up the Hitomi with one hand and raking the other through his hair. he blinks at the device, noticing that it's on and recording, and pastes on a customary smile.]
Ah, good morning. I hope my little friend didn't give you too much of a rude awakening.
[he fiddles with it for a moment, then finally manages to turn it off mid-yawn.]
It's a series of snippets, flashes of a memory-- or memories, as the case seems to be --of a life, or of several lives. The colors are bright and solid, vibrant and lively.
There's two boys, the oldest being barely 8 or 9 years old with a ponytail that reaches midback, held up with a red ribbon. The younger is crouched down, bright russet hair standing up messily as he fiddles with something on the ground. The older sibling-- their faces are not visible, but there's the odd feeling that they're related somehow --cocks his head and leans over the younger one.
When he looks up, they both laugh at a silent, untold joke, and trot off towards a falsely colored bright pink house. The younger boy has a jar in one hand, his other one holding his brother's hand as he tugs him up the beaten down yellow dirt road.
Their backs are turned, but they're smiling.
He's older now, the boy with the long hair. 10? 11? It's hard to tell. He has his books in his arms, a schoolbag slung over his shoulder. His eyes are the same bright russet as his hair, the same as his younger brother's. He walks over the threshold of the front door. The inside is just as brightly colored as the outside, just as flat and solid and vibrant, so vibrant, like a clown has gone and put his make-up on everything, lit up all the lights, turned the sun on indefinitely.
The boy stops in front of a bright orange door, glances at the bright yellow handle, and looks down to the trail of bright red trickling out from under the door. Horror flashes through for all of a moment.
The boy with the spiked hair is walking away now, following a yellow and purple ball-- it's equally rotund arms are grasping a pink umbrella topped with an orange orb --down a gray cobblestone path. The red ribbon tied around his neck flashes, trails in the breeze, and he turns back briefly to look at his older brother. His hair is held up with a black hair tie.
A door closes. No longer is it a bright, playful orange, but a dull muted brown.
The boy is there again-- no, man. How old is he? 15, perhaps? 16? The one who answers the door looks 16. Or 17. His hair is as long as it has always been, and his eyes are still as brown.
His brother's eyes are a bright, glowing yellow. He holds out a hand, wraps his fingers around his older brother's wrist, slips down to hold his hand. Comfort and warmth, the feeling of normalcy.
And then they are running, running, running down a yellow brick road that fades into black, past the pastel-colored stores and houses and large violet orbs that cry at him and wave their appendages around. The giant yellow and purple ball is rolling after them.
Desperation.
Something flashes, and for all of a second, everything is white.
A young man with long hair, holding an empty glove in his hand. A blot of red on the ground, a splatter of color on his boots. His expression is.. curious. Blank. Owlish, even.
But there's an underlying hint of despair.
The ponytail falls into the blot, rippling the surface, soaking in the dark red blood.
He steps over the puddle and continues walking down the gray cobblestone road, glove clenched in his hand.
Keep walking.
[the screen jolts with a screech and a chitter, and all that's on screen is a close up of an acorn.]
Hey now, be careful with that.
[tiny little paws pick up the acorn, and the squirrel chitters at the screen, flicks its tail, and darts up the nearby tree.
there's a sigh, and Mana shows up on screen, picking up the Hitomi with one hand and raking the other through his hair. he blinks at the device, noticing that it's on and recording, and pastes on a customary smile.]
Ah, good morning. I hope my little friend didn't give you too much of a rude awakening.
[he fiddles with it for a moment, then finally manages to turn it off mid-yawn.]