Spaces
Title: Spaces
author: janescott
Pairing: just some lonely musing in the mansion
Rating ... uh ... PG13? Maybe? Just angst really
Disclaimer: Don't own any part of the people in the story, no connection ... um ... my first time every writing fan-fic. I never even read fan-fic till a few weeks ago. Un-beta'd. I've read it 50 times, and I'm a copy-editor but you should never edit your own work. I'm babbling because it's 2am here and I can't believe I'm about to do this at all. If the cut doesn't work, I'm really sorry; I'm an LJ virgin.
Uh ... that's all I have. 552 words
It's the spaces that are hardest. The silences. Late at night; early in the morning. When there's nothing to do and no distractions.
The spaces. The spaces that you can't fill; with noise, with people, with … things. All you want to do is stuff all of the spaces until they choke, because that means it won't hurt any more.
But. Sometimes. Sometimes the spaces sneak up on you when you're not looking.
All he knows is that he's had a stomach ache since the start of this damn thing. And the bigger this gets, the worse the ache gets.
Here's the thing: you don't feel love in your heart. Your heart really is just a vessel for carrying blood around your body. It's just a muscle. You feel love _ and pain, and desire, and hate and all of the rest of the bullshit _ in your guts. Way down. It can cripple you if you don't _ if you don't fill the spaces.
And yet. He's taken to wandering the mansion at night; like a spirit that has worn away to nothing but this ache. It's not really him walking. It's the ache in the spaces. The spaces around the other contestants, the spaces inside the songs, the spaces in the waiting to see who will go next, the space inside his goddamn room _ those are the worst.
Spaces.
He sighs, untwists himself from his sheets as quietly as possible, lets himself out of the room, and heads for the kitchen. Not really hungry, or thirsty, but feeling like he needs a purpose. Somewhere to go, that's other than his room, which has been closing in on him for weeks. Ever since they had all moved in here, tell the truth. All 13; now down to five.
The mansion had always felt too big, too ridiculous, too Hollywood, even for him, who was used to big, ridiculous, and Hollywood. It was embarrassing, almost. And as their numbers whittled down, the spaces and the echoes got bigger, and bigger.
He felt as though the thing he was carrying around in his gut was echoing in the mansion. Normally restless and unable to sit still, he's taken to orienting himself in one spot night after night. The less he moves, the less space there is around him, and the less he has to feel.
He sits in the living room until all hours, watching movie after movie. It's like having stomach flu, where the slightest movement makes you feel like you're going to throw up. But this is so much worse. Because this won't run its course. He's stuck with it, for better or for worse.
The marriage analogy makes his lips quirk up in an ironic smile. He stretches his tall frame in the too-small kitchen chair, and mutters “fuck” as he catches the time on the microwave display. It's 4am.
Two choices: go back to his room, which is both too large, and too small, or fall asleep on the couch _ again …
Sighing, resigned, he heads for the couch, nests in with a blanket, and flicks on the TV.
He surfs until he finds some old movie _ Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, twirling around, eternally elegant; trapped in time and TV-land. Ageless, timeless, but somehow sad.
author: janescott
Pairing: just some lonely musing in the mansion
Rating ... uh ... PG13? Maybe? Just angst really
Disclaimer: Don't own any part of the people in the story, no connection ... um ... my first time every writing fan-fic. I never even read fan-fic till a few weeks ago. Un-beta'd. I've read it 50 times, and I'm a copy-editor but you should never edit your own work. I'm babbling because it's 2am here and I can't believe I'm about to do this at all. If the cut doesn't work, I'm really sorry; I'm an LJ virgin.
Uh ... that's all I have. 552 words
It's the spaces that are hardest. The silences. Late at night; early in the morning. When there's nothing to do and no distractions.
The spaces. The spaces that you can't fill; with noise, with people, with … things. All you want to do is stuff all of the spaces until they choke, because that means it won't hurt any more.
But. Sometimes. Sometimes the spaces sneak up on you when you're not looking.
All he knows is that he's had a stomach ache since the start of this damn thing. And the bigger this gets, the worse the ache gets.
Here's the thing: you don't feel love in your heart. Your heart really is just a vessel for carrying blood around your body. It's just a muscle. You feel love _ and pain, and desire, and hate and all of the rest of the bullshit _ in your guts. Way down. It can cripple you if you don't _ if you don't fill the spaces.
And yet. He's taken to wandering the mansion at night; like a spirit that has worn away to nothing but this ache. It's not really him walking. It's the ache in the spaces. The spaces around the other contestants, the spaces inside the songs, the spaces in the waiting to see who will go next, the space inside his goddamn room _ those are the worst.
Spaces.
He sighs, untwists himself from his sheets as quietly as possible, lets himself out of the room, and heads for the kitchen. Not really hungry, or thirsty, but feeling like he needs a purpose. Somewhere to go, that's other than his room, which has been closing in on him for weeks. Ever since they had all moved in here, tell the truth. All 13; now down to five.
The mansion had always felt too big, too ridiculous, too Hollywood, even for him, who was used to big, ridiculous, and Hollywood. It was embarrassing, almost. And as their numbers whittled down, the spaces and the echoes got bigger, and bigger.
He felt as though the thing he was carrying around in his gut was echoing in the mansion. Normally restless and unable to sit still, he's taken to orienting himself in one spot night after night. The less he moves, the less space there is around him, and the less he has to feel.
He sits in the living room until all hours, watching movie after movie. It's like having stomach flu, where the slightest movement makes you feel like you're going to throw up. But this is so much worse. Because this won't run its course. He's stuck with it, for better or for worse.
The marriage analogy makes his lips quirk up in an ironic smile. He stretches his tall frame in the too-small kitchen chair, and mutters “fuck” as he catches the time on the microwave display. It's 4am.
Two choices: go back to his room, which is both too large, and too small, or fall asleep on the couch _ again …
Sighing, resigned, he heads for the couch, nests in with a blanket, and flicks on the TV.
He surfs until he finds some old movie _ Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, twirling around, eternally elegant; trapped in time and TV-land. Ageless, timeless, but somehow sad.