5 is 5 is 5
In honour of this being the fifth post
I chose to write the opening like this
-Pentameter, but not at any cost-
Write not about a hug, a shag, a kiss.
Will write about how lovely I do think
You all and awesome your artistic skills.
If you are looking for some fic, this link,
Will bring you to the page with all the fills.
-- Sorry, I simply am not patient ( Read more... )
I chose to write the opening like this
-Pentameter, but not at any cost-
Write not about a hug, a shag, a kiss.
Will write about how lovely I do think
You all and awesome your artistic skills.
If you are looking for some fic, this link,
Will bring you to the page with all the fills.
-- Sorry, I simply am not patient ( Read more... )
George was David’s first phone call upon the discovery of the empty wardrobe. The Chancellor, however, seemed disinclined to answer the telephone, presumably offended at the coarsely brusque email sent a few minutes before. David did not wish to pursue that course of action and therefore did not ring again. He therefore did not ring again, as he would had it been urgent, in any other circumstance.
With the eldest two children tucking into their somewhat overcooking dinner, and Neil making phonecalls, alerting the appropriate authorities, David escaped to the nursery to check upon Florence. In her cradle - no longer a cardboard box thanks to Nick’s assistance - Florence fretted, uncomfortable. In her squirming, her blankets had ridden downwards, until they were tangled at her feet. She gave a small cry at the sight of her father.
“I am sorry, darling. I know you want your mother, but she’s not here right now.” Carefully cradling the child, he lifted her into his arms, in an attempt to stop her whimpers. “So I’m going to have to do.” That information did not appear to soothe her and she gave another wail, both longer and louder than before. Draping a blanket around his daughter’s shoulders, David ventured back down the corridor to check upon the other children’s progress. He was rooting through the clutter on top of the hallway drawers to seek out a dummy for the youngest, on his way there, when his hand encountered a note he did not recognise. A note, addressed to him, in Sam’s handwriting.
“Fuck.” He was grateful that it was Florence in his arms and not any of the more coherent children, as he did not think that he could handle anymore lip from his children of all things given the strain he was under. Part of him wanted to race out into the sheets, calling his wife’s name at the top of his lungs, to the darkening evening sky. Another fraction of him desired nothing more than to curl up into a ball in a corner, until the situation was resolved, so that he was no longer convinced that his wife had left him for another man, or indeed another woman. Yet another portion yearned for a trip back to the past, to stop her leaving, to kiss her better when she was looking ill and wan and withdrawn as this morning, to keep her for himself. He knew well, however, that he could do none of those things. All he could do was shift his daughter into one arm, and flick the letter open with one hand.
His eyes scanned it quickly, and then he flipped it over, searching for more. There was no more. The note was repulsively short. It did not warrant an envelope.
David,
I’m leaving, to stay with my mum for a while. Don’t expect me back. I can’t take this anymore.
Samantha
His grip inadvertently tightened upon Florence, and she gave a squall of indignation at the treatment.
“Sorry darling,” David muttered, and let the note fall to the table.
“David?” Neil poked his head out from the kitchen.
“She left a note,” mumbled David, numbly gestured at said item. He did not stay to watch Neil read or digest the note, but instead escaped to the kitchen. He did not want to see.
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This is going to have me hooked, I just know it. Well. Nevermind. It already has.
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