(no subject)
There might not be such things as happy endings for men like Erik, but there is the certainty that there will always be a new beginning. Erik opens his eyes and draws in a sharp, panicked breath.
He sees the dark of his room rather than the crushing light from Schmidt's office. He smells the familiar musty scent of laundered cloths. He feels his heart beating so hard in his chest that it might kill a man and he stretches the length of his leg to assess his age. Tentatively, he reaches out and skims his fingers along the surfaces nearest to him. He touches the nightstand and the frame of the bed before moving to himself -- performing a cursory investigation of all the things that make him up. He takes into stock many things: he is no longer younger, he is not in the camps, and he -- well, he doesn't need to think about it. He doesn't want to think about the implications of what he's done and which actions have led him back to this strange hell.
Erik sits, slowly, and tries to excuse the leaden weight of his limbs. He does not wish to move, does not wish to speak, and even if he did, he is having difficulty prying any language from his mind but his native tongue. Erik stares at the door and wonders what he must do. Is there a protocol for these events? Is there someone he ought to report it to?
His hatred for Schmidt burns as strong as ever, but Erik finds that at this very moment, nothing can overpower his grief. Brushing a hand over his cheek, he finds that it is wet with evidence of a weakness that he has carried with him since he was only a boy -- love of his mother has always rendered him powerless and powerful, all at once. The tears come, as though summoned, and Erik chokes back a grieving sound as he leans forward to try and haul in one steady and long breath. He is alive, but with such crushing memories hanging over his shoulders, Erik is not sure whether to be grateful for such a thing.
He sees the dark of his room rather than the crushing light from Schmidt's office. He smells the familiar musty scent of laundered cloths. He feels his heart beating so hard in his chest that it might kill a man and he stretches the length of his leg to assess his age. Tentatively, he reaches out and skims his fingers along the surfaces nearest to him. He touches the nightstand and the frame of the bed before moving to himself -- performing a cursory investigation of all the things that make him up. He takes into stock many things: he is no longer younger, he is not in the camps, and he -- well, he doesn't need to think about it. He doesn't want to think about the implications of what he's done and which actions have led him back to this strange hell.
Erik sits, slowly, and tries to excuse the leaden weight of his limbs. He does not wish to move, does not wish to speak, and even if he did, he is having difficulty prying any language from his mind but his native tongue. Erik stares at the door and wonders what he must do. Is there a protocol for these events? Is there someone he ought to report it to?
His hatred for Schmidt burns as strong as ever, but Erik finds that at this very moment, nothing can overpower his grief. Brushing a hand over his cheek, he finds that it is wet with evidence of a weakness that he has carried with him since he was only a boy -- love of his mother has always rendered him powerless and powerful, all at once. The tears come, as though summoned, and Erik chokes back a grieving sound as he leans forward to try and haul in one steady and long breath. He is alive, but with such crushing memories hanging over his shoulders, Erik is not sure whether to be grateful for such a thing.