attn: Christie
Gaheris hasn't tried to kill himself in quite some time, but he's getting that need again, the sick dull feeling in the pit of his stomach, the weariness with life, and too much time spent looking at his momentos and not working on his art.
But he isn't going to do it this time without the selkies, or at least one of the them (God, he'd better not be falling in love with them, because all that ever does is ruin what's left of his life, and besides he can't have them, you can never have selkies, he learned that true enough in Orkney). So he waits.
He waits until they remember him again, fully faithful that they will. He has a razor and a knife and an antique pistol and a few other things they can use, although he suspects they'll want the bloodiest means. While he's waiting, he concentrates on smoking his lungs black. Time will come. Always does.
But he isn't going to do it this time without the selkies, or at least one of the them (God, he'd better not be falling in love with them, because all that ever does is ruin what's left of his life, and besides he can't have them, you can never have selkies, he learned that true enough in Orkney). So he waits.
He waits until they remember him again, fully faithful that they will. He has a razor and a knife and an antique pistol and a few other things they can use, although he suspects they'll want the bloodiest means. While he's waiting, he concentrates on smoking his lungs black. Time will come. Always does.