MCA #1, Friday Morning
Henry spent his day off sprawled on the couch, paging through a Nabokov novel and resolutely ignoring the pile of luggage that was filling his living room.
It was varied, he'd give the island that. Four tiny red purses nestled at the top of the stack were marked MISCARRIAGES, numbered one through four. A peacock blue shoulder bag read, WORRY ABOUT ALBA. There was a blobby duffle bag labeled, CHANGING CLARE'S LIFE, with a tied-on accessory labeled AND NOT CALLING HER ENOUGH THESE DAYS.
There were others, too. The tags marked them as girlfriends Henry had cheated on (the INGRID one was the largest of those), fights he'd had for no good reason, things he'd stolen. A worn backpack that seemed as though it hadn't been opened in a while was marked DRUG AND ALCOHOL ABUSE. A small but startlingly heavy briefcase had the bold words KNOWLEDGE YOU WILL DIE YOUNG written on the side. The one marked DISAPPOINTED DAD was the anonymous kind of carry-on Henry suspected always got lost at bag claim.
The largest thing at the base of the pile was a trunk labeled MOM'S DEATH. There were destination stickers all over it with dates on them. Henry only had to read a few to realize the pattern: They were all real-time dates of days when he'd made the jump back to see the car crash.
They were sick, suffocating, and not at all funny. Henry was going to reread his novel, ignore his shaking hands, and hope they all went away soon.
[OOC: Establishy, but open for calls or visitors if anyone wants.]
It was varied, he'd give the island that. Four tiny red purses nestled at the top of the stack were marked MISCARRIAGES, numbered one through four. A peacock blue shoulder bag read, WORRY ABOUT ALBA. There was a blobby duffle bag labeled, CHANGING CLARE'S LIFE, with a tied-on accessory labeled AND NOT CALLING HER ENOUGH THESE DAYS.
There were others, too. The tags marked them as girlfriends Henry had cheated on (the INGRID one was the largest of those), fights he'd had for no good reason, things he'd stolen. A worn backpack that seemed as though it hadn't been opened in a while was marked DRUG AND ALCOHOL ABUSE. A small but startlingly heavy briefcase had the bold words KNOWLEDGE YOU WILL DIE YOUNG written on the side. The one marked DISAPPOINTED DAD was the anonymous kind of carry-on Henry suspected always got lost at bag claim.
The largest thing at the base of the pile was a trunk labeled MOM'S DEATH. There were destination stickers all over it with dates on them. Henry only had to read a few to realize the pattern: They were all real-time dates of days when he'd made the jump back to see the car crash.
They were sick, suffocating, and not at all funny. Henry was going to reread his novel, ignore his shaking hands, and hope they all went away soon.
[OOC: Establishy, but open for calls or visitors if anyone wants.]