You saw the darkness had no choice before the dawn
Who: Melchior Gabor
When: Afternoon
Where: The bar
What: Reminiscing, being lonely, the usual.
Melchior was in a good mood, believe it or not.
Rather than sitting at the bar he was perched on it, one foot resting on a bar stool and his journal sideways in his lap as he peered closely at an elaborate sketch that stretched across both pages, a pen in his hand. Brahms had been playing on the jukebox since he walked in and he wasn't going to argue with that.
Several books were strewn open on the bar in a fumble of a pile, forgotten, like a trail that followed him everywhere. None were in English. He mused, distantly, that it was sort of funny -- he had been rather quick and eager to try and slip into the hotel's language and liberal culture, but if left alone too long, holed up in his room which was now like a frightening cavern of restlessly half-read literature and abandoned projects to fill the time, he started to regress.
Honestly, Melchior was beginning to question his own behavior. Since the hotel -- no, even before the hotel, he had this feeling that he'd fallen from grace somehow, that he'd gone from having goals (progressively less impressive goals, but nonetheless) and a distinct purpose to some sort of vague, open-ended, and ultimately unpleasant existence. He cycled through periods of being very irritable and antisocial, and the loneliness was beginning to catch up with him.
In the beginning he had been devastated by losing Wendla and Moritz, and it was a long, dark road to coming to terms with their deaths. But now he missed something broader and different -- was realizing the absence of more than those two figures. He missed getting up every morning and sitting at the breakfast table. He missed sometimes doing Moritz's homework for him and coming up with a few incorrect answers so the teachers wouldn't get suspicious. He missed teasing Georg for being in love with his piano teacher, and complaining about the 60 lines of Homer due tomorrow, and falling off the raft into the river and coming home soaked. It was like he'd been ill lately and was now waking up feeling okay but starving for some food of substance.
So he sat on the bar and drew things from home.
When: Afternoon
Where: The bar
What: Reminiscing, being lonely, the usual.
Melchior was in a good mood, believe it or not.
Rather than sitting at the bar he was perched on it, one foot resting on a bar stool and his journal sideways in his lap as he peered closely at an elaborate sketch that stretched across both pages, a pen in his hand. Brahms had been playing on the jukebox since he walked in and he wasn't going to argue with that.
Several books were strewn open on the bar in a fumble of a pile, forgotten, like a trail that followed him everywhere. None were in English. He mused, distantly, that it was sort of funny -- he had been rather quick and eager to try and slip into the hotel's language and liberal culture, but if left alone too long, holed up in his room which was now like a frightening cavern of restlessly half-read literature and abandoned projects to fill the time, he started to regress.
Honestly, Melchior was beginning to question his own behavior. Since the hotel -- no, even before the hotel, he had this feeling that he'd fallen from grace somehow, that he'd gone from having goals (progressively less impressive goals, but nonetheless) and a distinct purpose to some sort of vague, open-ended, and ultimately unpleasant existence. He cycled through periods of being very irritable and antisocial, and the loneliness was beginning to catch up with him.
In the beginning he had been devastated by losing Wendla and Moritz, and it was a long, dark road to coming to terms with their deaths. But now he missed something broader and different -- was realizing the absence of more than those two figures. He missed getting up every morning and sitting at the breakfast table. He missed sometimes doing Moritz's homework for him and coming up with a few incorrect answers so the teachers wouldn't get suspicious. He missed teasing Georg for being in love with his piano teacher, and complaining about the 60 lines of Homer due tomorrow, and falling off the raft into the river and coming home soaked. It was like he'd been ill lately and was now waking up feeling okay but starving for some food of substance.
So he sat on the bar and drew things from home.