(no subject)
He can't remember the last time he was this cold: it had to be before the turn of the century, '98, maybe. It catches on his skin, seethes in his breath, at such odds with the tropical heat.
This is what it's like in his head, he thinks. It's hot and humid one day, maybe even for a week, maybe for a month, or six months, and then he closes his eyes for a second and the world freezes over. Looking over his shoulder at Jim's place, the cabin where his hut was a few days ago, he knows there's a warm bed to crawl back into, that the trek home is even more ridiculous in this weather, but that's the point, right? Keep his animals and his meds on the other side of the fucking island so he never has to settle in, never has to stay at Jim's for long.
He really doesn't know what he's doing, but he never has. Sometimes he thinks about Maritza and tries to miss her, does miss her, but he doesn't miss who he was at the time. He doesn't miss who he was in '98. If he disappears, finds himself on another fucked up island in the middle of nowhere, he doesn't know if he'd miss who he is with Jim either. He certainly doesn't miss the needy little boy he was with Jenny.
Sure, he hasn't lost his shit and cut anybody here, but he doesn't think they hand out humanitarian awards for that.
The dogs are up now--he can hear them through the door, at it, like they're trying to follow him. He could have a smoke, have some fresh air, then open that door again. Let them out for a piss and bring them all back to wake Jim up and get something to eat, breakfast or lunch, he can't read the sun any better than Jim can and he doesn't really care what time it is. It's just time to go, back to his safeguard, his lonely animals who need to be looked after just as much as those dogs. Need him more than Jim ever will, and it's a long walk if he doesn't ride that fucking train, but he pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt and stuffs his hands in his coat pockets and takes the first step. He loves the island, the sun and the animals, the people, but he hasn't seen snow in three, four years, and he's not going to waste the scenery now.
[Timed to mid-morning, find him anywhere between the Hidden Hamlet and the Compound. ST is par for the course and late tags accepted through the weekend.]
This is what it's like in his head, he thinks. It's hot and humid one day, maybe even for a week, maybe for a month, or six months, and then he closes his eyes for a second and the world freezes over. Looking over his shoulder at Jim's place, the cabin where his hut was a few days ago, he knows there's a warm bed to crawl back into, that the trek home is even more ridiculous in this weather, but that's the point, right? Keep his animals and his meds on the other side of the fucking island so he never has to settle in, never has to stay at Jim's for long.
He really doesn't know what he's doing, but he never has. Sometimes he thinks about Maritza and tries to miss her, does miss her, but he doesn't miss who he was at the time. He doesn't miss who he was in '98. If he disappears, finds himself on another fucked up island in the middle of nowhere, he doesn't know if he'd miss who he is with Jim either. He certainly doesn't miss the needy little boy he was with Jenny.
Sure, he hasn't lost his shit and cut anybody here, but he doesn't think they hand out humanitarian awards for that.
The dogs are up now--he can hear them through the door, at it, like they're trying to follow him. He could have a smoke, have some fresh air, then open that door again. Let them out for a piss and bring them all back to wake Jim up and get something to eat, breakfast or lunch, he can't read the sun any better than Jim can and he doesn't really care what time it is. It's just time to go, back to his safeguard, his lonely animals who need to be looked after just as much as those dogs. Need him more than Jim ever will, and it's a long walk if he doesn't ride that fucking train, but he pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt and stuffs his hands in his coat pockets and takes the first step. He loves the island, the sun and the animals, the people, but he hasn't seen snow in three, four years, and he's not going to waste the scenery now.
[Timed to mid-morning, find him anywhere between the Hidden Hamlet and the Compound. ST is par for the course and late tags accepted through the weekend.]