(no subject)
His whole life was a lie.
The only thing he’d learned in the thirty-three days since the whole world had been torn out from under him was the layout of the cracks and water stains on the ceiling over his bed. It took him twenty minutes to peel himself out of bed that morning-
No, wait. It wasn’t morning. The alarm went off at seven-thirty, like always, and he’d hit snooze. It’s funny how, in grief, you’ll lose entire chunks of your day. It’s funny how you can spend hours replaying the same moment over and over in your head, picking it apart and putting it back together, hoping that it will finally make sense, but it never does. None of it makes sense, but you keep trying, because what else is there to do?
It was noon when he peeled himself up out of bed. Shuffling to the bathroom, he glared at himself in the mirror while he took a piss -- Look at you, you pathetic loser. -- then he stood staring at the shower, hearing the ghost of her laughter echoing off the tile walls, then finally let out a bitter snort, grabbing his bathrobe from the hook on the door and throwing it on over his boxers.
He’d remembered to put on shoes this time, which was an improvement.
Everything happened on autopilot. He came out of the convenience store with booze and Twinkies, one step away from the clichéd carton of Ben and Jerry’s and Julia Roberts DVD, the bag dangling loosely from one hand while he made his march of shame back to his apartment.
The worst part of it all… there were couples everywhere. Everyone was so goddamn happy, so oblivious to the fact that world had ended and that nothing would ever be bright or beautiful or good ever again. Bunch of assholes.
“Get a room!” he shouted at… somebody. He didn’t even care. He was to be laughed at and pitied and avoided, wandering the streets of LA in a crusty bathrobe with a sack full of Hostess and Jack Daniels, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be embarrassed.
Turning forward, he stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk, his foot coming down hard in a shower of… sand.
Sand.
“Oh, great,” he muttered, stepping out of his sandal and chucking it angrily at the sparkling blue ocean that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
To top it all off, now he was officially crazy. Perfect.
[[First person who finds him gets to explain things, the rest can find him wandering the beach, still in his bathrobe, feeling sorry for himself. And yeah, Tom is the spittin' image of Neil McCormick, but since he's about 6 years older, there are a lot of minor differences your pup would eventually notice if they know Neil. ST/LT/ANY TAGS welcome.]]
The only thing he’d learned in the thirty-three days since the whole world had been torn out from under him was the layout of the cracks and water stains on the ceiling over his bed. It took him twenty minutes to peel himself out of bed that morning-
No, wait. It wasn’t morning. The alarm went off at seven-thirty, like always, and he’d hit snooze. It’s funny how, in grief, you’ll lose entire chunks of your day. It’s funny how you can spend hours replaying the same moment over and over in your head, picking it apart and putting it back together, hoping that it will finally make sense, but it never does. None of it makes sense, but you keep trying, because what else is there to do?
It was noon when he peeled himself up out of bed. Shuffling to the bathroom, he glared at himself in the mirror while he took a piss -- Look at you, you pathetic loser. -- then he stood staring at the shower, hearing the ghost of her laughter echoing off the tile walls, then finally let out a bitter snort, grabbing his bathrobe from the hook on the door and throwing it on over his boxers.
He’d remembered to put on shoes this time, which was an improvement.
Everything happened on autopilot. He came out of the convenience store with booze and Twinkies, one step away from the clichéd carton of Ben and Jerry’s and Julia Roberts DVD, the bag dangling loosely from one hand while he made his march of shame back to his apartment.
The worst part of it all… there were couples everywhere. Everyone was so goddamn happy, so oblivious to the fact that world had ended and that nothing would ever be bright or beautiful or good ever again. Bunch of assholes.
“Get a room!” he shouted at… somebody. He didn’t even care. He was to be laughed at and pitied and avoided, wandering the streets of LA in a crusty bathrobe with a sack full of Hostess and Jack Daniels, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be embarrassed.
Turning forward, he stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk, his foot coming down hard in a shower of… sand.
Sand.
“Oh, great,” he muttered, stepping out of his sandal and chucking it angrily at the sparkling blue ocean that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
To top it all off, now he was officially crazy. Perfect.
[[First person who finds him gets to explain things, the rest can find him wandering the beach, still in his bathrobe, feeling sorry for himself. And yeah, Tom is the spittin' image of Neil McCormick, but since he's about 6 years older, there are a lot of minor differences your pup would eventually notice if they know Neil. ST/LT/ANY TAGS welcome.]]