(no subject)
Charlie Crews is on the roof of the compound.
With him, he has a long branch and a knife, with which he is carving the branch into a comb for the zen garden, a few scraggly teeth taking shape at one end. He's skinning the bark from the length of the branch at the moment, each movement smooth and graceful, but precise, too. He's been taking good care of the garden ever since it fell into his sole possession.
He likes the roof because of how close it is to the sun. It doesn't come close to the heights some of the buildings in L.A. reached, sure, but it's close enough. Close enough that he spends time up there. anyway. He has always loved the sunlight, even if it does mean he goes through sunscreens more quickly than he should. (Thank god for the clinic and its little wonders.)
His skin is a little red. (He's been sitting on the roof for maybe half an hour now.) There's perspiration on his brow. Neither seems to bother him terribly much. Very little does, these days. His trance only breaks when his hand slips.
The blade meets his thumb. The cut is small, invisible against his skin, but blood wells up, the red dot growing on his pale skin. He stares down at it for a moment before standing up, taking his knife and the half-finished zen comb in his other hand. Down to the kitchen, he thinks, to wash away the blood. He doesn't remember the last time his own blood was spilled. (This is fine, he thinks. It's not the sort of memory he likes to dwell on. Not anymore, at any rate. Charlie Crews has never been one to let a grudge go easily, but he's been trying to change. There is no one here who deserves his ire.)
(But Nebikov had to die.)
He makes his way down to the kitchen with little fanfare, and stops as soon as he reaches the sink, placing the knife and branch on the counter and starting to run his thumb under the tap.
With him, he has a long branch and a knife, with which he is carving the branch into a comb for the zen garden, a few scraggly teeth taking shape at one end. He's skinning the bark from the length of the branch at the moment, each movement smooth and graceful, but precise, too. He's been taking good care of the garden ever since it fell into his sole possession.
He likes the roof because of how close it is to the sun. It doesn't come close to the heights some of the buildings in L.A. reached, sure, but it's close enough. Close enough that he spends time up there. anyway. He has always loved the sunlight, even if it does mean he goes through sunscreens more quickly than he should. (Thank god for the clinic and its little wonders.)
His skin is a little red. (He's been sitting on the roof for maybe half an hour now.) There's perspiration on his brow. Neither seems to bother him terribly much. Very little does, these days. His trance only breaks when his hand slips.
The blade meets his thumb. The cut is small, invisible against his skin, but blood wells up, the red dot growing on his pale skin. He stares down at it for a moment before standing up, taking his knife and the half-finished zen comb in his other hand. Down to the kitchen, he thinks, to wash away the blood. He doesn't remember the last time his own blood was spilled. (This is fine, he thinks. It's not the sort of memory he likes to dwell on. Not anymore, at any rate. Charlie Crews has never been one to let a grudge go easily, but he's been trying to change. There is no one here who deserves his ire.)
(But Nebikov had to die.)
He makes his way down to the kitchen with little fanfare, and stops as soon as he reaches the sink, placing the knife and branch on the counter and starting to run his thumb under the tap.