(no subject)
I'm sitting in the sand.
I don't know how long I've been here.
I didn't run away, this time. We went home, after the fired died down, a small, wooden box of ashes held in Tom's hands. We had dinner. We sat in heavy, aching silence in the living room, Mike's absence hanging thick and suffocating between us. This home that had been warm and happy less than forty-eight hours ago gone unavoidably hollowed out and cold. I smoked a cigarette on the porch, then asked him if he wanted to go for a walk.
He told me to go on without him.
I'm sitting in the sand, in my funeral clothes, the sky dark and cloudless above me. It's a beautiful night. It seems odd to me that I can still notice shit like that, when the island feels less like a home to me then it has in years. Plans and dreams and a fucking future derailed, and I'm sitting alone, barefoot, shaky hands holding a cigarette to my lips.
Dusting sand from my clothes, I get to my feet, walking toward the sea until the salt water surges over my feet, soaking the hem of my pants. I stand in the shallows, sinking into wet sand with the flow of the tide, and I wonder, selfishly, what the fuck I'm supposed to do now.
[[Timed to late tonight. At this point, you can definitely assume that you've heard about what happened. As I said in my slated post, you're welcome to assume your pup was in attendance at Mike's funeral, but this will be the first opportunity they'll have gotten to really talk to him. Friends are especially needed right now, so don't hesitate to tag. ST/LT more than welcome. No limit.]]
I don't know how long I've been here.
I didn't run away, this time. We went home, after the fired died down, a small, wooden box of ashes held in Tom's hands. We had dinner. We sat in heavy, aching silence in the living room, Mike's absence hanging thick and suffocating between us. This home that had been warm and happy less than forty-eight hours ago gone unavoidably hollowed out and cold. I smoked a cigarette on the porch, then asked him if he wanted to go for a walk.
He told me to go on without him.
I'm sitting in the sand, in my funeral clothes, the sky dark and cloudless above me. It's a beautiful night. It seems odd to me that I can still notice shit like that, when the island feels less like a home to me then it has in years. Plans and dreams and a fucking future derailed, and I'm sitting alone, barefoot, shaky hands holding a cigarette to my lips.
Dusting sand from my clothes, I get to my feet, walking toward the sea until the salt water surges over my feet, soaking the hem of my pants. I stand in the shallows, sinking into wet sand with the flow of the tide, and I wonder, selfishly, what the fuck I'm supposed to do now.
[[Timed to late tonight. At this point, you can definitely assume that you've heard about what happened. As I said in my slated post, you're welcome to assume your pup was in attendance at Mike's funeral, but this will be the first opportunity they'll have gotten to really talk to him. Friends are especially needed right now, so don't hesitate to tag. ST/LT more than welcome. No limit.]]