(no subject)
Since he's awoken back to himself, Erik has been busy trying to shake the feeling of frustration that sinks down into his very bones. He's tried running, he's sought books to ease his mind, but the irritation always returns. His life has been toyed with and he'd grown weary of being manipulated to the whims of others a very long time ago.
Out of rote, he supposes he should find himself at the Winchester for a drink, but instead he's in the kitchen in the midst of equipment he's hesitant to use. He'd tried to rest and calm his mind, but all he could do was think of the day on the green at Charles' mansion. There's good, too, I felt it, running through his mind like an infuriating song. He doesn't feel very good, lately, especially not when he's surrounded by people ready to accuse him of a future he's yet to live. Yes, they might be vague about it, but good or bad, it's action yet to be fulfilled.
Can that really be true?
He's far more inclined to mark that as one more of Charles' naive fantasies, in which the world is far more filled with good than it truly is. Erik tries to set that aside as he stares at the bowl before him, filled with all the ingredients for latkes, aware of one thing: these will never be half as good as his mother used to make. Perhaps it's a futile task, but at the same time, it's better than another run or looking for answers to all of this in the bottom of a glass.
He stands in the kitchen, staring into a mixing bowl with a great deal of anguish and anger at the thought that those memories are all he has. The rest has been stolen from him. There is no midpoint between rage and serenity that will help him here -- merely the talents of a chef better equipped to deal with the ratio of flour to potatoes than he's ever remembered.
[All tags welcome through Wednesday]
Out of rote, he supposes he should find himself at the Winchester for a drink, but instead he's in the kitchen in the midst of equipment he's hesitant to use. He'd tried to rest and calm his mind, but all he could do was think of the day on the green at Charles' mansion. There's good, too, I felt it, running through his mind like an infuriating song. He doesn't feel very good, lately, especially not when he's surrounded by people ready to accuse him of a future he's yet to live. Yes, they might be vague about it, but good or bad, it's action yet to be fulfilled.
Can that really be true?
He's far more inclined to mark that as one more of Charles' naive fantasies, in which the world is far more filled with good than it truly is. Erik tries to set that aside as he stares at the bowl before him, filled with all the ingredients for latkes, aware of one thing: these will never be half as good as his mother used to make. Perhaps it's a futile task, but at the same time, it's better than another run or looking for answers to all of this in the bottom of a glass.
He stands in the kitchen, staring into a mixing bowl with a great deal of anguish and anger at the thought that those memories are all he has. The rest has been stolen from him. There is no midpoint between rage and serenity that will help him here -- merely the talents of a chef better equipped to deal with the ratio of flour to potatoes than he's ever remembered.
[All tags welcome through Wednesday]