Bleeding Sepia [I]
I hate not writing. Fortunately, I have the solution. we_are_cities, and this prompt here.
So, hold onto your hats, dear readers, because once again I am writing without a clue!
They cast shadows like iron bars over his face. Their legs fill his vision, silhouetted black against the sepia of the street. He cannot bring himself to look up at their faces, to see who it is that has done this to him. To see which of his friends has allowed themselves to be dragged into this. He stays there, the sun-warmed concrete burning into his side, too late to run but still too soon to be caught.
This isn't how it was supposed to end. There was supposed to be a brilliant life somewhere in the middle of all this, between the blood of his rebirth and the cruelty of his eventual end. He was supposed to have been allowed to live, to make himself into a brilliant figurehead for this new world, this world that didn't believe in anything they couldn't see for themselves. He was supposed to have built himself an empire, resurrected the glory of his family and his name, forged something spectacular from the dregs and ashes of these broken people. He could have made them great.
Nobody moves. He stays still in denial, in desperate need for them to be the first to explain themselves, so that he can shoot down their rationale. They stay still, waiting for him to begin his excuses like he has so many times before. The only sounds are the pigeons in the nearby square, clucking and calling to one another. The cars have all stopped, caught in the mesh of such importance. No mere motor could bring itself to break this tension, this heavy waiting.
It's Patrick who breaks first. If you asked him, he would say that he hadn't broken, had just decided to shortcut this echoing emptiness that rolled discomfort over their skin and get to the point, but everyone tries to make themselves look better in hindsight.
(Peter thinks that it shouldn't have been Patrick who spoke, that he should have been silent, all the way to the end, but it seems right that he should be the one to explain.)
"It's not you. It's, well, it isn't exactly us either, um, it's kind of, like, all of us. And you. Um. " He doesn't sound sure of himself, but he never did. Peter lifts his face a little, enough that he can peer upwards through his lashes. None of them are looking at his face, but he taught them not to do that a long time ago, so it's expected. Patrick looks like a child, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, fiddling with the barrel of his gun like that could tell him the words he needs.
Victoria turns, just slightly, maybe to offer support or her words, but he's taken the chance already. Legs are up and beneath his body before they can blink, and he throws himself through the space between her and Alexander before they realise, making his way towards the populated areas. It takes them a beat to register his disappearance, and that makes them too late.
(In the sudden cacophony of voices that explode behind him, Peter tells himself that he's glad he can't hear Patrick's. If he heard his voice then he might have turned back around and let himself be led like a lamb, but he doesn't. He refuses to allow himself to speculate whether that silence is good or bad, and just pushes onwards.)
And now it appears that I'm going to have two different stories on the go; this one and TCOF. Bugger.
And while I'm here, I may as well dedicate this one. lou_star. This thing, and anything that it may spawn in the way of further chapters, are for you. Partly as a birthday present and partly because you're simply that awesome.
Okay?
So, hold onto your hats, dear readers, because once again I am writing without a clue!
They cast shadows like iron bars over his face. Their legs fill his vision, silhouetted black against the sepia of the street. He cannot bring himself to look up at their faces, to see who it is that has done this to him. To see which of his friends has allowed themselves to be dragged into this. He stays there, the sun-warmed concrete burning into his side, too late to run but still too soon to be caught.
This isn't how it was supposed to end. There was supposed to be a brilliant life somewhere in the middle of all this, between the blood of his rebirth and the cruelty of his eventual end. He was supposed to have been allowed to live, to make himself into a brilliant figurehead for this new world, this world that didn't believe in anything they couldn't see for themselves. He was supposed to have built himself an empire, resurrected the glory of his family and his name, forged something spectacular from the dregs and ashes of these broken people. He could have made them great.
Nobody moves. He stays still in denial, in desperate need for them to be the first to explain themselves, so that he can shoot down their rationale. They stay still, waiting for him to begin his excuses like he has so many times before. The only sounds are the pigeons in the nearby square, clucking and calling to one another. The cars have all stopped, caught in the mesh of such importance. No mere motor could bring itself to break this tension, this heavy waiting.
It's Patrick who breaks first. If you asked him, he would say that he hadn't broken, had just decided to shortcut this echoing emptiness that rolled discomfort over their skin and get to the point, but everyone tries to make themselves look better in hindsight.
(Peter thinks that it shouldn't have been Patrick who spoke, that he should have been silent, all the way to the end, but it seems right that he should be the one to explain.)
"It's not you. It's, well, it isn't exactly us either, um, it's kind of, like, all of us. And you. Um. " He doesn't sound sure of himself, but he never did. Peter lifts his face a little, enough that he can peer upwards through his lashes. None of them are looking at his face, but he taught them not to do that a long time ago, so it's expected. Patrick looks like a child, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, fiddling with the barrel of his gun like that could tell him the words he needs.
Victoria turns, just slightly, maybe to offer support or her words, but he's taken the chance already. Legs are up and beneath his body before they can blink, and he throws himself through the space between her and Alexander before they realise, making his way towards the populated areas. It takes them a beat to register his disappearance, and that makes them too late.
(In the sudden cacophony of voices that explode behind him, Peter tells himself that he's glad he can't hear Patrick's. If he heard his voice then he might have turned back around and let himself be led like a lamb, but he doesn't. He refuses to allow himself to speculate whether that silence is good or bad, and just pushes onwards.)
And now it appears that I'm going to have two different stories on the go; this one and TCOF. Bugger.
And while I'm here, I may as well dedicate this one. lou_star. This thing, and anything that it may spawn in the way of further chapters, are for you. Partly as a birthday present and partly because you're simply that awesome.
Okay?