[Semi-Open] I can't seem to say what I'm doing here
Who: Crawford, museum crew
What: Finally, Crawford comes back.
Where: The museum, more specifically the Shadow Gallery
When: Backdated to Sunday Night.
Warnings: None
Notes: Partially open. Anyone living in, staying at or stopping by the shadow gallery is welcome.
Crawford looked up at the stone structure before him. He'd mulled this idea over for far too long. For most of it, he tried to convince himself that he didn't want to go back, that he wouldn't belong there, that he never had belonged there. But the longer he thought about it, the harder it was to hold onto all the reasons it wouldn't work and he could only think of what he missed about living there. Even having been burned and thrown through a wall by one of the frequent visitors couldn't keep him from thinking of maybe wanting to go back.
He carried only his backpack and guitar case, one on his shoulder the other in his hand. He'd locked the apartment building he'd left behind, with his modified rooms and created furniture. He didn't really need to lock it, but some habits were hard to kick.
Lowering his head, he pressed through the main doors of the museum. He kept his head there, staring at the floor, ignoring the exhibits he passed. The newer ones were completely missed, even though they may have actually been interesting to him. He needed to get through this part before he could change his mind.
He passed the Oregon Trail exhibit. The wheel on the wagon had been repaired, but he refused to look at it, refused to think about being thrown through so many walls.
He stopped at the roped off door way, looking as though it were merely marking of an unused section, or some not-yet-ready exhibit. Fingers tightening on his backpack strap, he forced himself to step over the rope. Don't stop now, he told himself. You're going back and not turning back like scared little chicken shit.
A tremor of worry and fear passed over him as he stepped into the Shadow Gallery's main room. Had V told anyone he might be coming back>
What: Finally, Crawford comes back.
Where: The museum, more specifically the Shadow Gallery
When: Backdated to Sunday Night.
Warnings: None
Notes: Partially open. Anyone living in, staying at or stopping by the shadow gallery is welcome.
Crawford looked up at the stone structure before him. He'd mulled this idea over for far too long. For most of it, he tried to convince himself that he didn't want to go back, that he wouldn't belong there, that he never had belonged there. But the longer he thought about it, the harder it was to hold onto all the reasons it wouldn't work and he could only think of what he missed about living there. Even having been burned and thrown through a wall by one of the frequent visitors couldn't keep him from thinking of maybe wanting to go back.
He carried only his backpack and guitar case, one on his shoulder the other in his hand. He'd locked the apartment building he'd left behind, with his modified rooms and created furniture. He didn't really need to lock it, but some habits were hard to kick.
Lowering his head, he pressed through the main doors of the museum. He kept his head there, staring at the floor, ignoring the exhibits he passed. The newer ones were completely missed, even though they may have actually been interesting to him. He needed to get through this part before he could change his mind.
He passed the Oregon Trail exhibit. The wheel on the wagon had been repaired, but he refused to look at it, refused to think about being thrown through so many walls.
He stopped at the roped off door way, looking as though it were merely marking of an unused section, or some not-yet-ready exhibit. Fingers tightening on his backpack strap, he forced himself to step over the rope. Don't stop now, he told himself. You're going back and not turning back like scared little chicken shit.
A tremor of worry and fear passed over him as he stepped into the Shadow Gallery's main room. Had V told anyone he might be coming back>