(no subject)
There's a part of Elvis that's surprised to wake up where he does, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar hut, acquired mostly because there was no way in hell he was going to spend the night with a bunch of strangers. Of all the things he's learned since showing up here - too many to really try to process - the one that's made an impression is this apparent notion of a blank slate, the idea that the past doesn't matter here. What he takes from that is that no one here will know about the stories reporting him to be a necrophiliac, and that anyone who did wouldn't be able to hold it against him; he doesn't care. He's still no more inclined to be around people he doesn't know, especially not when it's still so clear what he tried to do before landing on a stranger's floor, the signs of it evident in bruises around his neck. Talking isn't as bad as he thought it might be, but it still hurts like a bitch.
He dreams about it, too, wakes up gasping for breath, still half-convinced he's being strangled, but that initial panic subsides quickly. (He's been assured that he's alive, and he believes it. That's all he needs.) Even so, he thinks it probably adds to the feeling of being disoriented that sets in right away, leaves him looking around the small room like he's never seen it before. He'll have to get used to it eventually, not about to put any stock in the prospect of being taken back home agin any time soon, but he's too far away from that now and doesn't really care enough to try.
It's just that the light's different. Which is a strange sort of thing to notice, he knows, but the way this looks, it almost doesn't seem natural, a brilliant yellow-gold that streams in from the windows, illuminating the whole place, too bright for the hour of morning he imagines it to be. Rubbing at his eyes, he squints against it, hauling himself out of bed mostly because it seems useless to try to get back to sleep with all of this.
In retrospect, looking out the window, he probably should have seen it coming.
The first time Elvis saw a field of sunflowers that didn't belong, they saved his life. This time, the second time, they're no less a miracle, seeds for them probably not even having been planted in island dirt, but it's a lot harder to see it that way. The hope they're representative of is a world away from him now, the life he decided not to leave no longer his own. He lived, and he's damn glad that he did, but being here, it may as well have not been the case at all. He's farther away from all of it than he would have been even if he'd gone through with the mistake he so very nearly made. Now, he can't tell if the flowers following him here is meant to be another sign of hope or a taunt, a reminder of the chance he never got to take, and probably never will.
Still, they did save his life, and for that, he can't help being grateful for the way they've apparently sprung up out of nowhere yet again, barely able to look away. There's an allure in the flowers that's reminiscent of Anabelle herself, like they're a part of her, like she's the one who planted them here. Now, it's the closest to her that he'll ever get. At least it's something.
Leaving the hut and walking out into the field isn't exactly a conscious decision, but rather an instinct, a magnetic pull drawing him into the middle of them. The light off the vivid yellow petals is almost blinding now that he's surrounded by the flowers, but he doesn't care, dropping to lie down on his back amidst them, fingers laced behind his head. They're here for him, of that he has no doubt; he might as well spend a little time in them.
He dreams about it, too, wakes up gasping for breath, still half-convinced he's being strangled, but that initial panic subsides quickly. (He's been assured that he's alive, and he believes it. That's all he needs.) Even so, he thinks it probably adds to the feeling of being disoriented that sets in right away, leaves him looking around the small room like he's never seen it before. He'll have to get used to it eventually, not about to put any stock in the prospect of being taken back home agin any time soon, but he's too far away from that now and doesn't really care enough to try.
It's just that the light's different. Which is a strange sort of thing to notice, he knows, but the way this looks, it almost doesn't seem natural, a brilliant yellow-gold that streams in from the windows, illuminating the whole place, too bright for the hour of morning he imagines it to be. Rubbing at his eyes, he squints against it, hauling himself out of bed mostly because it seems useless to try to get back to sleep with all of this.
In retrospect, looking out the window, he probably should have seen it coming.
The first time Elvis saw a field of sunflowers that didn't belong, they saved his life. This time, the second time, they're no less a miracle, seeds for them probably not even having been planted in island dirt, but it's a lot harder to see it that way. The hope they're representative of is a world away from him now, the life he decided not to leave no longer his own. He lived, and he's damn glad that he did, but being here, it may as well have not been the case at all. He's farther away from all of it than he would have been even if he'd gone through with the mistake he so very nearly made. Now, he can't tell if the flowers following him here is meant to be another sign of hope or a taunt, a reminder of the chance he never got to take, and probably never will.
Still, they did save his life, and for that, he can't help being grateful for the way they've apparently sprung up out of nowhere yet again, barely able to look away. There's an allure in the flowers that's reminiscent of Anabelle herself, like they're a part of her, like she's the one who planted them here. Now, it's the closest to her that he'll ever get. At least it's something.
Leaving the hut and walking out into the field isn't exactly a conscious decision, but rather an instinct, a magnetic pull drawing him into the middle of them. The light off the vivid yellow petals is almost blinding now that he's surrounded by the flowers, but he doesn't care, dropping to lie down on his back amidst them, fingers laced behind his head. They're here for him, of that he has no doubt; he might as well spend a little time in them.