(no subject)
OOC: I did a small bit of writing. And now we know why Jareth is messed up (those who didn't hear the story at some point already).
They walked down the street hand in hand, the woman and the boy, mother and son. He smiled up at her, and she smiled down. They passed the store, and she stopped. She looked inside, and she brought him with her as she went in. She talked and looked, and he waited in quiet. He wanted to stand outside, stand in the sun again. He wanted, and she let him. Outside the door, he waited. The sun was warm, and the air a caress. He closed his eyes. Only the sounds remained. Then one sound became all as the explosion reached him.
He looked, and the bus was fire. It coiled through, seeking, searing. The bus was not whole, anywhere the fire now burned. Metal - broken, twisted. Glass - shattered pieces, hurled and scattered. And there was blood. He saw it marking clothes, stone. It traced crimson across faces, and he saw only some sweep it away. Some made no move to. They did not move at all.
Fire and roar came again, bursting from the metal, bellowing. Pain slashed his arm, rising through other sensation for notice, demanding it. He looked, and there the blood was his, claimed for crimson, a line slowly dripping, spreading. Hands grasped him, and he knew the voice, matchless mother's fear. She turned him, gathered him to her before she she saw the fire and blood, but she had seen it an instant before. It was all there, still there, in the blue-gray eyes.
Jareth shuddered as he woke, drawing a breath involuntary and desperate. He sat up slowly, and his shivering nearly betrayed him. One hand dragged over his forehead, wiping the sweat from him. It moved farther, shaking its way through his hair, across his head. He drew up his knees, and his arms rested there as they enfolded him. Fingers rubbed over his arm - over the old scar. He slowly traced the line, only partly realizing the movement as he sat in the dark, staring into emptiness.
They walked down the street hand in hand, the woman and the boy, mother and son. He smiled up at her, and she smiled down. They passed the store, and she stopped. She looked inside, and she brought him with her as she went in. She talked and looked, and he waited in quiet. He wanted to stand outside, stand in the sun again. He wanted, and she let him. Outside the door, he waited. The sun was warm, and the air a caress. He closed his eyes. Only the sounds remained. Then one sound became all as the explosion reached him.
He looked, and the bus was fire. It coiled through, seeking, searing. The bus was not whole, anywhere the fire now burned. Metal - broken, twisted. Glass - shattered pieces, hurled and scattered. And there was blood. He saw it marking clothes, stone. It traced crimson across faces, and he saw only some sweep it away. Some made no move to. They did not move at all.
Fire and roar came again, bursting from the metal, bellowing. Pain slashed his arm, rising through other sensation for notice, demanding it. He looked, and there the blood was his, claimed for crimson, a line slowly dripping, spreading. Hands grasped him, and he knew the voice, matchless mother's fear. She turned him, gathered him to her before she she saw the fire and blood, but she had seen it an instant before. It was all there, still there, in the blue-gray eyes.
Jareth shuddered as he woke, drawing a breath involuntary and desperate. He sat up slowly, and his shivering nearly betrayed him. One hand dragged over his forehead, wiping the sweat from him. It moved farther, shaking its way through his hair, across his head. He drew up his knees, and his arms rested there as they enfolded him. Fingers rubbed over his arm - over the old scar. He slowly traced the line, only partly realizing the movement as he sat in the dark, staring into emptiness.