Stormcrow
Serf
- Local time
- Tomorrow 8:03 AM
- Messages
- 2
- Age
- 30
"Thick, with a heavy base..."
Daniel's hand held the glass below the light so the amber inside reflected a white that distracted him from the darkened room. He heard the roar of silence from the house surround him, occasionally broken by a moment's contemplation on his heartbeat. That brought the guilt that kept him drowning in the many bottles that now rested throughout the corridors and halls.
"Let's raise another glass, to the revo-lution!"
Off-key, as usual. Different shards of a multitude of half-remembered songs and poems were firing through his brain, aware they were masking the thoughts that kept chanting louder. The drawer to the right of the desk he sat seemed to radiate with warmth in his imagination. The heat seemed to grow, and grow - it must catch! It should burst with hostile flame! But it stayed dead as the tree it was built from, and silent as the house it occupied.
"You're too sad for me."
He turned so fast as he stood, his head swung his vision further with the whiskey's momentum. But the adrenaline that forced his movement gave it's reason: that was her. Not a memory, that was her! He launched over the chair and wrestled with the door and until he fell into the hallway with a haste that bundled him into a pile on the floor. He heard her mocking laughter.
"It's not funny!" He bellowed into the night. After three attempts he became upright once more, propped up against the wall.
"You're the joke. You should know."
A male voice pulled the colour from his face quicker than the yank in his gut that nearly doubled him over in fear. He was dead. Long dead, he'd seen him in his casket and stayed to watch them bury him, long after his brothers had made excuses to head home. Water, on his face, in his mouth, that would calm him down. He didn't know where the voices were speaking from but the kitchen should be further away from all of them.
Running water on his face brought the gooseflesh back to his arms, and when he tried to drink it only inflamed the abyss of fear in his core. He turned and rested against the sink, a damp hand brushing back his hair, the noise of his heartbeat beginning to fade.
"What a fucking disgrace."
The outback tones rang true - it has to be him, but it can't be! The liquor decided he needed defending, if only so he could drink more. He scrambled for the draw, pulling out a paring knife as he darted about the room. "Where are you! Where are you old bastard, you piece of…" Tears helped close his throat in a gulping pain. "Leave me alone! Leave me the hell alone!" The knife became a projectile, clattering off the far wall. The voiced echoed back a reply.
"Even in dying you're wasting my time."
All the fear that had him wound up, all the guilt that had him locked down ceased to be chilled. Bubbling, fierce and hateful anger began to spill over, that had his face turn scarlet. His voice started quiet that reached a haranguing pitch.
"Fuck you. Fuck you! You said I was nothing but you're dead, you're gone - and we're all glad!" The beginnings of a relieved smile crept out. But not for long.
"And soon you will be too."
The fire left him, and returned to the drawer in his room. "Shut up!"
It must be taking over the room, the house must be a screaming inferno. "Stop it!"
It offered him the greeting of a friend. An escape. "Please…"
He walked like a free man through the corridor again. "It's okay…"
He stood in the room, and stared into the drawer. "A little more time". He closed his eyes and stepped back, and when his calves reached the bed, he fell into it, and then into sleep. The only place he was free. Another day, until tomorrow.
Daniel's hand held the glass below the light so the amber inside reflected a white that distracted him from the darkened room. He heard the roar of silence from the house surround him, occasionally broken by a moment's contemplation on his heartbeat. That brought the guilt that kept him drowning in the many bottles that now rested throughout the corridors and halls.
"Let's raise another glass, to the revo-lution!"
Off-key, as usual. Different shards of a multitude of half-remembered songs and poems were firing through his brain, aware they were masking the thoughts that kept chanting louder. The drawer to the right of the desk he sat seemed to radiate with warmth in his imagination. The heat seemed to grow, and grow - it must catch! It should burst with hostile flame! But it stayed dead as the tree it was built from, and silent as the house it occupied.
"You're too sad for me."
He turned so fast as he stood, his head swung his vision further with the whiskey's momentum. But the adrenaline that forced his movement gave it's reason: that was her. Not a memory, that was her! He launched over the chair and wrestled with the door and until he fell into the hallway with a haste that bundled him into a pile on the floor. He heard her mocking laughter.
"It's not funny!" He bellowed into the night. After three attempts he became upright once more, propped up against the wall.
"You're the joke. You should know."
A male voice pulled the colour from his face quicker than the yank in his gut that nearly doubled him over in fear. He was dead. Long dead, he'd seen him in his casket and stayed to watch them bury him, long after his brothers had made excuses to head home. Water, on his face, in his mouth, that would calm him down. He didn't know where the voices were speaking from but the kitchen should be further away from all of them.
Running water on his face brought the gooseflesh back to his arms, and when he tried to drink it only inflamed the abyss of fear in his core. He turned and rested against the sink, a damp hand brushing back his hair, the noise of his heartbeat beginning to fade.
"What a fucking disgrace."
The outback tones rang true - it has to be him, but it can't be! The liquor decided he needed defending, if only so he could drink more. He scrambled for the draw, pulling out a paring knife as he darted about the room. "Where are you! Where are you old bastard, you piece of…" Tears helped close his throat in a gulping pain. "Leave me alone! Leave me the hell alone!" The knife became a projectile, clattering off the far wall. The voiced echoed back a reply.
"Even in dying you're wasting my time."
All the fear that had him wound up, all the guilt that had him locked down ceased to be chilled. Bubbling, fierce and hateful anger began to spill over, that had his face turn scarlet. His voice started quiet that reached a haranguing pitch.
"Fuck you. Fuck you! You said I was nothing but you're dead, you're gone - and we're all glad!" The beginnings of a relieved smile crept out. But not for long.
"And soon you will be too."
The fire left him, and returned to the drawer in his room. "Shut up!"
It must be taking over the room, the house must be a screaming inferno. "Stop it!"
It offered him the greeting of a friend. An escape. "Please…"
He walked like a free man through the corridor again. "It's okay…"
He stood in the room, and stared into the drawer. "A little more time". He closed his eyes and stepped back, and when his calves reached the bed, he fell into it, and then into sleep. The only place he was free. Another day, until tomorrow.