I think I may have overdone it with sketching earlier this week – my wrist is killing me and it feels like my whole arm is on fire. Ow ow ow. I mean, worth it for the resulting drawings, but geez… even typing is difficult right now. Wrist brace + ibuprofen is a go, will use a hot pad later. Apologies if my replies are delayed as a result. I want to RP and my head feels great for it, finally, but argh tendonitis why!!!
((There is no guarantee that I will make it out of bed today. Pain and ambien hangovers are not a good combination. Ugh dying. Goodbye, world. I will miss you.))
.-.
The patterns on the ceiling were familiar. Textured scrapings of paint, put there intentionally to make it more aesthetically pleasing. The walls… they were familiar, too. He had spent a lot of time with them, this last couple of weeks… staring at them when he couldn’t sleep. Leaning against them for support when enough pain welled up to the surface again that his own legs could no longer hold him up. Hitting them when even that became too much. There were holes in the drywall that he’d have to explain whenever his mother came home again… but that didn’t really matter. All that mattered, right then, was that the sheets were still familiar, too. The fact that he could turn his head, move close to the pillow… and he could still smell him. Though it was fading with every day, he could still pick out the scent of soft cologne and earl gray… and the smell of his skin. Though the warmth was gone… and he knew it would never return. Just like the emptiness he’d never known was there before the detective had filled it would never recover from the loss and realization of its own inadequacy.
He’d always heard that there were worse things than death… and he understood what it meant, now.
Because he was the survivor.
She only nodded, strain evident on her face. A part of her had been wishing that maybe he would concede and allow her back into his arms but she scoffed at her own ridiculous idea. He would never and neither would she. Pride and determination would make sure of that.
As quickly as she could Akako turned on her heel, clumsier than usual, but managed to keep herself upright and striding away. There wasn’t any confidence ormalice in her step, just exhaustion and disappointment. “Try not to overwork yourself,” she called back hesitantly, not sure if she should say anything at all. But the deed was done. Now they could go back to normal…
Yes… back to normal.
The detective waited until she was gone, steeling himself against that compulsion to go after her, to stop her, to grasp her as he’d thought about countless times… and then he calmly gathered his things, checked the time on his pocket watch, and headed out for the day.
He had a friend/classmate to pick up for a trip to Tokyo. An afternoon to get away and distract himself from, well, himself.
Happy birthday, indeed.
