Post by SV on Jul 21, 2007 22:24:35 GMT -5
Somewhere downtown, the courthouse clock struck seven o'clock.
The deep metallic peal echoed through the picturesque square, ushering the milling multitude back into their taxis and hotel rooms and apartment buildings. It echoed past the rows of businesses on and around Main Street and saw the last late-night businessmen lock their office doors. It fell unheard on the paper and leaves and cans that littered the catacombs of run-down buildings that housed tourist traps in the more seedy business districts. It lost its resonance through the spattering of apathetic rain that made its feeble attempt at the grime of the outer city streets. By the time it fell on Rhys' ears in a nameless, thoughtless café on a nameless, thoughtless street in some nameless, thoughtless part of town, it was hardly much more than a hindsight; but it didn't matter. Rhys stared down into his lukewarm coffee just as intently as he had when he heard the clock whisper four, or five, or six.
A tired looking barista, busy at the cash register, glanced over at the lone figure with its half-finished cold coffee and sighed, thinking briefly that the icy stare this man had fixed on this poor cup had probably turned it colder than the elapsed time between its purchase and now. He straightened, cleared his throat, and slammed the drawer shut. The vision at the table by the corner window might have blinked, he fancied, which was not the desired departure of his shop he had been hoping for. The barista sighed again, defeated. "Sir," he called, sounding much more timid than he meant and much less exasperated than he intended. "Sir, we close at seven on Sundays. Can I ask you to leave?"
Rhys was much too busy frowning at the grim shades the grimy light bulb above him cast on the table under his hands to hear this request. Nevertheless, he pushed away from the table and repositioned his narrow frames on the bridge of his nose, leaving his coffee cup wobbling pathetically on the table behind him. The barista opened his mouth to offer a weak thanks, but as Rhys pulled the door shut behind him, the abandoned lukewarm coffee tipped and promptly emptied its abandoned lukewarm contents on the grungy plane beneath it, where it dripped and pooled beside it on the floor. The barista sighed and close his eyes against a headache he could feel coming on as he turned around to find a rag.
Outside, Rhys removed his abused charcoal-grey hat to run a hand through his messy hair, noticing the precipitation offhandedly as he scanned the dusky sky for nothing in particular. His satisfaction in the gathering darkness was unannounced by his pensive glower. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and scowled at the debris below his feet as he started toward an unremarkable apartment complex silhouetted by the dregs of the setting sun.
I feel it. His eyes bore into the sidewalk before him. He's found me. Rhys ignored the way the shadows he cast on the walls seemed to loom above him, how the light from the streetlamps seemed too reluctant to reclaim its ground after he hastened across it, as he turned the corner into the foyer of his building. He made for the elevator.
The heavy doors closed behind him. Rhys punched the eighth floor button and leaned against the back wall, crossing his arms across his chest in one brisk motion. The fluorescent light flickered emphatically. Sadistically. "Laugh at me," he growled out loud, his voice muffled as the lift began. "Laugh, you bastard."
They'd been together at one time. They filled the void in one another that couldn't be filled by a romance, but only by an unspoken primal acceptance. Friends. But more than that. It couldn't be named or explained. Rhys taught him everything anyway, in a manner that needed no explanation. If it had, Rhys reasoned, he might have decided against it. The manipulation of shadows was a burden, yes. And I should have been – man – enough to bear it myself.
He glanced at the ring on his hand, his constant reminder of his own ineptitude. Only Rhys could remember how he pried it off her cold fingers as he laughed at him. Only Rhys knew how the blood still stained what should have always been virgin gold. I tried, he told himself, the way he had so many times before. The light flickered again, but he didn't blink as he stared himself down in the mirrored doors. Trying had never accomplished anything. Nothing real. Rhys had decided this long ago, when it happened, at the same time he decided this was his – cross – to bear…Alone.
But he was never truly alone. True solitude could never be achieved. The shadows were always with him. And you still make shapes in the shadows ---
The elevator doors opened to reveal a narrow corridor flanked with doors and capped with a filmy window. Fishing a key from his pocket, he stepped out and down the hall, found his room, and let himself in.
Rhys needed paper. With unusual urgency, he navigated the simple furnishings of the one-bedroom flat, tearing apart drawers and bookcases for an unsullied scrap and a pen. He found both in the bottom of his bedside cabinet.
To whoever finds this message –
His handwriting slanted to the left. He frowned at this as his hand moved on autopilot across the page.
I regret to find myself in circumstances I can neither control nor tolerate. What was he doing? Everything to this point was an attempt to elude an inescapable end which has finally caught up with me. Ridiculous. There is no solace in solitude or another's company, just the shadows – his pen wavered – of what was and what now is.
Take comfort in knowing that I left this life more enlightened than I lived it.
Rhys Silas Whitticker
This he folded and placed into an envelope which he wedged in the door frame as he walked back out for the last time. Rhys made to lock the door but thought better of it and left the key in the lock instead, and turned on his heel and headed back to the elevator. As the portal closed, he found himself taking one last long look at the slip of paper hardly visible from here.
At least with that note, no one would raise any questions if he never came back from this alive.
_______________________________________________
Ooc: Wow. That was long. And dark. I wonder where that came from. But I hope this goes well... *crosses fingers*
Don't talk to Rhys yet. The action starts after I get a few people outside the building. ;D
Edited for italics issues.[/size]
The deep metallic peal echoed through the picturesque square, ushering the milling multitude back into their taxis and hotel rooms and apartment buildings. It echoed past the rows of businesses on and around Main Street and saw the last late-night businessmen lock their office doors. It fell unheard on the paper and leaves and cans that littered the catacombs of run-down buildings that housed tourist traps in the more seedy business districts. It lost its resonance through the spattering of apathetic rain that made its feeble attempt at the grime of the outer city streets. By the time it fell on Rhys' ears in a nameless, thoughtless café on a nameless, thoughtless street in some nameless, thoughtless part of town, it was hardly much more than a hindsight; but it didn't matter. Rhys stared down into his lukewarm coffee just as intently as he had when he heard the clock whisper four, or five, or six.
A tired looking barista, busy at the cash register, glanced over at the lone figure with its half-finished cold coffee and sighed, thinking briefly that the icy stare this man had fixed on this poor cup had probably turned it colder than the elapsed time between its purchase and now. He straightened, cleared his throat, and slammed the drawer shut. The vision at the table by the corner window might have blinked, he fancied, which was not the desired departure of his shop he had been hoping for. The barista sighed again, defeated. "Sir," he called, sounding much more timid than he meant and much less exasperated than he intended. "Sir, we close at seven on Sundays. Can I ask you to leave?"
Rhys was much too busy frowning at the grim shades the grimy light bulb above him cast on the table under his hands to hear this request. Nevertheless, he pushed away from the table and repositioned his narrow frames on the bridge of his nose, leaving his coffee cup wobbling pathetically on the table behind him. The barista opened his mouth to offer a weak thanks, but as Rhys pulled the door shut behind him, the abandoned lukewarm coffee tipped and promptly emptied its abandoned lukewarm contents on the grungy plane beneath it, where it dripped and pooled beside it on the floor. The barista sighed and close his eyes against a headache he could feel coming on as he turned around to find a rag.
Outside, Rhys removed his abused charcoal-grey hat to run a hand through his messy hair, noticing the precipitation offhandedly as he scanned the dusky sky for nothing in particular. His satisfaction in the gathering darkness was unannounced by his pensive glower. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and scowled at the debris below his feet as he started toward an unremarkable apartment complex silhouetted by the dregs of the setting sun.
I feel it. His eyes bore into the sidewalk before him. He's found me. Rhys ignored the way the shadows he cast on the walls seemed to loom above him, how the light from the streetlamps seemed too reluctant to reclaim its ground after he hastened across it, as he turned the corner into the foyer of his building. He made for the elevator.
The heavy doors closed behind him. Rhys punched the eighth floor button and leaned against the back wall, crossing his arms across his chest in one brisk motion. The fluorescent light flickered emphatically. Sadistically. "Laugh at me," he growled out loud, his voice muffled as the lift began. "Laugh, you bastard."
They'd been together at one time. They filled the void in one another that couldn't be filled by a romance, but only by an unspoken primal acceptance. Friends. But more than that. It couldn't be named or explained. Rhys taught him everything anyway, in a manner that needed no explanation. If it had, Rhys reasoned, he might have decided against it. The manipulation of shadows was a burden, yes. And I should have been – man – enough to bear it myself.
He glanced at the ring on his hand, his constant reminder of his own ineptitude. Only Rhys could remember how he pried it off her cold fingers as he laughed at him. Only Rhys knew how the blood still stained what should have always been virgin gold. I tried, he told himself, the way he had so many times before. The light flickered again, but he didn't blink as he stared himself down in the mirrored doors. Trying had never accomplished anything. Nothing real. Rhys had decided this long ago, when it happened, at the same time he decided this was his – cross – to bear…Alone.
But he was never truly alone. True solitude could never be achieved. The shadows were always with him. And you still make shapes in the shadows ---
The elevator doors opened to reveal a narrow corridor flanked with doors and capped with a filmy window. Fishing a key from his pocket, he stepped out and down the hall, found his room, and let himself in.
Rhys needed paper. With unusual urgency, he navigated the simple furnishings of the one-bedroom flat, tearing apart drawers and bookcases for an unsullied scrap and a pen. He found both in the bottom of his bedside cabinet.
To whoever finds this message –
His handwriting slanted to the left. He frowned at this as his hand moved on autopilot across the page.
I regret to find myself in circumstances I can neither control nor tolerate. What was he doing? Everything to this point was an attempt to elude an inescapable end which has finally caught up with me. Ridiculous. There is no solace in solitude or another's company, just the shadows – his pen wavered – of what was and what now is.
Take comfort in knowing that I left this life more enlightened than I lived it.
Rhys Silas Whitticker
This he folded and placed into an envelope which he wedged in the door frame as he walked back out for the last time. Rhys made to lock the door but thought better of it and left the key in the lock instead, and turned on his heel and headed back to the elevator. As the portal closed, he found himself taking one last long look at the slip of paper hardly visible from here.
At least with that note, no one would raise any questions if he never came back from this alive.
_______________________________________________
Ooc: Wow. That was long. And dark. I wonder where that came from. But I hope this goes well... *crosses fingers*
Don't talk to Rhys yet. The action starts after I get a few people outside the building. ;D
Edited for italics issues.[/size]