March 2005-The Wells Farm
Mar. 19th, 2007 12:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
there_is_a_meSome days are better than others. Some days aren't good at all. Some days he opens and closes the door to his room, quietly, for an hour at a time without actually leaving it. Open, close. Open, close.
He'll sit on the end of the bed until called, at last, to eat. Sit, and wait with that horrible stillness that says things are happening behind his eyes that don't belong in this world of sunlight and rain, bread and swords.
On these days he doesn't talk to anyone. Not Sarge, not mum, not the dogs. On these days the goats huddle in the corner of the pen making soft distressed sounds until the silent, taut presence has left again.
The sword stays untouched on these days, he can't focus enough to pick it up without wanting to see how many times he can swing it through his own neck before he passed out to heal again. Usually his form doesn't shift. Usually.
He smokes constantly when someone is in the house, these days, and when Sarge has left and mum has left he tracks them through the rooms over and over again. Sometimes he wraps himself in a blanket from the couch, to be surrounded by the good smells.
Just as often he leaves the house after walking into each unlocked room. Leaves the house and walks in perfect silence across the property. Some days he ends up catching, and killing, small birds or squirrels. Some days he still can't quite keep from eating them. Those days are the worst, and he doesn't come in until the next night.
Some days are better than others. Some days are worse.
He'll sit on the end of the bed until called, at last, to eat. Sit, and wait with that horrible stillness that says things are happening behind his eyes that don't belong in this world of sunlight and rain, bread and swords.
On these days he doesn't talk to anyone. Not Sarge, not mum, not the dogs. On these days the goats huddle in the corner of the pen making soft distressed sounds until the silent, taut presence has left again.
The sword stays untouched on these days, he can't focus enough to pick it up without wanting to see how many times he can swing it through his own neck before he passed out to heal again. Usually his form doesn't shift. Usually.
He smokes constantly when someone is in the house, these days, and when Sarge has left and mum has left he tracks them through the rooms over and over again. Sometimes he wraps himself in a blanket from the couch, to be surrounded by the good smells.
Just as often he leaves the house after walking into each unlocked room. Leaves the house and walks in perfect silence across the property. Some days he ends up catching, and killing, small birds or squirrels. Some days he still can't quite keep from eating them. Those days are the worst, and he doesn't come in until the next night.
Some days are better than others. Some days are worse.
