Elegy Part II, or, Impatience cowboy_newsieOctober 21 2011, 09:55:46 UTC
It’s 1900 when you return-rather immediately so; it’s midnight and David is grabbing your arm as fireworks go off in celebration of the new century. You cling back to him, dazed and out of it, and blame it on the alcohol he thinks is coursing through your veins when he looks at you oddly.
The next day, as always, you have work, and before you know it you’re two hours into selling newspapers. You’ve checked your reflection; you’re seventeen and skinny again, with masses of scars on your back, arms and hands. When Blink punches you in the arm it leaves a faint bruise; when you trip over the missing cobblestone on High street-the one you haven’t had to think about avoiding for two years-it leaves a bloody cut on your knee.
You’re back, and not a damn thing in the world-from your clothes to your body to your blood-proves otherwise.
For the next week, you’re almost eager to forget. You throw yourself into your work, your drawings; you drink and joke and gamble until you feel ill, and you don’t-you don’t-- think of Edelweiss, of Canada
( ... )
And it helps. It all helps, the reading and the three jobs and the sheer exhaustion that comes from that-you barely have time at all to think about him. About them. About how badly you miss them, how every time you wake up you expect to see Sirius about three inches away; how you keep thinking of jokes he’d love and sights he’d want to see. About how much you miss your home with him, your pets, the routine your life had settled in-and you hadn’t known it could hurt this badly, that your heart could break like this. It was nothing like when your mother had died; you had long seen that coming. This was too sudden, too immediate, and you wonder when it will stop feeling like a physical ache, as if someone had literally broken your heart
( ... )
It’s cold in England, colder than you anticipate-- It’s not cold so much as an all-prevailing chill, a voice corrects wryly in the back of your head- and you yank your jacket tighter about you, glancing about as if trying to find a sign. Wizards this way!, perhaps
( ... )
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The next day, as always, you have work, and before you know it you’re two hours into selling newspapers. You’ve checked your reflection; you’re seventeen and skinny again, with masses of scars on your back, arms and hands. When Blink punches you in the arm it leaves a faint bruise; when you trip over the missing cobblestone on High street-the one you haven’t had to think about avoiding for two years-it leaves a bloody cut on your knee.
You’re back, and not a damn thing in the world-from your clothes to your body to your blood-proves otherwise.
For the next week, you’re almost eager to forget. You throw yourself into your work, your drawings; you drink and joke and gamble until you feel ill, and you don’t-you don’t-- think of Edelweiss, of Canada ( ... )
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It’s cold in England, colder than you anticipate-- It’s not cold so much as an all-prevailing chill, a voice corrects wryly in the back of your head- and you yank your jacket tighter about you, glancing about as if trying to find a sign. Wizards this way!, perhaps ( ... )
Reply
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