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(no subject)
Dec. 31st, 2017 05:52 amIt's always a relief when Christmas ends and the decorations start coming down. Usually it takes until after New Year's for the last of the lights and the garlands to disappear, but at least there's something of a reprieve and far less insistent holiday cheer in the air. No matter how long he's had, no matter how many years it's been, Elvis doubts he'll ever think much more fondly about Christmas than he already does. There are just too many inescapable bad memories there. He's better at getting through it than he used to be, at least, but that doesn't make him any less appreciative to come out on the other side of it, ready to put the whole damn thing behind him once again.
Preparations for the typical New Year's celebration have started to replace the remnants of Christmas, at least in the heart of the city, close to City Hall. He doubts he'll go, or if he does, that he'll do so for very long, but he doesn't think much of it one way or the other as he passes by on his way to the park, the easiest way of cutting through the city on foot. In this weather, a sharp, biting chill in the air, he would probably be better off taking the subway or something, but by the time he determines that, it seems a little too late to, and it doesn't particularly matter anyway. At least he isn't crazy enough to have gone out without a coat.
Even in the middle of the afternoon, the park is quiet, not quite deserted but close to it. As such, he lifts his head instinctively when he hears his name from a ways off, only to smile when he realizes he isn't actually who's being spoken to. "You know, one of these days, this is gonna get real confusing," he calls, laughing a little as he does, heading in the direction of where he's caught sight of Harley and his dog. It really is one hell of a coincidence, the two of them sharing the same name, but at least it's an amusing one.
Preparations for the typical New Year's celebration have started to replace the remnants of Christmas, at least in the heart of the city, close to City Hall. He doubts he'll go, or if he does, that he'll do so for very long, but he doesn't think much of it one way or the other as he passes by on his way to the park, the easiest way of cutting through the city on foot. In this weather, a sharp, biting chill in the air, he would probably be better off taking the subway or something, but by the time he determines that, it seems a little too late to, and it doesn't particularly matter anyway. At least he isn't crazy enough to have gone out without a coat.
Even in the middle of the afternoon, the park is quiet, not quite deserted but close to it. As such, he lifts his head instinctively when he hears his name from a ways off, only to smile when he realizes he isn't actually who's being spoken to. "You know, one of these days, this is gonna get real confusing," he calls, laughing a little as he does, heading in the direction of where he's caught sight of Harley and his dog. It really is one hell of a coincidence, the two of them sharing the same name, but at least it's an amusing one.
(no subject)
Nov. 30th, 2017 07:32 pmIt isn't even December yet, and already the city is covered with season decorations that make Elvis cringe every time he steps out of his apartment. There were probably Christmases he enjoyed as a child, but it's hard to remember those now, all of them overshadowed by the year he was twelve. Holiday cheer just about went out the window the year they found his mother's body. However, while Christmas may very much not be his thing, he does have a girlfriend whose birthday is in a week and a half, and he's got to do something about that. He won't just not get her a present because he hates this time of year. If anything, whatever small celebration they have will be a welcome respite from the weight of the rest of the season, a few hours in which he doesn't have to think about the approach of Christmas, just Gwen.
She's never really easy to shop for — no one is, though he also doesn't often go out of his way for anyone else — mostly because he doesn't buy into all of this commercialistic crap, and he doubts she would want anything along those lines, either. He just wants to find something small and thoughtful. He's wandered into a few jewelry stores, remembering the microscope necklace he gave her the first time they celebrated her birthday together, so far coming up blank, and then into a bookstore, where he's usually likely to find something. He's given her favorite books of his before, something they might be able to connect over. When it comes to science, he's a bit at a loss — or, well, he's good at it, but in a different sort of way than applies to her — so something along those lines is generally out, but maybe he can at least get some sort of idea here.
Rounding a corner into another aisle, he almost doesn't look twice at the man he sees there, until Elvis realizes that he looks familiar. There are many few people in Darrow for whom that's the case, so when it hits him, he figures he might as well ask. "Hey," he says. "You're Magnus, right? Alec's husband."
She's never really easy to shop for — no one is, though he also doesn't often go out of his way for anyone else — mostly because he doesn't buy into all of this commercialistic crap, and he doubts she would want anything along those lines, either. He just wants to find something small and thoughtful. He's wandered into a few jewelry stores, remembering the microscope necklace he gave her the first time they celebrated her birthday together, so far coming up blank, and then into a bookstore, where he's usually likely to find something. He's given her favorite books of his before, something they might be able to connect over. When it comes to science, he's a bit at a loss — or, well, he's good at it, but in a different sort of way than applies to her — so something along those lines is generally out, but maybe he can at least get some sort of idea here.
Rounding a corner into another aisle, he almost doesn't look twice at the man he sees there, until Elvis realizes that he looks familiar. There are many few people in Darrow for whom that's the case, so when it hits him, he figures he might as well ask. "Hey," he says. "You're Magnus, right? Alec's husband."
It's not that he isn't nervous. This whole thing is, frankly, pretty fucking terrifying, not to mention nonsensical, and though there's been an attempt at installing further security, being here isn't a guarantee of being safe. Elvis certainly feels closer to it, though, down here in the basement. There's only one way in, he has a baseball bat nearby if he needs it, and he can, hopefully, get through the night passing the time by working. If he had to guess, he'd be willing to bet good money that after tonight, there will be a pretty significant influx in business, his being probably the one line of work in which that isn't actually a good thing.
Maybe it's strange, to make a living off dead people. He's never known anything else, though, only the responses he's gotten for most of his life when talking about what his family did, what he now does. Besides, someone has to do it. It might as well be him.
At least if this has to be happening at all, he has Gwen with him to wait it out, keeping in touch with her friends who are out on the streets. It's a good compromise, he thinks, and is pretty sure he doesn't have to say. She can contribute while being inside, where it's at least relatively safe, and he won't have to spend the night worrying that she'll wind up in an alley with a knife between her ribs again, and no powers to help her heal this time.
In fact, if it weren't for the gravity of what he knows must be going on outside, this might almost be kind of enjoyable. As it is, he's not sure he could manage not to think about it, but he cracks a smile at Gwen over his work, and wonders, not for the first time, how the hell he found someone who's so alright with all of this. "What's the word from outside?"
Maybe it's strange, to make a living off dead people. He's never known anything else, though, only the responses he's gotten for most of his life when talking about what his family did, what he now does. Besides, someone has to do it. It might as well be him.
At least if this has to be happening at all, he has Gwen with him to wait it out, keeping in touch with her friends who are out on the streets. It's a good compromise, he thinks, and is pretty sure he doesn't have to say. She can contribute while being inside, where it's at least relatively safe, and he won't have to spend the night worrying that she'll wind up in an alley with a knife between her ribs again, and no powers to help her heal this time.
In fact, if it weren't for the gravity of what he knows must be going on outside, this might almost be kind of enjoyable. As it is, he's not sure he could manage not to think about it, but he cracks a smile at Gwen over his work, and wonders, not for the first time, how the hell he found someone who's so alright with all of this. "What's the word from outside?"
(no subject)
Sep. 30th, 2017 02:26 amIf Elvis had been asked a few weeks before, he'd have said that someone who'd disappeared showing up and remembering having been here previously would have been impossible. People leave and come back again, it's happened often enough, but until recently, he hadn't ever heard of someone who'd arrived again with all their memories intact, or newly returned, or something to that effect. He certainly wouldn't have expected that one of the few people he's ever been close to, that he'd given up on ever seeing again, would wind up doing exactly that. Effy's arrival may have him thrown for a loop, but only in a good way. He knows better than to think shit like this will last, almost has to wonder if there will be some price for something good happening, but for now, he means to just enjoy it.
Anabelle would have called it a miracle. She's one person he knows with certainty he'll never see again, though, and he's still not always sure how he feels about that subject anyway.
Having made plans to come meet her, to hang out for a while and spend some more time catching up, he takes the hearse that's sort of unofficially his out to the countryside, remembering more clearly than he would have expected how to get to the house that she shared before, and shares again, with Harley. Elvis may never have met him, but he's heard enough, which is why he isn't as surprised as he might otherwise have been when it isn't Effy who comes to the door after he knocks.
"Uh, hey," he says, chin lifting slightly in a nod of greeting. "Is Effy around?"
Anabelle would have called it a miracle. She's one person he knows with certainty he'll never see again, though, and he's still not always sure how he feels about that subject anyway.
Having made plans to come meet her, to hang out for a while and spend some more time catching up, he takes the hearse that's sort of unofficially his out to the countryside, remembering more clearly than he would have expected how to get to the house that she shared before, and shares again, with Harley. Elvis may never have met him, but he's heard enough, which is why he isn't as surprised as he might otherwise have been when it isn't Effy who comes to the door after he knocks.
"Uh, hey," he says, chin lifting slightly in a nod of greeting. "Is Effy around?"
you forget there's so much more
Aug. 19th, 2013 01:18 pmThe first night, he dreams about her dying.
That in itself shouldn't be so unusual. When he dreams, in the rare instances that he remembers them, they're not often very cheerful, and it isn't like he hasn't imagined this before. Gwen told him once, in no uncertain terms, what was going to happen to her back home, and it isn't as if that's something he could have so easily shaken. The difference is that, now, in the wake of her disappearance, it no longer seems like something that could be avoided. She's gone back to that fate, and there isn't going to be a damn thing he can do to stop it, an entire universe away.
He sees it, though, her body floating down the river — except he's watching from the bridge back in Coward, Texas, and her body looks like his mother's did, recognizable only because of her blonde hair fanned out in the water. He hears Anabelle's voice in his head after that, though it's wrong, he knows, distorted; she's taunting him, saying only what he's thinking. "That's one more gone, Elvis," she says, and though he can't see her, he can hear the smirk in her voice, cruel in a way that Anabelle never would have been. "How many more miracles did you think you were going to get?"
After that, he jolts awake, heart pounding in his chest, and reaches for his phone, as if this might be some mistake and she'll have returned one of his calls. There's nothing, though, and it's the final straw, the last thing he needs to know that he's right. Gwen is gone, back to the death that awaits her, and he's lost someone else, just as was always going to have been inevitable.
When he makes his way over to her place, not for the first time, it's significantly later, after he's called out of work and had a drink. He needs one, if he's going to deal with this shit. He probably shouldn't be at all, he knows, but like hell is he just going to leave all her things for a coworker to come pick up or her landlord to get rid of or something like that. That in mind, he's expecting to have to talk his way in, that it won't be easy. What he isn't expecting is for someone else to be getting there when he is. Instinctively, he bristles, back and shoulders going tense, the look he shoots the kid a wary one. Ordinarily, he wouldn't mind this, knowing that Gwen has plenty of friends, but right now, it seems unfair, like an infringement on what ought to be his job to do. "Who're you?"
That in itself shouldn't be so unusual. When he dreams, in the rare instances that he remembers them, they're not often very cheerful, and it isn't like he hasn't imagined this before. Gwen told him once, in no uncertain terms, what was going to happen to her back home, and it isn't as if that's something he could have so easily shaken. The difference is that, now, in the wake of her disappearance, it no longer seems like something that could be avoided. She's gone back to that fate, and there isn't going to be a damn thing he can do to stop it, an entire universe away.
He sees it, though, her body floating down the river — except he's watching from the bridge back in Coward, Texas, and her body looks like his mother's did, recognizable only because of her blonde hair fanned out in the water. He hears Anabelle's voice in his head after that, though it's wrong, he knows, distorted; she's taunting him, saying only what he's thinking. "That's one more gone, Elvis," she says, and though he can't see her, he can hear the smirk in her voice, cruel in a way that Anabelle never would have been. "How many more miracles did you think you were going to get?"
After that, he jolts awake, heart pounding in his chest, and reaches for his phone, as if this might be some mistake and she'll have returned one of his calls. There's nothing, though, and it's the final straw, the last thing he needs to know that he's right. Gwen is gone, back to the death that awaits her, and he's lost someone else, just as was always going to have been inevitable.
When he makes his way over to her place, not for the first time, it's significantly later, after he's called out of work and had a drink. He needs one, if he's going to deal with this shit. He probably shouldn't be at all, he knows, but like hell is he just going to leave all her things for a coworker to come pick up or her landlord to get rid of or something like that. That in mind, he's expecting to have to talk his way in, that it won't be easy. What he isn't expecting is for someone else to be getting there when he is. Instinctively, he bristles, back and shoulders going tense, the look he shoots the kid a wary one. Ordinarily, he wouldn't mind this, knowing that Gwen has plenty of friends, but right now, it seems unfair, like an infringement on what ought to be his job to do. "Who're you?"
the bats have left the bell tower
Oct. 23rd, 2012 02:31 pmIn all honesty, Elvis doesn't really know what he's doing. For that matter, he still isn't entirely sure what possessed him to invite Gwen over, except that it seemed like a good idea at the time and isn't really much less of one now. This year is the first Halloween he'll have spent on his own, or it would have been if she hadn't agreed, and ridiculous, even childish, as some of it might be, it's long since been a favorite of his — an effect, probably, of growing up in a funeral home — and he doesn't really want to surrender that just yet. Everything's generally shitty enough as it is, and he might as well let himself enjoy this one thing. Though he tells himself he could do that staying here by himself, putting on one of the movies he's rented and answering the door for any trick or treaters who stop by, it wouldn't really be the same thing. Besides, he gets the feeling that Gwen's about on her own here as he is (which is to say, not entirely, but pretty damn close to it). She shouldn't have to be alone, either.
None of that explains, though, the slight pang of nervousness pulling his chest tight as he finishes straightening up a little. Rarely as he has company, and almost as much so as he usually cares to try keeping it clean around here, it's not something that gets done all that often, and he isn't sure why it matters now. Given that he's the one who invited her here, though, it seems worth it to put forth a little effort. He hasn't exactly got much in the way of friends. He doesn't need them, either, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't like to keep this one while he can.
He'd deny having been waiting for it when there's a knock at the door, but it still doesn't take him long to get there and pull it open, mouth curving into a slight smile when he sees Gwen there. "Hey," he says. "Uh, come on in. I'm glad you made it."
None of that explains, though, the slight pang of nervousness pulling his chest tight as he finishes straightening up a little. Rarely as he has company, and almost as much so as he usually cares to try keeping it clean around here, it's not something that gets done all that often, and he isn't sure why it matters now. Given that he's the one who invited her here, though, it seems worth it to put forth a little effort. He hasn't exactly got much in the way of friends. He doesn't need them, either, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't like to keep this one while he can.
He'd deny having been waiting for it when there's a knock at the door, but it still doesn't take him long to get there and pull it open, mouth curving into a slight smile when he sees Gwen there. "Hey," he says. "Uh, come on in. I'm glad you made it."
It's a strange thing. Elvis isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed when the island changes back to normal, or whatever approximation of that it usually is; he just knows that things keep going, the way they always have, the way they always do, even when that seems impossible. It takes a little of the weight off, at least at first, but he finds that he misses having a bridge to stand on, a ledge that he could hypothetically throw himself off even if he knows he never would. All that Victorian shit was weird, there are no two ways around that, but at least there was something fitting about the cold weather and the dark shapes of buildings against a slate grey sky. Though it's what he grew up around, he has no idea what to do with all the sunlight and the warmth. It reminds him too much of Anabelle, like she's in all of it, though he thinks it's been actual months since he last laid eyes on her. He's not even sure now if he can remember what she looks like, if the image printed on the back of his eyelids even begins to do her justice (it probably doesn't).
If there is something to be said for all of this, it's the so-called gifts that have supposedly shown up at random, personalized for their recipients. He has yet to really touch the typewriter that appeared on his desk, has barely even written a word since before Anabelle disappeared, but at least it's there, something to use when he works up the energy to put together a story again. In the meantime, the case of clove cigarettes has definitely proved useful. He's always preferred them to regular ones, including from the tobacco grown here on the island, and though he's been willing to settle for whatever he can get, these, he's grateful for. He means to be making them last, but he has one lit now, held absently between index and middle finger, as he sits on a swing, not caring that he probably shouldn't be smoking where kids usually play. For now, it's as good a place to sit as any, somewhere a good distance from his hut. It's too difficult to think there, but he can't bring himself to move.
He's been sitting for he doesn't know quite how long when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, head turning in its direction. Only when he realizes it's Effy — someone thankfully familiar, and still around — does he smile, a slight thing, but genuine all the same. It's something. That's all he can ask for these days. "Hey."
If there is something to be said for all of this, it's the so-called gifts that have supposedly shown up at random, personalized for their recipients. He has yet to really touch the typewriter that appeared on his desk, has barely even written a word since before Anabelle disappeared, but at least it's there, something to use when he works up the energy to put together a story again. In the meantime, the case of clove cigarettes has definitely proved useful. He's always preferred them to regular ones, including from the tobacco grown here on the island, and though he's been willing to settle for whatever he can get, these, he's grateful for. He means to be making them last, but he has one lit now, held absently between index and middle finger, as he sits on a swing, not caring that he probably shouldn't be smoking where kids usually play. For now, it's as good a place to sit as any, somewhere a good distance from his hut. It's too difficult to think there, but he can't bring himself to move.
He's been sitting for he doesn't know quite how long when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, head turning in its direction. Only when he realizes it's Effy — someone thankfully familiar, and still around — does he smile, a slight thing, but genuine all the same. It's something. That's all he can ask for these days. "Hey."
make days from the hours
Oct. 21st, 2011 03:15 amElvis isn't sure how long it's been. A day, maybe, or two or three or more, somewhere between a night and a week, most likely falling somewhere directly in the middle. Either way, he doesn't think it matters. No matter how much time passes, Anabelle is gone, she isn't coming back, their supply of her so-called miracles run dry. What he's learned is not to discredit what they got, her disappearance not changing the fact that, for a while, things were good, better than he ever expected they'd be; he isn't about to pretend like it wasn't at least miraculous, how she showed up like a vision in the field of sunflowers that saved his life. That doesn't make up for it at all, though, and it's a lot harder to try to consider how she'd have wanted him to look at things in her absence. it was worth it to have had her here while he could than not to have had her at all, but he can't sugarcoat the fact that she's gone, or act as if it doesn't hurt like few other things have in his life (which says a lot, all things considered).
However many hours, days, nights it's been, he's spent all of that time steering clear of most people. Eden has been wonderful, but there are few others he wants to bother with at all. Anabelle made most everything more tolerable, but it's like that's completely reversed in her absence, enough that he's caught himself wishing on occasion that he could go back, too, regardless of the complications being home would involve. At least he'd have her. Now, he has nothing, which carries a hell of a lot of weight for what's essentially emptiness.
He can't keep out of the way forever, though. He just chooses his timing carefully, goes to the kitchen at an hour when there are fewer people there, intent on getting, if maybe not something to eat, at least a coffee. (He'd go to one of the bars, but he doesn't feel like socializing.) It's only once he's there, cup in hand, that someone else walks in, and at first all he sees is a shock of blonde hair, enough to make his breath catch in his throat, grip loosening on the mug's handle, though he catches himself just in time. Logically, he knows better, but it's still startling. He's just relieved he came to his senses before he could react in any sort of noticeable way.
"Hey," he says, voice low and the slightest bit hoarse from how little talking he's been doing. "Caroline, right?"
However many hours, days, nights it's been, he's spent all of that time steering clear of most people. Eden has been wonderful, but there are few others he wants to bother with at all. Anabelle made most everything more tolerable, but it's like that's completely reversed in her absence, enough that he's caught himself wishing on occasion that he could go back, too, regardless of the complications being home would involve. At least he'd have her. Now, he has nothing, which carries a hell of a lot of weight for what's essentially emptiness.
He can't keep out of the way forever, though. He just chooses his timing carefully, goes to the kitchen at an hour when there are fewer people there, intent on getting, if maybe not something to eat, at least a coffee. (He'd go to one of the bars, but he doesn't feel like socializing.) It's only once he's there, cup in hand, that someone else walks in, and at first all he sees is a shock of blonde hair, enough to make his breath catch in his throat, grip loosening on the mug's handle, though he catches himself just in time. Logically, he knows better, but it's still startling. He's just relieved he came to his senses before he could react in any sort of noticeable way.
"Hey," he says, voice low and the slightest bit hoarse from how little talking he's been doing. "Caroline, right?"
It doesn't take long to figure out when it happens. For two months, Elvis has gone to sleep beside Anabelle, the two of them curled up together, tucked away from the rest of the island in their hut on the isolated stretch of north beach, sunflowers just outside their window. It's like he imagines it would have been at home, based on what she told him, except despite how reluctant he'd be to admit it, it's better here. There are no newspaper headlines, no reporters flocking around his house; her mother and stepfather aren't here, there are no beauty pageants, and he doesn't have to worry about his lack of a mortician's license or finding another way to make money. Nothing's ever perfect, and there are still times he wakes up while it's still pitch-black out remembering too vividly how that rope felt around his neck, keeping the air from his lungs, and days he feels like he can barely move for how much he misses his dad, but all things considered, they've got it pretty damn good. Even he's been able to acknowledge that.
In spite of himself, he's gotten used to it, too, learned to rely on her in a way he never quite managed back home. That's why, when he finds himself in an empty hut at the end of the day, and then lying in an empty bed, he knows something's wrong. Anabelle has always been more social than he is, but usually, that's involved dragging him places and keeping him busy, not leaving him here alone and not this late. There are other worst case scenarios, of course (she could be hurt or worse than that), but those aren't the ones he comes back to; nothing's ever as simple as that. He waits, or he tries to, but then he thinks about something he was told once, that the things a person showed up with usually disappear with them, and goes to look for his mother's dress, only to find that it isn't there.
The worst part is, he isn't actually surprised at all.
It's a chilling feeling, though, like ice or something heavy settling in the pit of his stomach, old but not unfamiliar. He's felt like this before, standing on the porch in the rain watching his father's body being driven away and in the couple of days that followed, an emptiness that comes with the knowledge that he doesn't have anything left, an odd sort of restlessness going along with it. The last time he lost someone like this, he nearly made the worst mistake he ever could have. Now, he thinks about Anabelle and the tears in her eyes when she pressed her fingers to the bruises on his neck, the way she told him a long time ago to call her if he ever thought about doing what he nearly did, and this time, though there's no miracle to be found, he won't let it go that far again.
The walk to Eden's isn't a short one, but he thinks that might be for the best, too, giving him a chance to pull himself together somewhat, the cool, clear night air not actually doing a thing to clear his head, but in theory, it would have been nice. By the time he gets there, it's late but not too late, and he stands back after he knocks, hoping it's Eden herself who comes to the door and not the girl who lives with her. He really doesn't want to have to explain this to a stranger.
In spite of himself, he's gotten used to it, too, learned to rely on her in a way he never quite managed back home. That's why, when he finds himself in an empty hut at the end of the day, and then lying in an empty bed, he knows something's wrong. Anabelle has always been more social than he is, but usually, that's involved dragging him places and keeping him busy, not leaving him here alone and not this late. There are other worst case scenarios, of course (she could be hurt or worse than that), but those aren't the ones he comes back to; nothing's ever as simple as that. He waits, or he tries to, but then he thinks about something he was told once, that the things a person showed up with usually disappear with them, and goes to look for his mother's dress, only to find that it isn't there.
The worst part is, he isn't actually surprised at all.
It's a chilling feeling, though, like ice or something heavy settling in the pit of his stomach, old but not unfamiliar. He's felt like this before, standing on the porch in the rain watching his father's body being driven away and in the couple of days that followed, an emptiness that comes with the knowledge that he doesn't have anything left, an odd sort of restlessness going along with it. The last time he lost someone like this, he nearly made the worst mistake he ever could have. Now, he thinks about Anabelle and the tears in her eyes when she pressed her fingers to the bruises on his neck, the way she told him a long time ago to call her if he ever thought about doing what he nearly did, and this time, though there's no miracle to be found, he won't let it go that far again.
The walk to Eden's isn't a short one, but he thinks that might be for the best, too, giving him a chance to pull himself together somewhat, the cool, clear night air not actually doing a thing to clear his head, but in theory, it would have been nice. By the time he gets there, it's late but not too late, and he stands back after he knocks, hoping it's Eden herself who comes to the door and not the girl who lives with her. He really doesn't want to have to explain this to a stranger.
(no subject)
Aug. 11th, 2011 01:08 amThere's a part of Elvis that's surprised to wake up where he does, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar hut, acquired mostly because there was no way in hell he was going to spend the night with a bunch of strangers. Of all the things he's learned since showing up here — too many to really try to process — the one that's made an impression is this apparent notion of a blank slate, the idea that the past doesn't matter here. What he takes from that is that no one here will know about the stories reporting him to be a necrophiliac, and that anyone who did wouldn't be able to hold it against him; he doesn't care. He's still no more inclined to be around people he doesn't know, especially not when it's still so clear what he tried to do before landing on a stranger's floor, the signs of it evident in bruises around his neck. Talking isn't as bad as he thought it might be, but it still hurts like a bitch.
He dreams about it, too, wakes up gasping for breath, still half-convinced he's being strangled, but that initial panic subsides quickly. (He's been assured that he's alive, and he believes it. That's all he needs.) Even so, he thinks it probably adds to the feeling of being disoriented that sets in right away, leaves him looking around the small room like he's never seen it before. He'll have to get used to it eventually, not about to put any stock in the prospect of being taken back home agin any time soon, but he's too far away from that now and doesn't really care enough to try.
It's just that the light's different. Which is a strange sort of thing to notice, he knows, but the way this looks, it almost doesn't seem natural, a brilliant yellow-gold that streams in from the windows, illuminating the whole place, too bright for the hour of morning he imagines it to be. Rubbing at his eyes, he squints against it, hauling himself out of bed mostly because it seems useless to try to get back to sleep with all of this.
In retrospect, looking out the window, he probably should have seen it coming.
The first time Elvis saw a field of sunflowers that didn't belong, they saved his life. This time, the second time, they're no less a miracle, seeds for them probably not even having been planted in island dirt, but it's a lot harder to see it that way. The hope they're representative of is a world away from him now, the life he decided not to leave no longer his own. He lived, and he's damn glad that he did, but being here, it may as well have not been the case at all. He's farther away from all of it than he would have been even if he'd gone through with the mistake he so very nearly made. Now, he can't tell if the flowers following him here is meant to be another sign of hope or a taunt, a reminder of the chance he never got to take, and probably never will.
Still, they did save his life, and for that, he can't help being grateful for the way they've apparently sprung up out of nowhere yet again, barely able to look away. There's an allure in the flowers that's reminiscent of Anabelle herself, like they're a part of her, like she's the one who planted them here. Now, it's the closest to her that he'll ever get. At least it's something.
Leaving the hut and walking out into the field isn't exactly a conscious decision, but rather an instinct, a magnetic pull drawing him into the middle of them. The light off the vivid yellow petals is almost blinding now that he's surrounded by the flowers, but he doesn't care, dropping to lie down on his back amidst them, fingers laced behind his head. They're here for him, of that he has no doubt; he might as well spend a little time in them.
He dreams about it, too, wakes up gasping for breath, still half-convinced he's being strangled, but that initial panic subsides quickly. (He's been assured that he's alive, and he believes it. That's all he needs.) Even so, he thinks it probably adds to the feeling of being disoriented that sets in right away, leaves him looking around the small room like he's never seen it before. He'll have to get used to it eventually, not about to put any stock in the prospect of being taken back home agin any time soon, but he's too far away from that now and doesn't really care enough to try.
It's just that the light's different. Which is a strange sort of thing to notice, he knows, but the way this looks, it almost doesn't seem natural, a brilliant yellow-gold that streams in from the windows, illuminating the whole place, too bright for the hour of morning he imagines it to be. Rubbing at his eyes, he squints against it, hauling himself out of bed mostly because it seems useless to try to get back to sleep with all of this.
In retrospect, looking out the window, he probably should have seen it coming.
The first time Elvis saw a field of sunflowers that didn't belong, they saved his life. This time, the second time, they're no less a miracle, seeds for them probably not even having been planted in island dirt, but it's a lot harder to see it that way. The hope they're representative of is a world away from him now, the life he decided not to leave no longer his own. He lived, and he's damn glad that he did, but being here, it may as well have not been the case at all. He's farther away from all of it than he would have been even if he'd gone through with the mistake he so very nearly made. Now, he can't tell if the flowers following him here is meant to be another sign of hope or a taunt, a reminder of the chance he never got to take, and probably never will.
Still, they did save his life, and for that, he can't help being grateful for the way they've apparently sprung up out of nowhere yet again, barely able to look away. There's an allure in the flowers that's reminiscent of Anabelle herself, like they're a part of her, like she's the one who planted them here. Now, it's the closest to her that he'll ever get. At least it's something.
Leaving the hut and walking out into the field isn't exactly a conscious decision, but rather an instinct, a magnetic pull drawing him into the middle of them. The light off the vivid yellow petals is almost blinding now that he's surrounded by the flowers, but he doesn't care, dropping to lie down on his back amidst them, fingers laced behind his head. They're here for him, of that he has no doubt; he might as well spend a little time in them.
