Wyatt Cain (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hasaheart) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
taxonomites2011-04-10 07:48 pm
hasaheart) wrote in taxonomites2011-04-10 07:48 pm
Entry tags:
10: [location] bare your faces of the veil
The change of weather and the coming of April brought a few things to the forefront of Cain's mind. One day, while losing himself in the mundane murmur of household chores, he realized it had been close to six months since he first found himself trapped in this hole in the ground.
Six months in this monstrous metro-city, and he'd succumbed to the same apathy that he at first had accused his two dearest friends of.
Six months, and what had he done to find a way out?
What had he done to set things right?
Nothing. One big, fat, glaring nothing at all. He's given in to the grind of depression, to the oppressive lack of wanting anything to do with life, and the resignation that he doesn't have what it takes to end it once and for all (whatever it is, be it strength or weakness, guts or the lack of them).
What's more, if he's been here six months, it's ten months since Adora set out for the cottage beyond the white elm with their son, hoping against hope for a fresh start.
He realized he had no idea what she had done in the years before, when he was gone. He didn't know how she'd coped, what she'd had to sacrifice in order to feed her family.
Ten months, and sometime during the following four, she'd been murdered.
He realized, with chilling clarity, that he had no idea when his wife had died. He could live without knowing what had happened, because he knew it couldn't be as bad as his mind insisted in vivid, broad strokes of imaginary paint. He could live, not knowing how. He just wasn't so sure he could cope, not knowing when.
So, against better judgment, knowing full well he shared this prison with creatures who supposedly went around feeding on the blood of mortals, Cain once more took to walking the streets in the dead of night. The claustrophobia reared its ugly face one night too many, forcing him out into the deceptively open air - and if he had to choose between potentially infected, homicidal Extras and the walls of his rooms caving in, he'd take the Extras any day.
Six months in this monstrous metro-city, and he'd succumbed to the same apathy that he at first had accused his two dearest friends of.
Six months, and what had he done to find a way out?
What had he done to set things right?
Nothing. One big, fat, glaring nothing at all. He's given in to the grind of depression, to the oppressive lack of wanting anything to do with life, and the resignation that he doesn't have what it takes to end it once and for all (whatever it is, be it strength or weakness, guts or the lack of them).
What's more, if he's been here six months, it's ten months since Adora set out for the cottage beyond the white elm with their son, hoping against hope for a fresh start.
He realized he had no idea what she had done in the years before, when he was gone. He didn't know how she'd coped, what she'd had to sacrifice in order to feed her family.
Ten months, and sometime during the following four, she'd been murdered.
He realized, with chilling clarity, that he had no idea when his wife had died. He could live without knowing what had happened, because he knew it couldn't be as bad as his mind insisted in vivid, broad strokes of imaginary paint. He could live, not knowing how. He just wasn't so sure he could cope, not knowing when.
So, against better judgment, knowing full well he shared this prison with creatures who supposedly went around feeding on the blood of mortals, Cain once more took to walking the streets in the dead of night. The claustrophobia reared its ugly face one night too many, forcing him out into the deceptively open air - and if he had to choose between potentially infected, homicidal Extras and the walls of his rooms caving in, he'd take the Extras any day.
[location: a building stoop in Wilde]
But when you're lost in your own little world of thoughts, you only rarely take a step back and consider the possibility. Such was the case with one Wyatt Cain.
He noticed the huddled figure as he drew closer, by some kind of luck or something similar. The hat and the coat made him expect a man, or a boy, until his eyes caught the hint of braided hair. Perhaps not a boy, then. And yet, that thought sparked that of the distant memory of a boy wearing his father's hat. He hoped against hope it was an actual memory instead of a figment of his imagination. It somehow felt incredibly important that it was fact instead of fantasy.
"Hello there," he said, touching the brim of his own hat in greeting. "Trouble sleeping?"
[location: a building stoop in Wilde]
"I find I am not used to the sounds this city makes. They are peculiar."
[location: a building stoop in Wilde]
He walks up to her, nodding in the general vicinity of the spot next to her. "Mind if I take a seat?"
[location: a building stoop in Wilde]
He tilts her head at him, assessing, and then nods. "I do not usually converse at length with strangers, but I suppose you do not look like an outlaw." He also doesn't stink of whiskey, which should probably be more of a comfort than it turns out to be.