l i r o n r o z a n o v ☼ b a l d r (mostloved) wrote in monte_rpg, @ 2012-06-20 10:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | [event], [minilog], baldr |
[ It was hard telling his dreams apart from reality anymore, not since the darkness had fallen, and he had spent the first few hours staring at the wall wondering if he were awake or not. He imagined that he were, something had woken him—beeping and rumbling against a hard surface, against the floor possibly—unless, of course, he had just fallen asleep and that sound was the harrowing sound of someone’s impending death. Could someone be killed by a sound? Could beeps and whirs bring a man to his knees, to face mortality? Liron had stopped trying to guess what could and could not kill a person, his dreams ranged on so many levels that he had seen damn near every possible way a human being could die. He didn’t even remember what it was like to dream normally anymore: how long had it been since?
Well, he couldn’t really complain right now—at least he was sleeping at all.
Initially, following the first day of darkness, Liron had gone into such a panic that he had been shaking, fretting and tugging at his clothes, hair, anything he could wrap his fingers around; it would have been an understatement to suggest that he was terrified. Though he had managed to find strength in himself to be there for Ava, it only took a small number of awkward glances, unwelcomed grunts and the ever-present monsters before he had finally relinquished his death-hold on her hand and pried himself away to run to the Wellness Center. He needed grounded, something to help him maintain his sanity. Mentally and emotionally parched, Liron had drank up whatever Alexei had been willing to give him: following the man around like some sort of neglected, desperate puppy. He was a mess—there was no denying it—and he had barely been able to do more than babble on about nightmares, how they were now all around him and further nonsense about death. Liron talked a lot about death from the moment he got arrived at the Center. It was his topic choice, never mind that it sent him into such a clawing, biting, gnashing frenzy—but he kept asking over and over again: had anyone died? He only dreamed of death, and with his dreams all around him it only made logical sense to think that death would follow soon thereafter. But it would start with him, wouldn’t it? It had to start with him, that’s how it had before.
He was going to die.
This made him jumpy and paranoid, inevitably, and he regarded everyone with wide, wild eyes for some time. Twig in your hair? Obviously mistletoe and you had snuck it in to murder him. Cough? A signal, a secret conversation to someone else: always malicious. Liron found it very easy to question the motives of everyone in every situation. But eventually that had subsided, superseded by his innate nature to love and think the best of people—he couldn’t continue on with such distrust. Instead he responded by slowly hiding within himself and closing off from the rest of the world.
There had been one day that he had spent holding onto anyone who would let him: be it by clinging to their hand desperately, staying pressed against their side, or, during his more dire moments, he’d have wrapped his arms around them and literally held them—afraid that if he let them go they’d leave, disappear, die. It was fair to say that he had frightened away or unnerved quite a few, but Liron seemed to move in a trance-like state that left him unaware of what was truly happening around him. Everyone was a shape with a face and a heartbeat, and they could be taken away at any moment: that was all he could grasp in the state of mind he was in. The day following Liron could be found sitting amongst whatever children had found themselves at the Wellness Center, a vacant smile playing at his lips as he listened to them chatter on. The assumption that he had found the grounding he needed for his sanity if not for the curious fact that Liron had suddenly, abruptly refused to speak anything but the three languages he had grown up hearing: and despite actually knowing other languages, Liron regarded anyone speaking to him with the confusion of one who did not know them. Unless the person was speaking Berber, Hebrew or Russian he would not respond. The following day he stopped speaking altogether: and that was the way it remained since. Silent, vacant and entirely unresponsive, he had found himself comfort in one of the rooms and laid down on the floor—he would spend those next few days drifting in and out of sleep, but always sure he was still dreaming.
The sound, the whirring and beeping had stopped. With a gasp for air, Liron had pushed himself up onto his elbows, his hands and then reached out forward for (what he was assuming to be) his phone. It looked unfamiliar to him; but everything was unfamiliar any more. Grasping his phone—fumbling a moment as he tried to relearn how to use such a device—he narrowed his eyes at the screen, bright and blinding, and saw that he had a missed call. Ima. His mother had called him, but why would she have done that? This had to have been a dream. She never called his cell phone—an unplanned swipe of his thumb brought him back to the home screen and there, blatant and clear, was the reason. The date. Had it really been another year passed? Not sure by what specifically, but Liron was suddenly overwhelmed by emotion and broke down into both sobs and laughter.
It was his birthday.
Did that mean he was still alive? ]