|He was (foretold) wrote in repose,|
@ 2020-03-12 14:48:00
|Entry tags:||*narrative, burden bell|
|It wasn't a special night.|
Burden, he was out doing Father Amos' work, and there wasn't a thing special about the evening, save the fact that he was working in Repose, and not in the Capital.
The night was cool and damp some, but Burden wasn't out in the elements to feel the chill. He was on a staircase, and that staircase led on up to a library, and that library contained a real pretty painting that Father Amos had himself a buyer for. And so Burden, he was making his way up real, real quiet, avoiding notice along the way, and carrying himself on up to the door to that library.
Now, it was worth saying that Burden, he hadn't felt the shakes in nearly a month now. It was the longest spell he could recall going without an incident, and could be he was too aware of each passing day. Could be that he jinxed himself, because he felt one coming on just as soon as he was standing in that library and in front of that painting. And sense, common sense, it said he should turn on back and head out. The painting, he could fetch that the next day, and it would be a whole lot safer. But, Burden, he was standing right there, in front of the thing, and he reckoned it would just take a minute.
Burden, he could be real dumb at times.
He had the painting out of the frame, cut neat, and was rolling it into the container that he had strapped diagonal against his back. He'd just managed to get the cap on the container, and it started.
Fade to black.
Hours and hours later, which he only knew on account of the sun was out when he came to. He was cold and shuddering, naked as the day he was born, and on a rooftop. Real high up, and the painting nowhere to be found. He wasn't even sure if it was the next day or days after, and he wasn't sure what he'd done in the interim. It was always this way some, the confusion that came after, but this time felt different. There was iron on his tongue, and his fingers were caked in dirt. He was parched, like if time had gone on and on, and he crouched on that rooftop and glanced down at the city below.
He was in the Capital, and that he was sure of as could be, and he didn't have a clue what had occurred in Repose. But there was one thing for sure and certain: He couldn't go back there. What if he'd been seen? What if authorities were looking for him? He cursed himself for every type of fool, and he didn't fuss with calling The Cat and saying he wouldn't be coming back. He didn't even return the key to the little house behind the bar. He had a feeling, something deep in his belly, that said returning to Repose would be real bad news.
He waited until dark, there and on that roof, and then he made his way back to the church under cover of night.