Aedan feels a (fuadan) wrote in repose, @ 2016-06-05 08:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, faol crowe |
Narrative: Faol
Who: Faol
What: Introspective
Where: Home
When: Currentish
Warnings/Rating: No
His life was a lie.
His apartment had the same spartan decorating scheme as his apartment in DC had years ago, only this time sans plant. All white walls, a bed without a frame on the floor, a laptop on a wood table with white legs. A PS4 in the living room, cables tucked away and controller hanging neatly on the docking station, headset draped over it - it was all perfectly ordinary.
Just like him. Oh he played the part of the grumpy, crotchety man behind the counter of the laundromat perfectly. He could have been thirty years older the way he growled at kids, as if it was somehow expected. As though it would keep away - and to that end, it worked perfectly. People didn't ask and he didn't tell.
But some days - some days he was so fucking bored he thought it might crush him. Oh, there was all the usual drama that came with the people coming in and out to do their laundry, their lives in technicolor while they were on the phone, while they brought their kids in, while teenagers sat in moods texting on phones, laughing or crying or angrily pressing the keys until their fingertips went white. He knew their stories but it wasn't enough.
Maybe time for something else.
Finally.