op (maldito) wrote in repose, @ 2018-04-20 02:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, newt penhaligon |
Narrative: Newt P
Who: Newt Penhaligon
What: a narrative
Where: the woods
When: after this
Warnings/Rating: low.
He sat in the arms of an old, tall black cottonwood. He was perhaps twenty meters from the forest floor, and it was a cool, silent night. Newt'd finished tending to the creatures and to Rufus, and it was about midnight now. He'd considered going for a drink, at the Cat or the strip club (where he'd not be faced with anyone he knew), but, it wasn't appealing enough a thought to pull him from the house in the woods. He was feeling rather too listless, and, without Patrick around, or anyone else, he simply decided he'd do what he'd always done—he'd wander. But, the forest breathed not a sound. Newt'd heard the cacophony of his own footfalls, snapping twigs and rustling vegetation under boots. He'd heard the gentle pound of his heart, the movement of his blood. He heard his coat as it sighed against trouser legs. He'd heard, louder than anything else, the ring of his own thoughts as it circled and carouseled and wheeled endlessly. But, the forest offered him nothing.—Curious, he'd watched an owl—a flammulated owl—with its wide, black eyes, peer about it and puff its little chest, flecked like bark—and… nothing happened. Where its call should've been was nothing. Space. Silence. Emptiness. He'd felt badly for it. It must feel terribly alone, he'd thought. Or just terribly confused. With his hands around his mouth, he'd offered its call to it, and he'd watched as its inked gaze moved to him. It'd blinked. He'd blinked. It'd puffed up soundlessly again on its branch. It'd flown away before he might call out to again. And from here, in the bough and cradle of the black cottonwood, Newt couldn't see it any longer. He leaned his head back against abriding bark. He'd left his coat down at the base of the tree, so he'd nothing to cushion himself with, but that hardly mattered. He looked up at the branches above him, at the interlock of the canopy in its new-season green, leaves spread out like palms to smear out the black sky overhead, to keep in the seal of silence that settled heavily, thickly over the forest. For much of his life, Newt'd been alone. He'd preferred it that way. Save for animals, of course. But, he'd spent years, practically, away from people, until he'd come to Repose. Now, of course, he seemed to spend more time around people than his creatures. But, even still, he found the company of other humans to be, largely, confusing and complicated. This mess with Adrian, it had him thinking about that. He'd told the other man they weren't to be talking any longer, and it'd felt truly… truly… He couldn't even think of the word. He was so bloody horrible at this, he didn't even know the words for what he felt. Mean? Cruel? But, he couldn't cut Adrian off without telling him he was doing it, that seemed even colder. Though he knew, of course, that Patrick was right and it'd be better for him, and for Adrian, for them to untangle from one another. He knew that. All of it was unbearably confusing, but still, though Newt'd spent much of his life rather alone, he'd never felt lonely, really. A few times, here and there. But, by and large, his own company sufficed. His curiosity sufficed. He was used to it. But, now? Up in the tree, with the wind pulling at him, with the forest as a silent sea around him, he felt lonely, and he didn't know what to do with that. |