(John) Mitchell (thisiswhatiam) wrote in carnaval_logs, @ 2013-09-02 11:11:00 |
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He'd made up his mind, and there was no going back. he did what had to be done, for his sake as well as Annie and George, Nina and the baby, and everyone else within a hundred mile radius of their home. There was no other choice. He didn't expect absolution, he didn't expect salvation. He bloody hell didn't expect the dusty back roads of some long ago middle American town. He expected death, and with it oblivion. He actually looked down at his chest, half expecting to find the stake there, or a gaping hole, or nothing at all. He put hands on his torso, surprised to find himself there and solid, and very much alive. It was about then that he was approached by some wayward back woods American bloke who knew his name, and informed him he was assigned to be the Carnavale de la Lumière's human canonball. To his credit Mitchell didn't punch the guy. Physical violence wasn't his usual coping mechanism. Tearing into the guy's jugular would have been more his style, but he refrained from doing that. He hadn't had blood for months, he wasn't about to start now. He just sort of stared at the guy, and expressed shock and disbelief. In the end he accepted the pile of clothes the guy offered, and allowed himself to be led to his apparent housing accommodations. He entered the trailer with heavy steps, and a stony stare. A few hours had passed, and Mitchell hadn't woken up from the dream, or faded away into the oblivion of death. He got to his feet and headed outside. He still wore his jeans and his plaid, his jacket and his fingerless gloves. He pulled his sunglasses over his eyes and started walking. he had no idea where he was going, but he wanted to keep his feet moving. One step in front of the other. |