Glorfindel of the Golden Flower (glaurfindel) wrote in opus_two, @ 2009-05-12 02:52:00 |
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Current mood: | scared |
Entry tags: | &ecthelion&glorfindel, &ecthelion&meleth, @gondolin:flower, @gondolin:gmh, ecthelion, glorfindel, meleth |
Glorfindel is puzzled; he cannot open his bedroom door but the panicky edge that should be sharp, that should make his heart pound and hurt and ache, is dulled. It might be the whiskey although he did not think he had had that much to drink and he would not notice if this fine double malt looked a little cloudier than usual. He is thirsty. He cannot sleep. There is something like electricity running through his veins, keeping him awake all night. There is three-quarters of a bottle of whiskey on the bedside table. There is a bottle of bleach under the bathroom sink, and any number of liquid toiletries. The taps are not running (he has tried). There is the toilet bowl. He is not that thirsty. She will surely be back soon and realise that he is trapped. She will let him out, he is (almost) sure.
He ventures out onto his balcony for the first time and the sun is almost blinding. He is pale (he looks like a no-good, loser junkie and he swallows down a lump in his throat) and he moves like an old man, fumbling along the wall of the balcony so that he doesn’t fall. It is not a long way down to the ground but it might kill him, if he went headfirst. He runs his fingertips along the rough-smooth bricks and smiles a little (look, he can still feel). His eyes are half-closed and he could be anywhere but here (if he went headfirst). He frowns when his fingers encounter something soft and it is half of a fluffy white dandelion, just sitting on the grainy wall, and he cannot imagine how it soared so high. For a brief, mad-hopeful moment, he wonders if it is a message from an outside world that doesn’t seem to miss him much and he giggles to himself as he rubs the white sprigs between his fingertip and thumb (yellow flower turned poof). His world has already crumbled; it is too late for secret messages and conspiracy theories; his world has come apart and it took little more than a stiff wind. He does not notice that he is crying because his tears are hot like the sun is hot, and it’s just a sun-shower, and it will pass him by soon enough, like most things pass him by. Every time he tries to dial a number, he is informed that his call cannot be connected. It is just as well; no one seems to want to talk to him anymore and he has no calls to return. He dials his voicemail and he has no new messages and the Beloved was just more wool over his eyes (another rug to be pulled from under him).
He sinks down to curl up in the corner, in the shade, and supposes that it cannot be long before his mother forgets him too and he will be alone and so he continues to press the speed dials in turn: #1 is E mobile and #2 is E office and #3 is E admin and #4 is E home and #5 is E security and he is all out of speed dials. His throat begins to close up and he shuts his eyes and he is shaking because there is the burning and there is the darkness (and there is his terror and she is pulling off her gloves).