Wren (songbirdcaged) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2015-05-14 22:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2018 [05] may, ian terrell, october august doyle |
Who: Sarge & Wren
Where: Near the Dog Park, in the street
What: Wren is found
When: May 14, afternoon?
Wren and the concept of time passed each other by like ships in the night. He knew that the dark came and that it was frightening when the little dots in the sky weren't out and that then the light came and in between those times he'd sleep, but as one day passed and became yesterday he forgot that it had happened. Events stood out to him but even they faded like a watercolour in the rain as time passed and he wouldn't have been able to say if it was two days or two months ago that he'd been bent over himself and pulled around and pushed down and fucked by the three men who had found him wandering on his own. He'd spent a lot of that time lost in his own head but the dehydration and hunger and exhaustion he was feeling was also responsible for the fact that he couldn't remember having ever done anything but lie where he was off to the side in some strange street that he didn't know and which was the only thing he knew all at the same time.
He'd summoned enough energy to curl up just a little but that had been about it and he was completely spent. The ground was hard and hurt all the places where his bones poked against his skinny little body, which was basically everywhere - since being separated from his friend he'd lived on a diet of grass, scraps and body fluids that he hadn't had a choice about swallowing and none of it had done anything to put anymore meat on an already thin frame. His legs were dusty and scraped from the road, his knees and palms cut where he'd stumbled and fallen many a time before he just stopped getting up. His feet were swollen and bleeding, friction burned raw and open and torn in places, the numb agony of them suggesting that infection was creeping around trying to get in.
Wren curled his fingers into his filthy dirty tangle of hair and despite looking for all the world like little more than roadkill made out of someone's abandoned cat he was singing. His voice was hoarse and unreliable, cutting out on him completely sometimes and barely a whisper at others but it was still sweet in the times between, the drifting words of whatever it was he was singing bouncing in echoes around the empty street as though the world had stilled just to listen and not because it had come to an end.
~sandman, I'm so alone (bom bom bom bom), ain't got nobody to call my own, please give me some magic beans, Mr Sandman bring me a dream~ The words were wrong but the tune was there and clear, even if it was growing steadily fainter as the last reserves of Wren's energy slipped slowly and deliriously away.