Sam Wallace (_proton) wrote in utr_logs, @ 2008-08-08 00:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | sam wallace |
Who: Sam Wallace and OPEN, or if nobody shows up it could be a narrative.
When: Tonight. Now, probably.
Where: Central Park.
Why: Because he can’t run from the issue any longer.
Warnings: Angst. My god, the angst. I’m going to try to make sure it isn’t EMO angst, but it might be.
Sam was sitting on that bench in Central Park where, long ago (for him) he’d picked Liz up. The bench probably meant nothing to most people, but to him, this bench, this one little area here meant more than most people would imagine. This was the memory that he clung to on the Warworld. It was the memory that made him feel human…even though that was a lie.
He hadn’t been human since that scientist rewired all of his biological processes. He was something else now, neither dead nor alive, neither man nor machine. He just was. He figured that’s why he was smoking now, to make himself feel more human. It was one of the few things he could conceivably still do, since the smoke would float right out through his mouth or nostrils. He couldn’t eat, without a stomach or food processors it had nowhere to go. Sleep was unnecessary and, what’s more, felt too much like death for him to really allow himself to do. So smoking it was. It wasn’t like it could hurt him anymore. After all, he hadn’t had lungs in three years.
He probably looked like any other lonely lost soul in New York, though perhaps a little overdressed for the humid night. He hugged a long coat closed with one arm, the other being occupied with the up and down motion of his cigarette. It was routine, with hardly any real feeling in it. Up, puff, down, exhale. Up, puff, down, exhale. He was going through the motions and it was obvious. Those that had the skill to look past the walls he’d erected behind his eyes would see a storm of thought and emotion, none of it good.
He’d had Bee’s soccer camp rebuilt. He’d hoped that doing that would make him feel more human, more alive, but he felt no different. He’d tried walking amongst the people, going dark on the boards for a bit to just blend back into the human masses and even that hadn’t worked. Now he was finally returning to that bench, the place he’d kept in his memory for so long, to sit and think.
Human… What did that word even mean…?