|Uriah Pedrad (twelveandahalf) wrote in wariscoming,|
@ 2014-09-06 18:47:00
|Entry tags:||uriah pedrad|
Who: Uriah Pedrad and open to one of Briege's characters.
What: Just another arrival.
Where: The Graveyard.
When: Saturday morning, before Tris.
Rating/Status: TBD | Ongoing.
Home. His home as he'd known it, had been shattered into a million different pieces, as what happened to illusions who stood before the truth. He didn't know of the pop culture reference back then, but Big Brother had always been watching, watching them each of them grow up, and die. And in a vain turn of events, Uriah wished that it - whatever it was at this rate, would stop dragging him and his family back to the same place - the Chasm, where he wasn't likely to put to rest anymore. Home as he knew it, was a world away, but this reality was a bad dream that had left him reeling in shock and disbelief. And thirsty, always that thirs that refused to be quenched. His hand went to his flask long before he realized that it was empty Breakfast had come and gone and he'd gone out to wander the halls, passing unfamiliar faces without a thought, and turning around only when guards barred his way.
Circles. He was going in circles, not unlike a rat caught in a trap with no way out. Maybe he should stop. Just stop, and look. And miraculously enough, his feet did as he wanted, and he was able to gather his thoughts for long enough to register what was in front of him. There was that thing, and then there was a familiar face. He raised his hand and smiled at Tris. His smiles weren't fooling anyone and he knew it, but his efforts had to count for something. He liked to think he'd take the same bullshit from everyone he knew. Maybe.
But so much for effort. In just seconds, all his efforts dropped away, like it hadn't even mattered. He was falling, still falling- or had he hit the ground after all? Awake, he knew he had to try and stay awake, but the world dimmed around him. Okay. Maybe that was okay after all.
And then suddenly, he was wide awake, his ears were ringing, and he was covered in dust. There were holes in his clothes, holes in his flask - and he took a moment, watching the last drops of his alcohol drip to the ground. A pity. But it wasn't the last thing wrong with this particular picture. An old graveyard. The Dauntless cremated their dead. "What now?" he called out to no one in particular, barely able to hear his own voice through the ringing in his ears. "What is it now?"