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Move dust through the light to find your name
It's been cool but now it's warming again; the Realm had had its own cycles and so had the Island, and now he's learning this place. He knows summer when he feels it, even without the calendar on his phone, and summer is coming fast.
And somehow he feels like it's going to be a bitch of a one.
He spent the last night in a bar--an honest to God bar with AC/DC blasting from an ancient jukebox in the corner, and at least it wasn't the bar he'd found Sam in--and his opinion of it had improved slightly when some change in his pockets had bought him a couple of Pixies songs. He had taken some shots, lost track of them. Thought in a bored kind of way about seeing if the blonde a few seats down the bar with the extremely low-cut top and the extremely fake tits would take him home.
Realized how easily boredom can blend with anger. Paid his tab and wandered back to the apartment, alone, sometime around three.
Now he's got a hangover--nothing especially bad but just enough to make everything else seem slightly more shitty than usual. And he's in the park, which is probably not the best idea, but at least he's not close to the burn scar of the World Tree and whatever's growing there now. He hasn't been back since the fire. But he thinks he might be edging around it, in his mind and in space, looking for a way to return. He hasn't yet decided to his own satisfaction how much of this is simple masochism.
He's still not sure how much pain is actually necessary for healing.
On the path, no one else in sight, he whirls suddenly and slams his fist into the trunk of the closest tree. Pain daggers up his arm and makes his eyes water, but it's sharper and realer than the ache in his head and the deeper, harder ache in the center of his chest. His knuckles are bleeding in a few places and he stands there, sucking at them, not surprised to find the metal taste of it comforting. Blood. It always comes back to blood.
Neil is in his blood. Like poison. Or like a drug that, once injected, needs to keep flowing through the heart in order to keep the body alive.
Fuck.
And somehow he feels like it's going to be a bitch of a one.
He spent the last night in a bar--an honest to God bar with AC/DC blasting from an ancient jukebox in the corner, and at least it wasn't the bar he'd found Sam in--and his opinion of it had improved slightly when some change in his pockets had bought him a couple of Pixies songs. He had taken some shots, lost track of them. Thought in a bored kind of way about seeing if the blonde a few seats down the bar with the extremely low-cut top and the extremely fake tits would take him home.
Realized how easily boredom can blend with anger. Paid his tab and wandered back to the apartment, alone, sometime around three.
Now he's got a hangover--nothing especially bad but just enough to make everything else seem slightly more shitty than usual. And he's in the park, which is probably not the best idea, but at least he's not close to the burn scar of the World Tree and whatever's growing there now. He hasn't been back since the fire. But he thinks he might be edging around it, in his mind and in space, looking for a way to return. He hasn't yet decided to his own satisfaction how much of this is simple masochism.
He's still not sure how much pain is actually necessary for healing.
On the path, no one else in sight, he whirls suddenly and slams his fist into the trunk of the closest tree. Pain daggers up his arm and makes his eyes water, but it's sharper and realer than the ache in his head and the deeper, harder ache in the center of his chest. His knuckles are bleeding in a few places and he stands there, sucking at them, not surprised to find the metal taste of it comforting. Blood. It always comes back to blood.
Neil is in his blood. Like poison. Or like a drug that, once injected, needs to keep flowing through the heart in order to keep the body alive.
Fuck.
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"Unless part of you does remember. And it drives you fucking crazy trying to get you to pay attention. Look at what you don't wanna see. That's why I was..." He trails off, spins a finger next to his temple and shoots Andrea a significant look. "Why I am. It's better, not fighting it. It still isn't good."