[ when the anguish fades, what's left is the smoking wreckage. Reno sits on the kitchen floor for a while, slowly unpicking the threads that hold his mind into his physical body; when he finally gets to his feet again it's dark and he's utterly dissociated. he cleans up the sink. he changes his clothes. he looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize who he sees. inside him is a bottomless hollow pit. he is the bottomless hollow pit.
he goes to work. he puts on a smile like a mask (a mask atop a mask atop a—) and makes drinks and cracks jokes and comes home. he sits on the couch and puts on a movie and doesn't watch a second of it.
he doesn't sleep.
the second day he cleans the refrigerator because he can't stomach the thought of eating and he's never liked leftovers older than a day or two. or is it two or three days now? it feels like both a long time and no time at all. he cleans it out with bleach and doesn't wear gloves because he likes the way his skin burns when he's done, his knuckles cracked and dry.
he goes to work. he tries to put on a smile like a mask (a mask atop a mask atop a mask atop a mask—) and makes drinks and cracks jokes and comes home. he sits on the couch and doesn't put on anything because he wouldn't watch a second of it anyway.
he doesn't sleep.
there's no work, the third day. there's no cleaning to do, because the kitchen is the only part of his house that ever felt anything like home (a home is where you go to be loved) and he emptied that out already. the hollow pit inside him is starting to fill with something Reno doesn't want to think about, something he doesn't deserve to feel—sorrow or guilt, or anger, or devastation, or something like that, something that you only get to feel if you're a person who deserves it, and he's not a person and he doesn't deserve it.
so instead of going to work, he throws the window sash wide open and sits in it, legs dangling out into the cold air. it's cold. Reno doesn't really notice. he chainsmokes, gaze on the clouds, thinking about terminal velocity. thinking about the promise not to jump that he made to Rufus—to Thancred—the promise to live instead of just survive.
he wonders if it's too late to take that promise back.
3. i don't know how you got sucked into all that but it was. i told you about our version of you-know-who from up north in the snow. that was it. and what happened, what you saw, happened to me — in a sense. that was the second time i died. so it's my fault, not yours. that happened because of me. i'm the one who should be saying i'm sorry. i wish i had before now. i shouldn't have waited so long.
for what it's worth i don't think you're ignoring me
i think you don't want to turn your phone on and see that there's naught there or that there is something there but it's something you can't bear to see
i suppose you'll be surprised when you do finally lay eyes on this
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he goes to work. he puts on a smile like a mask (a mask atop a mask atop a—) and makes drinks and cracks jokes and comes home. he sits on the couch and puts on a movie and doesn't watch a second of it.
he doesn't sleep.
the second day he cleans the refrigerator because he can't stomach the thought of eating and he's never liked leftovers older than a day or two. or is it two or three days now? it feels like both a long time and no time at all. he cleans it out with bleach and doesn't wear gloves because he likes the way his skin burns when he's done, his knuckles cracked and dry.
he goes to work. he tries to put on a smile like a mask (a mask atop a mask atop a mask atop a mask—) and makes drinks and cracks jokes and comes home. he sits on the couch and doesn't put on anything because he wouldn't watch a second of it anyway.
he doesn't sleep.
there's no work, the third day. there's no cleaning to do, because the kitchen is the only part of his house that ever felt anything like home (a home is where you go to be loved) and he emptied that out already. the hollow pit inside him is starting to fill with something Reno doesn't want to think about, something he doesn't deserve to feel—sorrow or guilt, or anger, or devastation, or something like that, something that you only get to feel if you're a person who deserves it, and he's not a person and he doesn't deserve it.
so instead of going to work, he throws the window sash wide open and sits in it, legs dangling out into the cold air. it's cold. Reno doesn't really notice. he chainsmokes, gaze on the clouds, thinking about terminal velocity. thinking about the promise not to jump that he made to Rufus—to Thancred—the promise to live instead of just survive.
he wonders if it's too late to take that promise back.
he does not turn his phone on. ]
1/wouldn't you like to know
turn on your phone
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well this is going to be a bit pathetic for you to come back to isn't it
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1. my hair is brown
2. my name is louisoix leveilleur
3. i don't know how you got sucked into all that but it was. i told you about our version of you-know-who from up north in the snow. that was it. and what happened, what you saw, happened to me — in a sense. that was the second time i died. so it's my fault, not yours. that happened because of me. i'm the one who should be saying i'm sorry. i wish i had before now. i shouldn't have waited so long.
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every time i got too close
every time i didn't push
is this what you were thinking of?
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tis late
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i think you don't want to turn your phone on and see that there's naught there
or that there is something there but it's something you can't bear to see
i suppose you'll be surprised when you do finally lay eyes on this
mayhap we'll have a laugh about it
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i tried t
i suppose it doesn't matter what i tried to do
no one gives out trophies for trying hard
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you don't have to tell me you're all right
you don't have to be all right
just be anything
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do you remember it?
with the petals of all the different colors
it's called an elpis bloom
it only grows where hope survives
don't forget that it grew for you
& finito