How long did he sleep? It couldn't be. It was already twilight breaking through the windows. He was glad the windows did not directly face the sun.
Was it the next day? Or the day after? Or a week after? When was it?
Then... from the back of his memory...
The mouse!
He hectically, yet clumsily fell from his makeshift bed, scuddling on the floor for any sign of the creature. He sniffed and smelled and investigated. He tore apart the place with his eyes and nose, but there was no trace of the mouse ever being there.
Maybe his senses were gone. Maybe Logan woke up and he dreamed it, or maybe he took over for a few days and Vasik didn't know about it.
Was Vasik getting weaker at heart? Was Logan becoming Vasik? Who were Vasik and Logan?
Who the **** am I?!!
He sat down on his couch, head cradled in his palms, arms resting on his knees. He looked down and found a secret stash of booze, barely visible from under the fringed hems of the couch. He took the first bottle his hands could grip- a bottle of jack. It was the same drink he remembered last having before he came home that other night, before he left for so long...
The Captive Boy and his Parasite
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VulcanVaughnVijay (DELETED 1604)
Re: The Captive Boy and his Parasite
Last edited by VulcanVaughnVijay (DELETED 1604) on 13 Dec 2011, 06:46, edited 2 times in total.
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VulcanVaughnVijay (DELETED 1604)
Re: The Captive Boy and his Parasite
He chugged it down. It warmed him like the warm sun. So... warm... As soon as he thought of that blazing orange color, he choked and coughed up some of the precious booze.
After nastily cleansing his tongue and reading the label, looking for some guarantee or evidence of some glorious-ness he was missing, his aggravation got the best of him and forced him to throw the bottle to the wall by the door, adding to what will soon become a heap rather than just a small coating of glittering shards of glass.
He fumbled around for another bottle. This time mead. He took a good swig.
"UGH!"
Even more blood-orange-flavored, if there were such a thing. It was so hot and warm. How could he have liked this so much beforehand? He slung it with the other debris, now leaking with a toxic concoxiion of liquor and glimmering glass dust.
Then Bailey's Irish Cream.
"Ahh..."
Much more smooth, more cool. This one was a nice, misty teal.
He sat back, propped his heavy boots on the table (yes, he had slept in his boots, jacket and all), and took a rather nice, healthy gulp.
He saw a shot glass on the table, next to the overturned ink bottle.
He kicked it off.
The sound of breaking glass, he loved it.
It was beautiful, the cracking, relieving of strained bonds. Letting lose, spending energy. It was just what he needed.
He pulled out another bottle from below. Wine. As classy as he thought he once was, prince and all, he pitched it to the wall. The wall now had a mosaic of amber-colored substances eeking down the cracking plaster.
Amber like his eyes. His glorious, brilliant, whiskey-filled irises like liquid amber itself.
This place really is cheap, no wonder it was abandoned.
He pitched another bottle, then another, then another shot glass he found, never moving from his comfortable spot with his legs propped up.
Then, he heard the front door's knob turning. Who was it? He didn't care; they were getting a face full of glass and spiced rum.
The door opened only to reveal a most familiar face...
CRASH!
The bottle of rum slipped from his cold hands, surprised and numb at the sight of the intruder in his safe-haven.
After nastily cleansing his tongue and reading the label, looking for some guarantee or evidence of some glorious-ness he was missing, his aggravation got the best of him and forced him to throw the bottle to the wall by the door, adding to what will soon become a heap rather than just a small coating of glittering shards of glass.
He fumbled around for another bottle. This time mead. He took a good swig.
"UGH!"
Even more blood-orange-flavored, if there were such a thing. It was so hot and warm. How could he have liked this so much beforehand? He slung it with the other debris, now leaking with a toxic concoxiion of liquor and glimmering glass dust.
Then Bailey's Irish Cream.
"Ahh..."
Much more smooth, more cool. This one was a nice, misty teal.
He sat back, propped his heavy boots on the table (yes, he had slept in his boots, jacket and all), and took a rather nice, healthy gulp.
He saw a shot glass on the table, next to the overturned ink bottle.
He kicked it off.
The sound of breaking glass, he loved it.
It was beautiful, the cracking, relieving of strained bonds. Letting lose, spending energy. It was just what he needed.
He pulled out another bottle from below. Wine. As classy as he thought he once was, prince and all, he pitched it to the wall. The wall now had a mosaic of amber-colored substances eeking down the cracking plaster.
Amber like his eyes. His glorious, brilliant, whiskey-filled irises like liquid amber itself.
This place really is cheap, no wonder it was abandoned.
He pitched another bottle, then another, then another shot glass he found, never moving from his comfortable spot with his legs propped up.
Then, he heard the front door's knob turning. Who was it? He didn't care; they were getting a face full of glass and spiced rum.
The door opened only to reveal a most familiar face...
CRASH!
The bottle of rum slipped from his cold hands, surprised and numb at the sight of the intruder in his safe-haven.