{Grown} Up {Orphans} ~ AU ~ /Charade\ {Blitz}
Mar 27, 2013 21:05:44 GMT -5
Post by Ally is tentatively back on Mar 27, 2013 21:05:44 GMT -5
| [bg=FAFFD7][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,520,true][atrb=style,width: 520px;] DAMIEN TYSON DEMPSEY // 17  |
| [bg=FAFFD7][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,520,true][atrb=style,width: 520px; padding: 10px; border:10px solid #EF5D02;] All the dreams you never thought you'd lose got tossed along the way. Letters that you never meant to send got lost or thrown away. Now we're grown-up orphans that never knew their names. We don't belong to no one. That's a shame. I'm not fully awake, so processing the hands on my shoulders, shaking me into consciousness and then shifting me into a sitting position, that's all subconscious, which is probably why I'm not even a little freaked out when I actually do swim my way through to wakefulness. Well, I am, but that has more to do with the whole not breathing thing. I feel like my lungs are made of glass and there's an elephant sitting on my chest, like the glass is shattering and the shards are scratching and scraping on their way through my airways and out of my mouth. (I told Todd that the other day and he said he wasn't sure if I was actually insane or just being weird because I'm sick -because that's what we're calling it, 'oxygen deprived' sounds too scary.) (I told him it was both, and that he had to stop assuming anything with me is ever simple. I am not a measurable quantity. I don't fit in a box.) The hands on my shoulders have moved, now, one on my chest (Don't touch hurts ow please.) and one on the back of my neck, keeping me steady, which is good, because I feel like I'm going to topple over and crumble to bits any second, so. "Confound it Damien!" And he sounds almost scared, which does nothing to help me breathe any easier. The hands move again, one almost back to my shoulder, resting on my collarbone, and one on my back, tracing slow circles. "Deep breaths. Deep breaths." And, miraculously, my lungs loosen up a bit. And then I'm just gasping in these pathetic snatches of oxygen, not really breathing, but getting there. It feels like a herculean effort to raise my hand enough to grasp his wrist, but there's this childish bit of me that needs to know I'm not slipping away. My breathing deepens, a little, just enough that my chest stops feeling compressed and starts just aching. "M'okay." I manage to whisper. My voice is less than convincing, even I can hear it, rough and quiet and breathless and groggy. I look up, quirking a little smile, "Sorry I woke you." Scars are souvenirs you never lose, the past is never far. And did you lose yourself way out there? Did you get to be a star? Don't it make you sad to know that life is more than who we are? Grew up way too fast and now there's nothing to believe. And reruns all become our history. |
