is there anybody out there? // Tom
Feb 14, 2014 10:38:42 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Feb 14, 2014 10:38:42 GMT -5
[presto]
[/presto]
[/presto]C L O U D S T U R N E D B L A C K
Patrick finds refuge in music.
It's not that he doesn't want to stay home and watch his new-found siblings wander around doing whatever it is they do (hint: he really doesn't), it's just that... he feels left out, shunted to one side, bored to death - whatever it is that causes someone to feel lonely. And he's lonely, alright.
And he doesn't want to linger over little things that make him realize just how far away from Kansas he really is (he's not sure what kind of expression that is, only that it exists and what the heck is a Kansas anyway) and he's out of his depth in his new home. Patrick never wanted to leave his mother, no matter how badly she treated him. He's her son. And that makes it all okay.
Besides, his new-found siblings have a tendency to do their own thing; he's not sure if they're just as shy as he is, or if they're just quiet and reserved (like he is), but Patrick finds the silence oppressing, weighing down on him like some training device from the career districts that Patrick will likely never know the name of. (His specialty is music, not killing.)
And so he finds refuge in his music, settles in quiet places outside of home to feel the gentle breeze (and dismissing the smell of sweaty men and women and children, the breeze is actually quite lovely in Five). The music plays in his mind; rising crescendos slowing to a gentle ballad and twining in and around his very being. It's magic, a beautiful moment between creature and creature in the wild where they come to a silent understanding that neither is going to hurt the other.
(If he stops to think the music will break like glass shattering over the fine silk, blood red faces rising to the top of his mind as the moment between wild things shatter and they collide with a cacophonous crash, a jumble of things that don't co-exist in beautiful creation. And that happens often enough that he knows what to avoid, what not to do.
And so he finds refuge in music.)
And maybe he should really be home making a friend and finding peace where there is none, but Patrick really prefers the dimly lit music store over everything else. (Because while he's happier now at his new home and he sings and he stops hiding so much it's still not home, it's just... home.) Besides, the store is warm in the winter and welcoming to wayward children; the owner hardly minds him there, particularly since Patrick's not half bad at what he does. At least, he thinks he's not; no one's ever said otherwise.
As is customary, Patrick slows outside the bakery to take a deep breath. The smell of freshly baked bread is enough to clear his mind (and it's not like the family is rich enough to buy the soft, smooth flour-made bread that Patrick does so love the smell of, so he takes every chance he can to stand there and breathe it all in; he's fairly certain he looks more or less like a creeper while doing so, but at least he's getting something out of it). The scent washes over him like a wave of homeliness and for a moment he can picture his mother and her sharp staccato gestures and the lowered brow as she considers her failed model of son.
With a soft sigh, Patrick turns away and walks into the music store.
The owner looks up when the bell goes and acknowledges him with the barest of nods before turning back to what looks like blank sheet music. Patrick wonders what it must be like with music just out of his grasp and decides in a brief moment that it must be a horrible way to exist.
He's glad his own mental blocks aren't seared in place in his mind.
Quietly, Patrick picks up the battered violin, adjusts the tuning, and starts to play.
It's not that he doesn't want to stay home and watch his new-found siblings wander around doing whatever it is they do (hint: he really doesn't), it's just that... he feels left out, shunted to one side, bored to death - whatever it is that causes someone to feel lonely. And he's lonely, alright.
And he doesn't want to linger over little things that make him realize just how far away from Kansas he really is (he's not sure what kind of expression that is, only that it exists and what the heck is a Kansas anyway) and he's out of his depth in his new home. Patrick never wanted to leave his mother, no matter how badly she treated him. He's her son. And that makes it all okay.
Besides, his new-found siblings have a tendency to do their own thing; he's not sure if they're just as shy as he is, or if they're just quiet and reserved (like he is), but Patrick finds the silence oppressing, weighing down on him like some training device from the career districts that Patrick will likely never know the name of. (His specialty is music, not killing.)
And so he finds refuge in his music, settles in quiet places outside of home to feel the gentle breeze (and dismissing the smell of sweaty men and women and children, the breeze is actually quite lovely in Five). The music plays in his mind; rising crescendos slowing to a gentle ballad and twining in and around his very being. It's magic, a beautiful moment between creature and creature in the wild where they come to a silent understanding that neither is going to hurt the other.
(If he stops to think the music will break like glass shattering over the fine silk, blood red faces rising to the top of his mind as the moment between wild things shatter and they collide with a cacophonous crash, a jumble of things that don't co-exist in beautiful creation. And that happens often enough that he knows what to avoid, what not to do.
And so he finds refuge in music.)
And maybe he should really be home making a friend and finding peace where there is none, but Patrick really prefers the dimly lit music store over everything else. (Because while he's happier now at his new home and he sings and he stops hiding so much it's still not home, it's just... home.) Besides, the store is warm in the winter and welcoming to wayward children; the owner hardly minds him there, particularly since Patrick's not half bad at what he does. At least, he thinks he's not; no one's ever said otherwise.
As is customary, Patrick slows outside the bakery to take a deep breath. The smell of freshly baked bread is enough to clear his mind (and it's not like the family is rich enough to buy the soft, smooth flour-made bread that Patrick does so love the smell of, so he takes every chance he can to stand there and breathe it all in; he's fairly certain he looks more or less like a creeper while doing so, but at least he's getting something out of it). The scent washes over him like a wave of homeliness and for a moment he can picture his mother and her sharp staccato gestures and the lowered brow as she considers her failed model of son.
With a soft sigh, Patrick turns away and walks into the music store.
The owner looks up when the bell goes and acknowledges him with the barest of nods before turning back to what looks like blank sheet music. Patrick wonders what it must be like with music just out of his grasp and decides in a brief moment that it must be a horrible way to exist.
He's glad his own mental blocks aren't seared in place in his mind.
Quietly, Patrick picks up the battered violin, adjusts the tuning, and starts to play.
