skirting the edge of the deep dark

[mute_clay]

(continued from here)

Nobody looks at him. If you’re right at the edge of the deep darkness, nobody looks at you. Not even if you almost knock them over, running past.

It’s hurting to breathe now. That is good. Hurt is good. Hurt fill up everything inside, even the mind. Hurt silences everything. No names. No faces.

He knows it’s cold, too cold for being outside for long with no shoes on and wearing nothing but jeans and a shirt. His body knows. His mind doesn’t care.

Flee. Flee.

She’s found another one. Another one like – Him. Maybe that has been the case all along. No difference. Maybe she saw himself as –

No.

Running faster, trying to outrun the thought with burning lungs and burning eyes. But thoughts are fast. Quicker than any man’s feet. And they never tire.

He is slowing down. There are no buildings now. Just trees. Trees.

He doesn’t want to think. To feel. To – he touched her - remember.

The ground is damp.
If he curls up tight enough he can almost fit between two large roots.
Yes
Splaying his palms.
Yes
Turning his head a little, breathing, tasting earth.
Yes

And now, staying here. Breathing slowly, evenly. Listening to the sounds of birds wakening, leaves moving in the breeze. Leaving no room for thoughts. Letting the forest hold him.

It’s hard. Fear has sharp fangs and it does not let go without a fight.

Comments

[jon-r-meyers.livejournal.com]

Quietly, Jon sits down next to Ranuccio, exchanging a brief glance with him. He carefully plays with one strands of Clay's hair, not wanting to touch him too much, not wanting him to get scared and wanting to retreat even more.

It's hard to see Clay like this and he almost wants to cradle him in his arms, knowing at the same time that this would be a bad idea right now.

With another look at Ranuccio, he tries to make him understand that he's here to help if needed, that he's a friend of Clay's.