[CT] 18.1 -- Damage
Jun. 16th, 2008 10:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
changehistory I am here still waiting though I still have my doubts
I am damaged at best, like you've already figured out - "Broken" by Lifehouse
The world seems to have slowed again, though it isn't a prison he's pacing, but a home, one he's making, one he's building, one he's happy to have found. But time crawls. He wanders the town, plays with the cat, ducks in and out of art galleries, and spends far too much time thinking. Time and thoughts have plagued him for too long, leading to darker places, and even now, even here, he can feel himself tumbling into that pattern too simply. The news upsets him, fury lacing through him at the waste of so much of it. Promises that it will get better only help so much when he has nothing but time still stretching out before him. It isn't alone, it isn't a desolate landscape of time that will never end while he watches those he loves fade away into dust.
He won't fade. He won't die. He'll be there, unless he gets tired of Adam's moods, Adam's passions, Adam's schemes, Adam's itching fingers reaching out to reshape something, anything, to mold, to meld, to form, to fire and glaze...
He has coffee by the water, a glass of wine in a cafe. He relearns the world, and what he learns sickens him more than what there was before. It's only gotten worse, as he said it would, and no one listened then, and "it will get better" doesn't help the fury in his head. He is nothing here, no one, and, yes, that feeds into it as well. Even locked away in the Company's cells he was someone. He was dangerous. He needed watching. He was a mystery to be solved. He was an apocalypse to be stopped. He was feared, because they knew what he was capable of, that their lives, once so precious to him, now meant less than nothing because of their betrayal.
They should still fear, but here he sits, sipping coffee in Cardiff and wondering if he should buy the cat a new toy, or if Jack will be home for dinner. The latent fury that lingers under the veneer of domestic contentment has nowhere to go, but he can feel it there, feeding on despair and darker schemes, and his eyes take on a more intent gaze as he scans the paper and contemplates what it would take to make the disconnect heal and the aching stop. He needs something, but he doesn't know what, and until he finds it he cannot help but still feel caged.
I am damaged at best, like you've already figured out - "Broken" by Lifehouse
The world seems to have slowed again, though it isn't a prison he's pacing, but a home, one he's making, one he's building, one he's happy to have found. But time crawls. He wanders the town, plays with the cat, ducks in and out of art galleries, and spends far too much time thinking. Time and thoughts have plagued him for too long, leading to darker places, and even now, even here, he can feel himself tumbling into that pattern too simply. The news upsets him, fury lacing through him at the waste of so much of it. Promises that it will get better only help so much when he has nothing but time still stretching out before him. It isn't alone, it isn't a desolate landscape of time that will never end while he watches those he loves fade away into dust.
He won't fade. He won't die. He'll be there, unless he gets tired of Adam's moods, Adam's passions, Adam's schemes, Adam's itching fingers reaching out to reshape something, anything, to mold, to meld, to form, to fire and glaze...
He has coffee by the water, a glass of wine in a cafe. He relearns the world, and what he learns sickens him more than what there was before. It's only gotten worse, as he said it would, and no one listened then, and "it will get better" doesn't help the fury in his head. He is nothing here, no one, and, yes, that feeds into it as well. Even locked away in the Company's cells he was someone. He was dangerous. He needed watching. He was a mystery to be solved. He was an apocalypse to be stopped. He was feared, because they knew what he was capable of, that their lives, once so precious to him, now meant less than nothing because of their betrayal.
They should still fear, but here he sits, sipping coffee in Cardiff and wondering if he should buy the cat a new toy, or if Jack will be home for dinner. The latent fury that lingers under the veneer of domestic contentment has nowhere to go, but he can feel it there, feeding on despair and darker schemes, and his eyes take on a more intent gaze as he scans the paper and contemplates what it would take to make the disconnect heal and the aching stop. He needs something, but he doesn't know what, and until he finds it he cannot help but still feel caged.
