09-27-2018, 01:57 AM
[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; font-size: 8.4pt; text-align:justify; line-height: 125%; width: 400px"]i just have so much old stuff in my google docs...and i don't want to lose them but i need some place to put them lol. this was a thread about roy losing his precious jacket, which was previously his dad's.
The days of living here were routine, but that's what he liked: routine meant that nothing could go wrong. He'd go through doing his work as a guard, before doing chores in the barn with the animals. He'd spend an hour oiling the saddles and replacing tack. Occasionally, he'd only get seriously mad at someone. Today, he hadn't at all. Almost a record, he thought.
His jacket was around his waist the entire time. Until, as he made his way toward the homes of the guards, he noticed it was gone. The teenager turned and walked back the way he’d came. It shouldn't have been a problem.
But Roy never did anything mildly. He did everything loudly.
The closer he got to the barn, the louder he muttered, eyes intently focused on the ground. He hadn’t set it behind the door, or on the desk; he was afraid that someone would end up moving it. So how the hell could it have slipped from his attention?
As the barn came into view, he slowed down, taking a deep breath. When he reached the door, he slid it open a fraction, before peeking in for anybody. When he couldn’t see anyone, the redhead swung the door wide open and began to dart in and out every stall, searching under and around everything for the missing jacket.
The universe could take everything from him, give him hundreds of bloody fists, mark the skin under his eyes with dark shadows from sleepless nights.
But it just shit on him and let him lose the one thing that actually fucking mattered.
All he needed was his fucking jacket. His dad's jacket, he scolded himself, running his hands through his hair before gripping the back of his neck. Fuck. He was so fucked. His dad was going to―Then he went still. He was sharply aware of everything around him, the horses, the smell of hay and the darkness outside of the barn. He noticed everything the way you do when you wake up and don’t know where you are. This wasn't Harthwaire. His dad wouldn't know.
The knowledge that his father wouldn't find out about his problem should have been a relief. Instead, he felt shame pool in his stomach. He wanted to scream and shout at something, curse himself because it was his fault.
Something in him had quieted
So, he walked out the barn doors into the dark, in front of the barn. Quietly. Silently. He thought about going into the stalls next to the barn, but at the last second, veered and walked around so that he was behind it. Out of view, out of sight. He sat down against the barn, then raised his knees to his chest and raised his hands behind his neck. He made himself as small as possible.
There were so many types of angry when it came to him. He made an art, almost a religion out of it: both as the god and the muse. Dry anger, he liked best. When your face was stone and your voice is sharp. Dry anger showed that you were done.
He hated this anger because now his eyes were watering and if he spoke, his voice would probably shake and sound like gravel, and everything inside of him was shaky and at any second, he was going to break.
The days of living here were routine, but that's what he liked: routine meant that nothing could go wrong. He'd go through doing his work as a guard, before doing chores in the barn with the animals. He'd spend an hour oiling the saddles and replacing tack. Occasionally, he'd only get seriously mad at someone. Today, he hadn't at all. Almost a record, he thought.
His jacket was around his waist the entire time. Until, as he made his way toward the homes of the guards, he noticed it was gone. The teenager turned and walked back the way he’d came. It shouldn't have been a problem.
But Roy never did anything mildly. He did everything loudly.
The closer he got to the barn, the louder he muttered, eyes intently focused on the ground. He hadn’t set it behind the door, or on the desk; he was afraid that someone would end up moving it. So how the hell could it have slipped from his attention?
As the barn came into view, he slowed down, taking a deep breath. When he reached the door, he slid it open a fraction, before peeking in for anybody. When he couldn’t see anyone, the redhead swung the door wide open and began to dart in and out every stall, searching under and around everything for the missing jacket.
The universe could take everything from him, give him hundreds of bloody fists, mark the skin under his eyes with dark shadows from sleepless nights.
But it just shit on him and let him lose the one thing that actually fucking mattered.
All he needed was his fucking jacket. His dad's jacket, he scolded himself, running his hands through his hair before gripping the back of his neck. Fuck. He was so fucked. His dad was going to―Then he went still. He was sharply aware of everything around him, the horses, the smell of hay and the darkness outside of the barn. He noticed everything the way you do when you wake up and don’t know where you are. This wasn't Harthwaire. His dad wouldn't know.
The knowledge that his father wouldn't find out about his problem should have been a relief. Instead, he felt shame pool in his stomach. He wanted to scream and shout at something, curse himself because it was his fault.
Something in him had quieted
So, he walked out the barn doors into the dark, in front of the barn. Quietly. Silently. He thought about going into the stalls next to the barn, but at the last second, veered and walked around so that he was behind it. Out of view, out of sight. He sat down against the barn, then raised his knees to his chest and raised his hands behind his neck. He made himself as small as possible.
There were so many types of angry when it came to him. He made an art, almost a religion out of it: both as the god and the muse. Dry anger, he liked best. When your face was stone and your voice is sharp. Dry anger showed that you were done.
He hated this anger because now his eyes were watering and if he spoke, his voice would probably shake and sound like gravel, and everything inside of him was shaky and at any second, he was going to break.