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pixiesweatIt was over a year now since his sister had died. Time had slowed right down and he had nothing to do but count the days as they dragged by. A year and one day, a year and two days, three, four... All the pain and anger that had settled a little over the last year was dredged back up, till he was filled with grief and rage so fierce he felt like he might choke on it.
He hadn’t been back to his flat for the past couple of days. Its warmth and tidiness had started to feel more and more wrong. There was plenty of space for him there, much more than he was used to, but he’d felt suddenly that he didn’t fit. Once it got to the point that he was about to start punching holes in the walls, he’d slammed the door behind himself and left.
People couldn’t stop celebrating. It had been Christmas, then the new year. Some of them couldn’t get over it and were still going. He couldn’t stand it. More than once he’d lost his cool and glared daggers at strangers who’d done nothing except be happy.
He ducked into an alleyway to hide when dawn came and killed his magic. He recast his human disguise as soon as he could, then fell asleep right there, slumped behind a dumpster that stank of rotting food. It was still day when he woke up. He didn’t know what time it was, and he didn’t care. His hair was tangled, he had dirt smudged on his face, and there was a tension in his shoulders and a blankness in his eyes that hadn’t been there a week ago. He stared into nothing for a moment, then got up and half walked, half staggered back onto the street. Quite possibly straight into somebody else’s path.
He hadn’t been back to his flat for the past couple of days. Its warmth and tidiness had started to feel more and more wrong. There was plenty of space for him there, much more than he was used to, but he’d felt suddenly that he didn’t fit. Once it got to the point that he was about to start punching holes in the walls, he’d slammed the door behind himself and left.
People couldn’t stop celebrating. It had been Christmas, then the new year. Some of them couldn’t get over it and were still going. He couldn’t stand it. More than once he’d lost his cool and glared daggers at strangers who’d done nothing except be happy.
He ducked into an alleyway to hide when dawn came and killed his magic. He recast his human disguise as soon as he could, then fell asleep right there, slumped behind a dumpster that stank of rotting food. It was still day when he woke up. He didn’t know what time it was, and he didn’t care. His hair was tangled, he had dirt smudged on his face, and there was a tension in his shoulders and a blankness in his eyes that hadn’t been there a week ago. He stared into nothing for a moment, then got up and half walked, half staggered back onto the street. Quite possibly straight into somebody else’s path.
