Oct. 25th, 2008

walkstheborders: (Default)
Dear Jimmy,

I know things are bad. I know you're wondering if your mother leaving was because of you and Stephen, and if your father hates you for it. You've lost a lot of important people and things feel like they're going to keep getting worse.

They'll get better, though. It might take time, but they will get better.

And more importantly, kid, you're not a freak, no matter what anyone says. One day, you'll start to believe that.

walkstheborders: (Listen)
Jim woke up to a world flooded with sensory data.

He could feel the silk of his boxers against his skin, a sharp contrast to the incredibly soft, four thousand count cotton sheets he was lying on. The air currents were normal, warmer up in his bedroom, cooler downstairs, all windows and doors closed and the only hint of outside the tiny gap under the front door that was a small breath of fresh, cool air.

He could smell himself faintly, sweat and soap and shampoo. There was spice in the air, last night's leftovers in the fridge still a bit too richly scented for him to cut out completely. He could smell the familiar richness of his guide downstairs, sweat and aftershave and herbs.

He didn't bother opening his eyes yet, he could already see light and shadow from his skylight telling him there was nothing moved up here, nothing visible that had changed in the shapes of his room.

Most importantly was the influx of sound. Dogs barking outside, people walking the streets, birds on the roof, the drain downstairs bubbling, a cough from two apartments over-

And the steady, even beat of Blair's heart. Everything else faded and Jim rolled over and went back to sleep without ever quite waking.

Normal was relative.


walkstheborders: (Default)

September 2009

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